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“You heard me.” His tone is sharp.
I guess I was mistaken a minute ago. He’s not softer.
I place the napkin in my lap, trying not to dwell on the way his tone hurts and makes me feel weak, all at once. “Milo was nice.”
“Nice.” He laughs mirthlessly, cutting into his steak. “Are you sure you have a boyfriend?”
“Pretty sure,” I answer, my hurt transitioning into anger as my temper starts to flare. “If you’d like to meet him, I can ask him to come over tonight.”
Sam shovels potatoes into his mouth, watching me from across the table. “I’d love to meet him and ask him a thing or two.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “And what would you like to ask him?”
“If he knows that his girlfriend is hitting on my teammates and the hired help every time I turn around.”
My fork drops to the plate with a clang. “What’s your problem tonight?”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t react. He just chews his food before shoveling more into his mouth, meeting my eyes with a challenging stare.
“I’ve told you before … I’m just being nice. You might try it sometime.”
“I would, but Milo’s not my type.” His tone is condescending, just like the smirk on his face.
“That’s surprising. I thought everyone was your type. And anyway, what do you care if I was flirting with him? Why are you suddenly acting like a jealous boyfriend?”
“Please,” he scoffs. “I really don’t care. You can do whatever you want. And I wouldn’t even know what a jealous boyfriend acts like because I’ve had exactly one girlfriend years ago. That experience cured me of relationships forever.” He takes a drink of the tea in his glass and glares at me from across the table. “I’ve never been jealous in my life.”
This must be my karma for canceling on Eliott tonight.
“Whatever, Sam. I’m not going to let you ruin this beautiful dinner.” I stand in a huff so quickly that my chair almost falls and stalk toward my room. I stop abruptly as my stomach growls, returning to the table to grab my plate and silverware. “This food is way too good to waste on fighting with you.”
I turn my back again with my plate in hand and head to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me to emphasize my anger, just in case Sam missed it. I sit cross-legged on my bed and start eating dinner in peace, counting the days until I’ll be able to get off this roller coaster ride. And no longer sure if the money is worth all the chaos.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SAM
The door slams behind her, and I feel it echo around the apartment, accentuating the fact that I’m now sitting here alone. I have no one to blame but myself. The fire is flickering across the room, and the wood occasionally pops. It’s a cozy scene. Cozy and … lonely. I eat another bite of steak.
This is damn good, I admit inside my head. I should’ve invested in a cook a long time ago.
I exhale heavily before taking another drink of tea. I sit back in my chair and glance around the place.
I’ve lived alone ever since joining the NHL. I haven’t had roommates since college, and I like it that way. But having Emerson in my space hasn’t been as bad as I thought it might be. It’s kind of nice, coming home to someone, even if we fight more than we get along most days.
My eyes land on the canvas across the room, the picture just starting to form between the outlines and the first layers of paint. Even in its early stages, it’s evident how talented Emerson is. The way she can take a scene from outside or one from her head and transpose it onto the canvas is unbelievable.
I can’t even draw a stick figure.
My mind drifts back to that mural she painted in college. It had everyone on the hockey team talking about it. It was that good.
I wasn’t lying when I said I had a good practice today. In fact, we had a great practice. I’ve relaxed into the situation here with my new teammates. I look forward to being on the ice with them. They’ve accepted me, and with all the extraneous noise fading, I’ve been able to concentrate on my performance for the first time in a while. The transition has been seamless really, and I think Ollie had a lot to do with that. Hockey is becoming fun again. I’m reminded of all the reasons why I loved it in the first place since coming to Chicago. I had no idea that would be the cherry on top of my transfer here. If I had, I would’ve insisted on a move months ago.
My mood this evening had nothing to do with the team or hockey in general. I haven’t heard from my mom. She had her scans last week. The time in between her tests and when we’re waiting for the results is always the hardest. The clock moves slowly, and doubt always starts to drift in, even if I try my best not to let it. But there’s usually results by now, and I can’t help but think no news can only mean something bad. My mom still means the world to me. She’s the single most important woman in my life.
So, I’ve been worried all day. I checked in with my parents on the way home and heard the concern in their voices, too, though they tried to hide it from me. I guess they’ll always be my parents, trying to protect me, and I’ll always be their little boy even though I’m a grown man. I’m trying to remain optimistic while preparing myself for the worst. It might not be the best strategy, but I’m so afraid of being blindsided again. How do you prepare for cancer though? You can’t, not really. But the last thing I want is to watch my mom go through the pain and suffering of treatments that might or might not work all over again. I don’t think I can bear it.
So, I was already in a foul mood. Then, when I walked through my front door and saw the chef I hired eyeing Emerson like she was a snack, my worry transitioned to anger. Emerson was wearing a worn shirt with a wide, scooping neckline that slid down one shoulder. Wisps of her hair escaped her messy bun and were grazing her cheeks. Her neck was long and elegant as she studied her painting. There wasn’t a bra strap in sight, just inches of dewy, exposed skin. She looked effortlessly sexy. I couldn’t pull my eyes away either.
