Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“How would I know?” I’m nearly shouting. “I don’t memorize pictures of the players.”
Also, hello! He plays hockey. He’s not a movie star. But that’s rude to point out.
Miles holds up his hands in surrender, clearly frustrated with himself now. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I thought maybe you knew I played hockey and didn’t care. Or that you just…didn’t care what I do.”
“I didn’t care about what you do…until I found out you worked for my father,” I say, sputtering.
“Shit, shit. This is terrible.” He shakes his head, not even bothering with the spilled artichokes and glass on the floor. “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I slept with the coach’s daughter.”
He sounds sick to his stomach. I feel sick to mine too. “I can’t believe I slept with one of his players,” I mutter, pacing around his living room, trying to untangle this mess and make sense of it.
My dad’s been the coach of this team for the last five years. Players respect him. The league respects him. He’s had a phenomenal career. And I can’t get involved with a member of his team.
“I didn’t know it was you,” I add quickly when I stop pacing and head into the kitchen because it feels important to make that clear. I don’t want him to think I’ve tricked him. “I really believed Birdie, and I’m guessing she told me you were a chef to protect you. She probably thought if she told me you played hockey that I might only be interested in you for that reason, since she obviously knew we were into each other.”
He laughs humorlessly. “Trust me, she knew I had it bad for you the first day we met.”
My stupid heart flips, but I don’t let myself linger on the feeling—it’s fleeting.
Besides, I want to impress this point on him. “I’ve been out of town. I went to college in Los Angeles. I even spent a year studying abroad in London. And since then I have been busy working on my career. I know hockey, but I don’t know every single player. I’m not one of those superfans who can rattle off each team member and recognize every photo of them.”
Miles just stares at me, stunned. “Did Birdie know who you are though?”
“I don’t think my last name came up. I’m not close with her. We just talked about photos, and that was all.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the thought of Birdie knowing his coach is my father, because why would she do that to her beloved grandson? “She wouldn’t have done this on purpose…She knows how much I admire your father.” Miles lets out a pained sigh and drops his head into his hands. “Holy shit, your father saved my career. He fought for me to be on this team when I was struggling in Vancouver. He helped me get over a problem on the ice. He hooked me up with a sports psychologist. Your father is the reason I still have a career.”
“My father is the reason I have one good parent who cares about me…” I trail off, the weight of this whole mess pressing down on me.
We stand there in his kitchen, surrounded by a broken jar of artichokes, an open bottle of wine, and the ingredients he’d planned to make into our late-night dinner. A dinner that isn’t happening now. A second date being cut short. A third that won’t ever come to pass. Because it’s not a matter of who says it first; when we look at each other, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt we’re both thinking the same thing.
“This can’t happen again,” I whisper.
Miles nods, understanding immediately. “I know. Let me take you home.”
I shake my head. “I’ll catch a Lyft.”
“Let me drive you.”
“It’s not necessary,” I say.
“You’re right. It’s not. But I still want to do this for you. It’s all I can do right now,” he implores me, sounding more vulnerable than I expected.
It’d be silly to think either one of us fell hard in one day and night. And I’m realistic, above all. I believe in facts and hard work. I don’t believe in taking risks with my future. But even so, everything about today and tonight felt real and possible, and it’s hard to give that up. So, yes, I suppose his vulnerability makes sense after all. And I wouldn’t mind a few last stolen moments with this man. “Okay.”
He leaves the spilled artichokes on the tiled floor. “I’ll clean those up later,” he says.
“Shame. They’re my favorite,” I say as we return to his car.
He pulls out of his garage and into the night. I give him my address, and he plugs it into the GPS then navigates along the streets of San Francisco, now shrouded in a rare night-time fog. But that feels fitting.