Page 7

seven

Elsy

The knock on my door startles me, making me knock over my nail polish onto the vinyl flooring.

“Just a minute,” I call, as I frantically reach for the tissues on my coffee table. I do my best to mop up the blood-red polish before it can stain, then hobble with wet toes to the front door.

I’m expecting a delivery, or maybe my cute neighbor with more of my mail that keeps getting delivered to his box.

Instead, I find the hulking form of Wyatt, devil incarnate. He’s wearing an Aces T-shirt and is probably fresh from the arena. He smells good, too. Fuck. Why does he always have to smell so damn good?

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Brought you dinner.” He holds up a bag from the deli—the same one he brought food from the day he helped me move in.

My eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why?”

Especially after I hung up on him. His showing up here is the last thing I expected.

His bulky shoulders jump with a shrug. “You need to eat.”

Is that a dig at my size? I know I’m fat; I don’t need him to point it out.

“Come on,” he says, more softly now. “Let me in, Elspeth.”

I grunt. “Don’t call me that.”

Against my better judgment, I step aside and let him into my apartment. He looks around with interest. I’m almost fully unpacked and have started decorating. There are stools for my kitchen counter now, along with throw pillows and blankets on the couch.

Wyatt beelines to the counter, unloading the bag of takeout. He rummages through my cabinets, too, pulling out plates and finding forks in the drawer. I’m surprised by the care he takes as he plates our food.

“What are you doing here?” I ask again.

Instead of answering, he slides a plate across the counter for me as I sit.

“I got you tuna salad on a croissant,” he says. “I thought maybe you didn’t like their sourdough.”

“Croissants are… good.” Why is it I’m always so tongue-tied around him? I can hardly think straight.

He has two turkey sandwiches for himself. One has a salad, the other has a plate of fries. He puts two-thirds of the fries on my plate, plus the pickle from each of his entrées. Mine already has a small container of potato salad.

I stare at him. “What are you doing?”

Wyatt cocks his head. “Do you not want fries?”

“They’re yours.”

“I can’t eat all of them. Not on my nutrition plan.”

My forehead pinches into a frown. I’m missing something. None of this makes sense.

“I want you to have them,” he continues. “Just because I have to be strict about what I eat doesn’t mean you have to, too.”

“Why would it?” It’s not like we make a habit out of eating together.

His broad shoulders lift as he shrugs, the movement serving to remind me how massive he is. “I thought you’d like them. That’s why I ordered them,” he says. “If you don’t want them, don’t eat them.”

It’s not about the fries.

Or maybe it is.

I don’t know.

“Do you have a tuxedo?” I blurt out.

Slowly, Wyatt swivels his head to look at me. “Yes?”

“What are you doing on Saturday?”

A Cheshire smile spreads over his face. “Elsy, are you asking me on a date?”

“No!”

He waits, his eyes bright. Is he mocking me?

I blow out a breath. “The symphony gala is Saturday and I have a plus-one.”

Wyatt waits patiently. When I don’t continue, he says, “And you want me to go with you?”

“I mean, you have a tux already.” It makes sense, in some weird, twisted, roundabout way.

Besides, he’s the only person I know in this city. And I’m not about to ask Luke Henry to go with me. No.

The air is thick with tension as I meet his eyes. It kills me to have to ask anyone for help. Of all the people in the world, the fact it’s him particularly rankles. Slowly, he nods. “I do have a tux.”

“And you don’t have a game,” I add.

“We play Friday night and Sunday matinee. So I wouldn’t be able to party too hard on Saturday night,” he drawls.

“Yes, because a symphony gala is probably on par with partying it up in a club until three o’clock in the morning.”

Wyatt grins. “I haven’t done that since my second year in the league.”

I roll my eyes. “So, will you do it?”

“Sure, Elsy,” he says, his voice warm and rumbly, making my heart rate ricochet sky high. “I’ll be your date to the gala.”

* * *

I shouldn’t be here. But because Wyatt agreed to accompany me to the gala, I couldn’t make myself say no to attending his game. I’m supporting my new local team. That’s all it is.

I don’t hate hockey. I like it better when Mitch is playing, sure, but the sport itself isn’t boring. It can even be fun. My issue is with the hockey players . I liked going to games a lot more before Wyatt crashed into my life and set my self-esteem into a downward spiral. Even though it’s been years, I’m still not fully recovered.

