Page 26

Alex

T he orange juice halts halfway to my mouth when she says, “What was the name of her third studio album?”

Olive has been hounding me with Taylor Swift trivia for the past ten minutes. “ Speak Now . I actually didn’t mind that one.”

Her eyes narrow skeptically. “Which songs did you like from it? And you can’t say the famous ones that everybody knows.”

That seems unfair, but I’ll play. “‘Haunted’ has a cool orchestral arrangement. I like the violins.”

Her head cocks like she didn’t anticipate the answer, but then she nods as if she’s impressed by it. “Okay.”

That’s all? “You’ve already asked me her lucky number, what her middle name is, what songs belonged to what album, and when her parents got divorced. Which, by the way, was not a fair question. Who makes a point to remember that sort of thing?”

“Swifties,” she answers instantly. “And it was 2012, not 2010. But they still travel with her, which is sweet. My parents can barely even be in the same state without finding ways to argue.”

I don’t know much about her family outside of her brother, but I know her parents are divorced.

The less I knew, the less I felt obligated to share about myself.

Realistically, I knew asking more questions would open myself up to getting the same treatment.

And I didn’t want to be the dick who refused to give her answers.

I take a long sip of my juice and set the glass down, staring at it for a second before lifting my eyes to find hers already on me.

“You said you were at Lindon to check on your childhood home,” she says, leaving it open for me to comment on it.

I weigh my options, but this was my idea, so I don’t leave her hanging. “I hired a few people to fix the roof and a couple other things that needed to be handled. It’s an older house and I don’t want my mom to live somewhere that’s falling apart.”

She smiles as she drags her mimosa over to her. “I think it’s sweet that you’re making sure your mom is taken care of.”

All I do is shrug, toying with the napkin and ripping the edges into little pieces.

“Sebastian is like that,” she adds, regaining my attention. “He makes sure me and our mom are good. Offers us money. Sometimes it’s actually a little annoying.”

“Why?”

She thinks about it. “We were raised to be independent. After my parents got divorced, it was a reminder of how important not depending on people was. They fought a lot about assets and finances and child support. Mom struggled for a long time when he left. She worked two jobs. Stopped taking night classes at the local college. I think Seb wants to make sure that neither one of us are in the position to struggle now that he can do something about it.”

I can relate to her brother then. Some people blow through the money they get when they’re in our positions.

I’ve heard the guys on the team talk about the expensive cars they bought, or the trips they went on.

One guy bought a fifty-thousand-dollar watch that he only wears for special events.

Another flew him and a girl he wasn’t even officially dating to Europe.

They broke up as soon as they landed back in Philadelphia.

“I’m sorry that your mom had a hard time,” I offer lightly.

Olive shrugs. “She got her realtor’s license and is doing much better. I don’t even think she accepts Sebastian’s money. Although, he usually tucks it in random spots that she finds every few months. It makes her mad every single time.”

The small smile curling her lips brightens her eyes as she sips her drink.

“Your family seems pretty close,” I comment, thinking about all the times her brother warned me away from her when we played on Lindon’s team together.

At first, I thought it was funny. But when I got to know her, the flirting seemed less fun and more addicting.

Not because of Sebastian, but because of Olive.

Her personality. Her confidence. It was— is —attractive.

“I used to want a sibling. My parents decided one was enough, which was probably for the better when they divorced.”

She rests her elbow on the edge of the table and props her chin on the palm of her hand. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You know Sebastian. He can be…intense. I love him, obviously, but he’s all business. Sometimes I wish he’d pull the stick out of his butt.”

I snort. I used to think the same thing when we played together. But I get it now. He was serious—no nonsense. It made him focused. It’s why he was one of the best on the team.

“He’s on my case about what comes after Lindon because I won’t accept his help,” she admits, blowing out a heavy breath. “I guess my mom and I are a lot alike that way.”

“You’re a comms major still, right?” She used to talk about her journalism classes all the time. Mostly to bitch about the professor.

She nods. “Yeah. I’ve been looking into different positions at newspapers around here and in Vermont since my focus is more on print media.

