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I called the hotel spa the day after our poolside picnic to arrange it for her. It wasn’t something I’d ever done for a woman before. I wouldn’t have even considered it. But I felt like I owed her for the way I’d treated her in the beginning. Emerson traipsing across downtown Seattle to find me and staying on my uncomfortable couch all night to make sure I was okay made an impression, I guess.
“Consider it an employee perk.”
She squints. “But I’m not your employee.” It’s the Hawks who are paying her, not me.
“Well then, consider it thanks for carting my ass back to the hotel in Seattle in one piece.”
Her smile is small as she glances out the window again, but I can tell she’s pleased. An unfamiliar warmth fills my chest.
We sit in comfortable silence and listen to the coaches rehash the game from the seat in front of us. It doesn’t take long for the bus to make it back to the hotel. The entire team makes plans to hit a local sports bar for food and drinks. Even Ollie plans on going.
“Come out tonight,” I say to Emerson.
She hesitates as we walk down the hall toward our rooms. “It seems like a team thing.”
“Everyone’s going, not just the team,” I counter. “The trainers, the coaches … everyone.” I pause in front of her door. “Come on. You’ve got to eat.”
I want her to come. I’m starting to feel responsible for her. She’s here because of me. And I like having her around, which I never would’ve said when this trip began. I guess she’s growing on me.
“Okay,” she finally says before pushing open her door. She holds it open with her shoulder.
“We’re meeting in the lobby in an hour,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’ll be there.”
I head into my room after Emerson’s door closes behind her. I check in with my parents. They were watching the game on television, so my dad wants to talk specifics about it. My mom has her annual exam coming up to screen for cancer again, and we talk about the details so I stay in the loop.
“I’ll plan on sending that lemon cake again,” I boast when she takes the phone back from my dad.
Ever since my mom has been in remission, she goes back annually to make sure the cancer hasn’t returned. When she receives that clean bill of health, she celebrates with a lemon cake, her favorite, from a bakery near their house. It’s become tradition at this point. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve gone to a bakery and bought one lemon cupcake to celebrate on my own each time during my stay in California. No dessert has ever tasted sweeter than that cupcake does. Because it means Mom is cancer-free again.
We talk for a few minutes more before I gather my room key and make my way to the lobby. I stop to knock on Emerson’s door along the way, but she doesn’t answer. She’s the first person I see though when the elevator doors open. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug her petite curves. Her hair is down, kissing the tops of her shoulders, and a smile lights up her face as she talks with Bastian.
The entire team is congregated in the lobby. The atmosphere is happy and rowdy, and I feel that sense of belonging again as I joke with a few of my teammates. We walk as a large group down the block to the sports bar, turning heads as we go. We pack the place as soon as we enter, pulling several tables together. Emerson ends up across from me, sitting next to my French Canadian teammate. They’re speaking in his native language, so I have no idea what they are saying. Emerson struggles at times, and Bastian helps to fill in the blanks for her.
We order food, and I get a beer. I unconsciously made a personal decision to drink less for a while after the night in Seattle, but I agree to take a shot with Cruz when he asks. I figure I owe him at least that for defending me during the game. But I decline the next one that he tries to send my way.
“I never thought I’d see the day when Anderson turned down hard liquor.” Coop laughs.
“I’m not that big of a lush,” I counter, noticing more than one pair of raised eyebrows around the table. From their reactions, maybe my drinking was a bigger issue than I thought.
“Here’s to Coop’s shutout,” Cruz yells to the table, lifting his shot glass. “And here’s to kicking Anderson’s former team’s ass all over the ice tonight.”
“Hear, hear!” I yell, lifting my beer and taking a drink. Those who have them down their shots.
When the food arrives, Emerson looks surprised as the waitress places a basket of crispy brussels sprouts in front of me.
“What?” I ask, popping one in my mouth.
“Just surprised to see you eating a vegetable.”
“Want one?” I offer.
She scrunches up her face in disgust. “No way. I hate brussels sprouts.”
I chuckle. “Kind of ironic that you call me out on my eating habits when you won’t even try one.” I nudge the basket closer to her. “They’re good like this. Crispy. My mom used to brown them in oil and then finish them off in the oven. It’s the only way I would eat them.”
We stare at each other in a silent challenge. She finally gives in, dipping a sprout in the ranch that came with it.
