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“Because you love hockey,” he simply says, cutting into his eggs.

Because I love hockey.

Damn.

Damn.

I think Alex O’Conner is trying to make me fall in love with him again.

Not that I ever really stopped.

*

I stop atthe third case that takes up half the wall, staring in awe at the jerseys, team pictures, and trophies on display. “This isSidney Crosby’s jersey!” I exclaim excitedly, pointing at it as if Alex hasn’t probably walked by it a million times already.

He’s standing behind me looking into the case and nods. “That’s what it says.”

Why doesn’t he sound excited? “Alex, he’s like the Penguins’ version of Tom Brady. He’s the goat. Wasn’t he the first overall draft pick for Pittsburgh in ’05?”

He blinks. “How do you know that?”

“Because I love hockey,” I remind him with a smirk. “And because I’m pretty sure I had a giant crush on him when I was little. Thought I’d marry that Canadian cutie.” I sigh dramatically. “It was nice to dream. Too bad he moved on.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You’re something else. Come on, unless you want to keep drooling over all that stuff. We’ve barely made it twenty feet into the building.”

“It’s your fault for bringing me here,” I accuse him, feeling the tug of his hand against my arm. Looking down, I watch his fingers slide from my forearm to my palm, interlacing our fingers as he guides us down the hall.

Suddenly, I’m not thinking about the display cases at all. Or Sidney Crosby.Sidney who? It’s like Eli Manning all over again when Alex is touching me.

“Next time, I’ll make you stay in my apartment alone when I go out,” he promises nonchalantly.

I grin. “You’d trust me in your apartment?”

He looks over at me. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing to hide. You already met my mother.”

Maybe he’s got a point. “Most guys wouldn’t want girls snooping.”

“You’re not most girls, Olive” is all he says.

It’s such a casual remark, but it means way more than that. “You better be careful with those words,” I warn him. “You’re getting mushy on me.”

Alex chuckles, squeezing my hand. “I’ve got no shame. You can have the passcode to my phone, too, if that’s what makes you happy.”

I don’t need his passcode. “That’s not what would make me happy. Relationships are about trust, right?”

He nods.

“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

We stop at a set of doors where we hear yelling on the other side of. There’s a whistle, followed by more yelling, and the signature sound of blades scraping on ice. It makes me beam as I try peeking through the window on the door to get a glimpse of what’s happening.

“Three, two, four, seven,” he says.

I blink, peeling my eyes away from the door slowly. “What?”

“That’s my passcode,” he says before opening the door and gesturing for me to go in.

I’m speechless for a moment longer before blinking and snapping out of it. The inside of the room is colder than the hallway, and it feels like home away from home. I’ve always preferred to be cold over hot, like I was built to love hockey. I even sleep with a fan all year round. My brother used to say that made me weird.