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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dozer

I hold the door for Marissa to exit, and she smiles at me like simple courtesy is thrilling for her.

Or maybe it’s being with me that’s the thrill.

Is it because she knows I’m a pro hockey player? I mean, yeah, she knew before. But now she’s seen it. Maybe now she’ll want me for my fame and money instead of myself.

I swat those thoughts away because she’s done nothing so far to indicate that’s the case. I can watch for signs without assuming the worst, can’t I?

The bartender nods a greeting when Marissa and I walk in, and we make a beeline to the reserved booths in the back corner where a few of my teammates are rehashing the game over drinks.

It’s interesting how the makeup of the groups here have changed. When the team started up here a few years ago, half the team would come out. Now it’s just the over-thirty guys who don’t have families and don’t want to go clubbing with the twenty-somethings.

How did I become part of the old guys club?

Would Marissa prefer a club instead of the old guys’ bar?

A glance her way doesn’t reveal much. But she meets my gaze with a smile that looks sincere. “You sure this is okay?” I ask, even though she seemed to agree happily not that long ago.

Her smile turns slightly questioning, and she nods. “Yeah. This is great. This place has a chill vibe, and I like that.”

We sit at a table—the booths are occupied—and I pull out her chair for her. “You sure you wouldn’t rather go to a club or something?”

Her nose wrinkles immediately, letting me know that no, she doesn’t. “Is that something you’d rather do?”

I shake my head. “No. That’s not really my scene these days.”

She blows out a breath of relief. “Good. Same.” Her grin comes back, as bright as ever.

“I’ll go put in our drink order,” I offer. “What’ll you have?”

“Shouldn’t this time be my treat? You paid last time.”

I wave her off. “But this is me paying you back for helping me out. So I’m buying.”

She presses her lips together and narrows her eyes. “The game tickets and sweatshirt were supposed to be the payback.”

“And postgame drinks. This is all part of the experience.” I place my forearm on the table and lean closer. “Are you really going to argue with me about this?”

Laughing, she holds up her hands in surrender. “I guess not. You win. I’ll have the same beer as last time.”

“Sounds good.” I rap my knuckles on the table once and then stand to go order our drinks at the bar.

When I return to the table, she quickly puts away her phone and looks up at me with a smile, leaning forward like she’s eager to talk to me again.

For a split second, I have this flash of all the times Jenny sat scrolling on her phone and completely ignoring me.

Why did I put up with that? Why did I ever think that was an okay way for someone to treat me? I didn’t act like that with her—at least not until she did it so often that I’d pull out my phone so I didn’t feel like an idiot just sitting and waiting for her to acknowledge me. And then I’d always put it away as soon as she was ready to talk. It was always— always —on her schedule.

As much as I was upset about ending that relationship at the time, I’m so glad it didn’t last any longer than the two months or so that it did. That was already two months too long.

“So how was your first hockey game?” I ask as I sit down. “What’d you think?”

“So. Wow.” Her eyes get wide, and at first I’m not sure if that’s a good wow or a bad one, but then she says, “It was amazing. There’s so much that’s familiar because I’ve been to other sports games, but so much that’s different.” Eyes sparkling, she plants her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her hand. “There’s so much booing. Of the refs! I mean, yeah, sometimes fans express their displeasure over a bad call, but the refs in hockey get booed just for existing!”

I chuckle. “Yeah. It’s kind of a tradition.”

“Good to know.” She straightens, dropping her hand to the table and drumming her fingers. “The fighting is interesting to me.”

That piques my interest, and I lean forward, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

She flashes a grin and shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, that’s not tolerated in any ball-based sport.”

I bark out a laugh. “Well, hockey’s not ball-based.” A joke about balls is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to make things sexual with Marissa. We’re friends. And while I’d definitely crack that joke to many of my friends, she and I don’t know each other well enough yet to risk it.

“True.” Her chin dips in a tiny nod. “But aside from boxing and MMA fighting, most sports, ball-based or not, don’t allow you to get into fist fights.” I nod, and she continues, her eyebrows drawing together and her gaze going abstract, staring at a point over my shoulder as she sorts out her thoughts. “I think, though, that it’s sort of unavoidable with something like hockey. I mean, you guys crash into each other all the time, often intentionally, but I can see how it’d happen on accident, especially at lower levels of play where the players aren’t as skilled on their skates.”

“Yeah. Kids fall and crash into each other—not to mention the nets and the walls—constantly.”

She grins. “I can imagine. But given the nature of competition and how easy it is to spark tempers that way, add in slamming into each other on the ice all the time, fist fights are kind of inevitable. I still think it’s funny the refs just stand and watch for a few minutes before breaking it up, but …” She shrugs philosophically.

“It’s just part of the game.” I use the same philosophic tone as her. “It’s baked into the culture.”

“That much is obvious,” she murmurs so quietly I almost don’t hear her. Then she shrugs. “It’s fun, though. I enjoy going to live games. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll watch the Cowboys on TV if that’s my only choice, but nothing rivals the experience of seeing a game live and in person. The energy of the crowd, the things that the TV cameras don’t show …” She shakes her head, her expression almost dreamy. “Thank you for tonight. The tickets and the sweatshirt and post-game drinks.” Just then, the waitress comes over with our beers, setting them down on the table in front of us.

I lift my glass, holding it out for a toast. “To live sports and many more hockey games in your future.” Grinning, she clinks her glass against mine, and we both drink deeply. “Seriously, though,” I continue, setting my glass back on its cardboard coaster, “I appreciate you coming tonight, both to the game and here. I grew up going out after a game, and even though that tradition largely stopped once I made the Juniors, it still feels weird to go straight home or back to the hotel afterward.”

“I’m happy to have a post-game drink with you. Even if I can’t make it to every game. At least the ones here.” She gives me a sly look. “Sorry. I’m not sure we’re good enough friends for me to follow you around the country to all your games. Plus, I have a job. So I kinda need to be around for that.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.” Taking a sip, I shake my head as I swallow. “I don’t usually have anyone waiting for me after home games.” Well, not now, anyway. And even when I did before, it was different. I never realized before how anxious I always was when I met up with the woman I was seeing after a game, worried about how she was feeling, what she’d want to do, if she’d be mad at me for some reason I was supposed to psychically know. With Marissa, I was just thrilled she was there. No expectations or worries about what had to happen next. Sure, I would’ve been disappointed if she’d hated the whole experience and refused to join me for a drink, but I wouldn’t have been devastated or anything.

It’s … refreshing. Strange, but in a good way.

She grins. “Well, anytime you want to provide me with tickets, as long as I’m around and available, I’ll happily come and take you out for a drink afterward.”

I return her smile, holding my glass out for her to clink hers against mine again. “It’s a deal.”