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After we finished eating, I couldn’t miss the way Parker kept yawning. So, I carried both of our dishes to the sink and said I should get back to the hotel. Parker looked disappointed, but her expression quickly shifted to a believable smile as she walked me to the door.
And then we had a really awkward goodbye. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t knowwhyI wanted to and didn’t know if she’d evenwantme to hug her. So, I waved like an idiot and bolted.
As I walk by a restaurant now, crowded with people spilling out onto patio seating, I make sure to tilt my face away. It’s habit—the downside of sponsorships that plaster my face on magazines and billboards. No one glances my way. Still, I breathe easier when I get to my SUV.
With windows down and classical music playing at a low volume, I cruise back down Maple, glancing up as I pass Parker’s place.
Her front window is dark now, and I picture her leaving the dishes in the sink and heading to bed. I really should have offered to help wash up. Next time.
Nope—there should be no next times. Not if I want to avoid another confusing and volatile tripwire of emotion.
But it felt good to be with Parker. Her apartment is cozy—small but airy with its high ceilings and large windows. There were architectural details I don’t know the names of, like some kind of fancy molding and what looked to be tin plates on the ceiling.
Parker’s whole energy filled the space, making the size seem just right, even for someone like me who barely fit at the kitchen table. It felt welcoming, homey, and so veryParker.
The apartment next to it had aFor Leasesign,a pesky voice reminds me.
Bad idea, a more practical part of my brain answers.
It’s probably just as small as Parker’s. Nothing like the sprawling house I purchased in Charlotte. But then, I don’t like all the space in the mid-century modern ranch my last real estate agent urged me to buy. All that space—too empty and too quiet—closed in around me at night. It was a reminder of how insubstantial my life is: just one big empty box.
It’s why I started sleeping in the walk-in closet. I didn’t feel the sense of insignificance and claustrophobia. Does it make any sense that I felt less trapped in a small space? No. But long ago, I stopped over analyzingwhythings make me feel a certain way and focused on how to get those feelings to go away.
I hop on the highway and in minutes, I’m passing the stadium and pulling into the hotel parking lot. The place isn’t huge, and my suite is pretty basic, but it’s easy. Close. And if I don’t plan to stay long, it will do just fine. No need to look at apartments with distracting neighbors.
“Welcome back, Mr. Barnes.” The woman behind the front desk smiles a little too eagerly as soon as the automatic doorswhooshclosed behind me. “Can I interest you in a turn-down service?”
The glint in her eyes promises more than just a turn-down service.
“No, thanks.”
I’m pretty sure this is the same woman who fell all over herself this morning when I picked up an extra key to replace the one I somehow already lost. She’s not in her work uniform now, something I only notice as she—oh, jeez—steps out from behind the desk in some kind of minidress.
I pull out my phone—always a good distraction. Appear busy. Disinterested. Don’t make eye contact. Usually, women take the hint.
Or not. Her heels click behind me as I make my way to the bank of elevators.
“Or maybe a drink?” she offers, her voice low.
“I’m good.”
“Good? I could make youbetter.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, I push through the door to the stairwell and start up at a jog. She won’t follow me, but she might beat me up if she’s persistent enough to take the elevator. And sadly, I know from experience, some of these kinds of fans are.
I move into a sprint, stopping at the next floor to push the elevator button, which might slow her down if she did try to follow.
Three more flights and I’m panting when I swipe my keycard, thankfully finding the small suite empty. I stick theDo Not Disturbsign on the door before engaging the safety lock.
I don’t take chances. Not when it comes to female hockey fans.
Notfans—I don’t want to disparage the women who truly enjoy the sport. I likethem. But I can’t stand the obsessive and aggressive fans more into the players than hockey. The ones who are in every city, slinking their way into our events and even into our hotels.
Toeing off my shoes, I collapse on the bed and pull out my phone. There’s a text from a number not in my contacts.
Unknown: This is Felix. We met today. Just wanted to say welcome to the team.
I plug in his name even as a few more texts pop up.
