Page 50 of Cross Check

“It’s good to see you too,” I say, and, gosh, it is.

Grant has this easy charisma about him. It’s not arrogant or boastful. It’s softer, sweeter. When he’s around, you’re engulfed in warmth. In the way his eyes twinkle and how he turns the radio down so he can hear me. It’s carefree. Fucking magnetic, and I can’t help but match his smile with one of my own.

“How’re things?” he asks. His phone lights up three times in quick succession, but he ignores it to look me. Unwavering, undivided attention. My heart skips a beat. “Besides your near-death flight experience, of course.”

“Minus the traumatic plane ride, things are good. We’ve had a solid start to the year. I redecorated my apartment this summer. How about you?” My eyes sweep over his face, to the fading red mark on his cheek and the thin gold chain tucked beneath the collar of his pullover. That’s new. “You look like you haven’t been roughed up too badly this season.”

“Except for the shiner I earned three nights ago. It was worth it. Collins, who plays for the Minneapolis Eagles, was chirping about my lettuce.” He runs a hand through his hair. Longer than the last time I saw him, it brushes the back of his neck. “I made sure he had a nice moment with the boards, and he paid me back with a stick to the face. Pretty fair, I’d say.”

“You all fight about hair? And people say women are emotional.” I snort, buckling my seatbelt. “How was your call with your agent?”

“Great.” Grant checks his mirror and merges into traffic. “We talked about what the next five years might look like for me on and off the ice. I threw out the idea of starting a camp for kids in marginalized communities who want to learn how to skate, and he was onboard with it. Fingers crossed I sign a contract extension with the Stars at the end of next season so I can cover the costs for it.”

“I thought you said you don’t want to coach,” I tease. “A camp sounds amazing, Grant. I love that idea.”

“You mentioned starting one too. Any headway on that?”

“Not yet. Hopefully one day down the road. When I do, I’ll let you know. Our kids can scrimmage.”

“Dude. That would be sick.” He chuckles. “Is Denver still treating you well?”

“Yeah. I love the team. I love the coaching staff. I’ve been in environments where I didn’t agree with some of the processes the head coach was implementing, but Jude isn’t like that. I like him a lot, and we have a great line of communication. What about you? How’s everything going?”

“Everything is perfect.” Grant flips on his blinker. “I can’t believe this is my life. I have book club. Team dinners. I get to watch my friends fall in love and play in front of thousands of fans every night. I’m a lucky guy.”

We drive the rest of the way to the café talking about league standings and who we think will make the Four-Nations roster. His phone keeps lighting up and he keeps ignoring it, eyes on the road before occasionally shifting over to me.

“You can answer those if you want.” I gesture to his screen as we pull into the parking lot. “I won’t be offended.”

“It’s just the team chat. Most are from Ethan, which means there’s a high probability they might not be safe to open in the presence of another human being.” Grant keeps the ignition running. “I figured I’d get our food to go. It’s small in there.”

“I don’t mind going in and ordering. I’m the one holding you hostage so I can get my sandwich fix.” I hurry to unbuckle my seatbelt while he does the same. “Really. Let me.”

“I told you I had my credit card ready, Amelia. I wasn’t kidding. Meatball sub with extra parmesan, right?” he asks, already halfway out of the car. “And fries.”

“You know my order?”

“Big fan, remember?” With a wink, he shuts the door. “Be back in a few.”

I watch him stride up to the café’s door, holding it open for an elderly woman using a cane. She says something to him and he answers with a beam, still smiling when he disappears inside the small building.

I take the time he’s away to casually sleuth around his car. I find nothing exciting besides a water bottle, a roll of stick tape, and a stack of signed trading cards in the back seat. The radio stations he has pre-programed range from pop hits to nineties songs he wasn’t alive for. There’s a pack of gum in the glove compartment and the vehicle registration with a listed address.

The biggest surprise is the picture tucked in the small storage space under the radio. It’s a photograph of the DC Stars, their arms around each other in their athletic shorts and team shirts, all wearing matching grins. I notice Grant right away, front and center on Riley Mitchell’s back and happy as a clam.

He must be that way all the time. Endlessly optimistic. Always a heartbeat away from laughing. I trace over the outline of his silhouette before putting the picture back in its place, the hint of peace washing over me as I do.

I glance around the space one more time. Everything is neater than I thought it would be, with freshly vacuumed floor mats and a new air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Lavender, the scent tells me, and it doesn’t feel like I’m in the car belonging to a man in his early twenties.

Ten minutes later, Grant jogs out of the café, a paper bag in his hands.

“I might have gone overboard, but there’s a reason for it,” he says, hopping in the car and shutting the door behind him.

“That bag is huge. How many people are joining us?” I ask.

“Hear me out. I got our sandwiches, then I figured I’d get you a second sandwich you can have tomorrow or the day after. While the idea of microwaved meatballs sounds slightly disgusting, trust me when I say the sub is just as good reheated.”

“Thank you.” My heart flip-flops over itself with his consideration. Goddamn him and his kindness. “I’m going to trust your judgement and give it a whirl.”