Page 101 of Cross Check

His chin lifts at the sound of my voice. He slides his sunglasses off his face and grins, shoving the notebook in his pocket.

“Hey! Sweet ride,” he says.

“I’m driving a Volvo, not a Maserati.” I laugh and unlock the doors, hopping out so I can pop the trunk. “How was your flight?”

“Good. I slept most of the way.” He lifts his suitcase—simple, black, carry-on-sized—and slides it in the car. “Airplane eggs freak me out. I’m starving.”

“Powered aviation protein is questionable.” I close the trunk and head for the driver’s seat. “Do you want to grab something to eat?”

“Whatever you want.” Grant hops in the passenger side and adjusts the seat so there’s more room for his legs. “I don’t want to mess up your game day routine.”

“I’m allowed to have a flexible routine one day in my coaching career. Might as well be today.”

“A fucking associate coach.” He reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. “I really am so happy for you.”

He’s already said it to me a dozen times between our FaceTime call and texts, but in the quiet of the car, it holds more weight. It’s the last piece of reassurance I was waiting on to know that I’m really that fucking girl doing the goddamn thing, and all is right in the world.

Two minutes with him, and my confidence is through the roof. I can do anything.

“Thank you.” I don’t bother fighting off my beam. It’s pure, unbridled joy, and I sink into it. I savor it when he keeps his hand in place for a beat longer before pulling back. “I ate a light brunch with my friends so I’d have room for more food. Are you good with doing takeout at my place?”

“Sounds perfect. No restrictions on food, by the way. I love to eat.”

“Good answer, because we’re doing a sandwich shop that’s not quite as good as Pete’s, but it fills the void.” I merge into traffic, heading for my apartment. “I’d be disappointed if you had some objections.”

“Want to know my secret of the day?” Grant asks. “I love the concept of brunch and being out with friends and having a mimosa or two, but I hate brunch menus. Am I supposed to order an omelet? Steak? It’s too much pressure, and I can’t handle it.”

“Wow.” I turn the music down. “I’ve always considered brunch an extension of breakfast. It feels wrong to be ordering something other than pancakes at ten in the morning.”

“Is that your pick? Pancakes over French toast and waffles?”

“Yeah. My dad used to make them for me after hockey practice on Saturday mornings. They became my everything meal—what I ate when I was celebrating. When I needed cheering up. When I was up late cramming for finals and couldn’t sleep. There’s comfort in them.”

“Forget the sandwich idea. Take me to your favorite place in the city that does pancakes.”

“It’s lunchtime!”

“And we’re celebrating your accomplishments, Amelia.” He rests his hand on the back of my seat and touches the ends of my hair. “If pancakes make you happy, we’re having pancakes.”

THIRTY-THREE

AMELIA

Grant is giddy when we slide into a booth at a diner away from the touristy part of town.

“Look at the license plates on the wall. And the knickknacks! How did you find a place like this?” he asks.

“I guess it’s time to tell you my secret of the day.” I hide my face with my menu, hoping he can’t see the way my cheeks turn bright red. “I do a lot of research when it comes to pancakes. My goal in life is to find the best place in every city.”

“Why are you embarrassed by that?” Grant pulls the menu from my hold with a frown. “Are you not allowed to be excited about the things that make you happy?”

“I’m used to dulling it down, I guess.”

I leave off the rest: that I hide parts of myself around men. The few that make it past a date or two don’t understand the little things that bring me joy. Why should I care about syrup flavors when I make six-figures to coach a sport?

But here is Grant, willing and eager to listen to whatever I have to say, and it’s time to admit to myself the other secret of the day, the one I’ve been fighting hard to ignore but coming up short: I’m attracted to this man.

Not a stupid, he’s cute, I hope he notices me crush or in a I had a drink too many and he gave me attention so I touched myself kind of way. It’s visceral and intense. Deep longing that’s been building for weeks—months, if I’m being honest with myself—and I’m terrified for what that means going forward.