Page 203 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The doorway darkens, then bursts into warmth as Jessa Laramie stumbles in from the rainy Seattle night. She is laughing as she shakes water from her hair, golden brown curls tumbling free from a damp cardigan hood. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, freckles bright against fair skin. Her hazel eyes sparkle as she takes in the crowded room.
Scout Nash follows a moment later, steadier in her steps but no less soaked. Her dark honey brown hair clings in loose waves around her face, drops of water sliding down her jaw. She moves with quiet grace as she shrugs out of a rain spotted linen jacket and drapes it over a chair. Her moss green eyes sweep the room, careful and observant.
She doesn’t even look at me.
Jessa is the team’s logistics coordinator. She helps with short-term housing or how the team gets from point A to point B. And Scout seems to be a personal assistant that the team shares. She grabs coffee, copies schedules, and gets dry cleaning. A gopher, more or less. The two women laugh together as Jessa tosses her jacket onto the nearest table and makes a face at Scout.
“Told you the umbrella would flip inside out,” Jessa teases, wringing water from her sleeve.
Scout smiles, quiet and knowing, and nudges Jessa’s hip with her own as she unbuttons her coat. Their laughter blends, Jessa’s sparkling, Scout’s gentler, like wind chimes beneath bells. Then Jessa slips back out through the doorway with a quick promise to find towels, leaving Scout scanning the crowded table. Every chair is full except one. Her eyes land on it, hesitation flickering before she moves closer.
She sits down next to me.
Scout looks over at me, biting her lip. “Sorry. This is the only seat left. You don’t mind, do you?”
I don’t mind, but I just shake my head stiffly. Her shoulder length hair’s curling from the rain and smells vaguely like eucalyptus leaves.
I tell myself not to notice.
“What’re you drinking?”
I glance down at my tumbler. “Soda water.”
“I see.” Her green eyes study me. “Are you not drinking because of hockey? Or for another reason.”
It surprises me she knows to ask that question. Then again, she was married to Enzo Morelli. He probably wasn’t a hockey player when they were together, but she has been around a lot of hockey players.
I answer, “Hockey. During the summer, I’ll have a beer or two.”
She smiles. “Sure. Have you tried the nonalcoholic beer they serve here? It’s locally made. I’ve seen Olivier serve it before.”
“Yeah. That’s usually what I go for. But the main bar is packed, and I’d have to wait in line. That’s a definite no for me. I don’t like crowds.”
“That’s funny.” Her eyes sparkle. “You play in front of a huge one every game.”
“That’s… different.”
She pushes to her feet. “I’m going to get a drink and grab you the beer you like. If you save my seat, you can tell me how it’s different when I get back.”
“I don’t want–”
But she’s gone, already heading through the doorway. My brows rise. I wasn’t expecting her to be pushy. It only takes her a minute to return with a can of Sprite for herself and a bottle of beer with a familiar blue label on it. She sets the beer in front of me, then pauses.
“Oh. I didn’t ask if you wanted a glass. Let me grab it.”
Scout turns and I have to actually stand up to catch her arm. She jumps at my touch and I let go, returning to my seat.
“I don’t want a glass. Sit down.”
She looks at me uncertainly. “Are you sure? Because it–”
“Sit,” I growl.
Eyes widening, Scout slides into her seat. “Jeez Louise.”
My mouth almost twitches. Almost. “Thanks for getting me the beer.”
“Don’t mention it.” She takes a sip of her Sprite, pursing her lips.