Some are for internships; some are entry-level jobs that don’t pay much.

I also looked into different online gigs, but those are few and far between since everybody wants to work remote these days. ”

“And Sebastian has tried helping you find something?” I question.

“He has connections in the media now more than ever. Oh!” She perks up. “Between us, he’s having a baby. And he’s married . To a journalist, hence the extra push to help me. Which is nice, don’t get me wrong. But then I’d be handed a job instead of earning it. People would hate me.”

“Who gives a fuck what people think?”

She frowns. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“That’s easier said than done, Alex.”

We’re quiet for a second.

“So he’s married with a kid on the way, huh? Christ. What’s in the water around here?”

She lets go of a soft giggle. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to drink it.” Lifting her mimosa, she taps it against my orange juice. “Cheers.”

Chuckling, I lift my glass and drink some more as our waitress brings over two plates piled with food.

The silver-haired woman with more wrinkles than the shirt I took out of my overnight bag winks at me. “I made sure to put extra whip cream on the cinnamon waffles for your girl, just like you requested.”

Your girl. The two words echo in my ears and do some weird fuzzy shit to the back of my head. Clearing my throat, I murmur a quiet “thanks” and grab my fork and knife to start cutting into the eggs on my plate.

Olive is quiet, and I don’t bother looking up to gauge her reaction to the words that settled in my chest.

It’s a few minutes of thick silence with nothing but chatter from other tables filling the air around us. Staring at the sunny side up egg on my fork tongs, I loosen a sigh. “I’m surprised you asked me all of those questions about her music, but not which song makes me think of us.”

This time, I’m met with parted lips as she stares at me unblinking. “You…?” Her head shakes, those jewel-like eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why would I ask that? What makes you think I have a song for us?”

I lift a shoulder, bringing the eggs to my mouth. “That’s sort of her thing, right? She has songs for every phase of life. It’s why people like her. You said so yourself. Is it that farfetched to think out of all the songs you’ve listened to by her that one makes you think of us?”

Something in her eyes shifts as they move down to her plate of cinnamon waffles with extra whip cream. Her fork pokes at one of the cut pieces, contemplating her answer.

“I guess I never thought to waste my time thinking about us that way when you made it crystal clear that was pointless,” she answers, her lips twitching downward.

I can taste her lie like bitter citrus on my tongue that has nothing to do with the juice in my cup. But I let her think I believe it.

Because then I don’t have to tell her that I do have a song and can practically hear the violins playing in the background. She’s haunted me since the day I pushed her away and pretended it was for the best.

An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. And right as I’m about to try breaking the silence, her phone goes off and her eyes immediately turn to the screen. A small smile tilts the corners of her mouth, making that fuzzy feeling dissolve.

When I see the name, I grind down on my teeth. “Hoffman?”

Her shoulders straighten. “How did you know? Wait. Did you see the photo?”

“Kind of hard not to,” I say dryly. “It was everywhere.”

The faintest hint of pink settles into her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I doubt anyone will film us together or post it anywhere. But if they did, you’d get praise for all your charity work .”

A ball of hot anger rises from my chest. “Hey. Look at me.” When her head picks up, I lock eyes with her.

“Those people are fucking assholes for even implying that bullshit. You feel me? And if you ask me, Hoffman was a goddamn coward for not making sure those comments were handled before they blew up. If I were in his shoes, I’d make sure anybody who claimed to be my fans knew I wasn’t going to tolerate that. ”

Her eyes widen a fraction at my cool tone.

“You and I both know that you have ten times more self-confidence than any of those dickheads posting those asinine remarks. They’re lonely, jealous assholes with nothing better to focus on in their lives.

I don’t want to see what any of them said impacting you.

And the next time I see Hoffman on the ice, I won’t hesitate to tell him the same thing. ”

All Olive does is blink slowly, unable to form a response. I don’t realize my grip on the fork is as tight as it is until I release it and see the harsh red indents in my skin from the edges of the handle.

Leaning back in the booth, I set it onto my plate and take a deep breath. “You’re the kind of girl that people should be damn proud to be in a photo with, Olive. I’ve always thought so.”