I don’t have any Aces gear, and I’m definitely not wearing Wyatt’s name on my back, so I pull on a Boston Grizzlies sweatshirt that Vanessa, my old roommate, gave me. Several of my friends are dating players or staff members with the team, so it’s safe to say I spent a lot of time with the Grizzlies.

… and now I’m about to spend time with the Aces. It’s clear Wyatt won’t leave me alone, so I might as well get used to the idea now.

Anastasia wasn’t able to join me for the game since she already had plans, so I sent Wyatt the two unused tickets. I don’t know what to do with them. It’s not like I have anyone else to invite to the game. And I’m not about to walk up to perfect strangers and invite them to hang out.

Mitch calls me as I’m walking into the arena.

“It’s like you know when I’m about to do something wrong,” I tell him as I scan my ticket.

His hearty laugh echoes through my phone. “What are you doing?”

“I’m at an Aces game.”

My best friend growls. “Fuck off. No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Please tell me you’re at least wearing my sweater,” he says. “I can’t wait to see the look on that fuckhead’s face when you wear my name.”

“I’m not,” I laugh.

Mitch falls quiet. “You’re not wearing his?”

“Nah. The Grizzlies jacket.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s okay, then,” he decides. He has some buddies on the team. And considering the way my friends started dating their players, there’s a lot of overlap between his friends and mine. The Grizzlies guys always treated me like part of the club, another little sister to look after.

It was… nice. I felt protected. Appreciated.

With Wyatt, though… I don’t feel the same. It’s infantilizing with him. He’s not treating me like an equal, but as someone inferior.

And I am not inferior to him in any way, shape, or form. I know my worth, even if he doesn’t recognize it.

As I make my way to the stands, Mitch and I catch up. He has a game tonight in Nashville, then flies back to New Orleans for a home match against Tampa the next day. He’s coming and going so much, I can barely keep track. If it weren’t for the automated calendar alerts for his team on my phone, I would never know where he was.

We’ve been friends since our first semester of college. Our dorms were next to each other and our roommates were fucking, so when she would go to his, he would come to mine and we’d hang out for a few hours. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. He took me under his wing. The music department threw great parties, and the hockey team never stopped partying, so it was a match made in heaven.

I was there for him when his mom died, and he was there for me when my parents split up. We’re friends, good friends, but we’ve never been more. The idea of something romantic with Mitch is almost gross. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother.

My ex-boyfriends haven’t always understood that. His ex-girlfriends—few as they were—couldn’t get comfortable with knowing our friendship comes first. We don’t sleep in the same bed when either of us are dating someone, but if we’re both single? Fair game. He’s perpetually touch-starved and I’m a big fan of physical affection. It’s my love language. It’s like we were made for each other. Platonically.

Which is probably why he’s never forgiven Wyatt for what he did. As glad as I am that he’s on my side, sometimes I wonder if the reason I haven’t been able to move past it is because Mitch hasn’t, either.

My seats are at ice level, right behind the Aces’ bench. Today’s game is against the Colorado Dragons. My friend Viv’s brother Chuck is on the team, and as he skates past for warm-ups, he gives me a nod. We’ve met a few times, but we aren’t close. Enough to pick each other out of a crowd. I’ll say hello to him after the game, but we don’t need to go for a drink or anything. We’re not that kind of friends. Acquaintances, really.

My eyes linger on number 17. Wyatt looks good in the navy and gold. He stands tall on his skates, carrying himself with confidence. When he catches sight of me, he stumbles to a stop, and my heart skips a beat.

Why the hell does he have to be so fucking attractive?

And worse, why do I have to be attracted to him ? Of all the guys in the world, why does it have to be him who gets my engine going?

A slow smile spreads over his face before he sends me a wink. My entire body heats from within until I think I’m about to combust.

Another player shoves him forward, and Wyatt shakes his head, returning to his laps. He looks over his shoulder at me as he skates, stick handling a puck like the professional he is before driving it toward the net.

The goalie, Rempel, doesn’t try to block it. The missile lands in the back of the net with textbook precision, and my panties get a little wet.

Fuck. This will be a long game.