She nods. “We were neighbors. Grew up together, dated as teenagers, got married during college.” A pause. “Got divorced at twenty-seven.”
“I’m sorry.” I almost feel bad about asking her to stay for coffee. I’d wanted to thank her and get to know her a bit, but somehow I took us down this serious, way too intimate path. So I change the subject again. “You’re twenty-eight, huh? You look all of fifteen.” I cringe. “No, scratch that. You look eighteen, as in legal. Otherwise I can’t keep calling you Hottie in my head.”
Hailey laughs, and it’s a sweet, melodic sound that makes my ears happy. “I’m twenty-nine, actually. And yeah, yeah, I look young. It’s a curse.”
I snicker.
“Seriously,” she insists. “I still get carded at the theater when I buy tickets for rated-R movies.”
“Take it as a compliment,” I advise. “You’ll be walking on air when you’re, like, sixty and everyone mistakes you for thirty.”
“True.”
A lull falls over the room. Rufus is snoring quietly between us. Hailey is sipping the last of her coffee, which alerts me to her impending departure. I know she’ll probably shoot out of here like a bat out of hell the moment her coffee’s done. If I’m going to ask her out, then I need to do it now—
Ask her out?
Shit, where did that come from? Do I want to ask her out?
I work the idea over in my head for a few seconds. Yeah, I think I do. I haven’t been on a date since the divorce, though. Dressing up and going to dinner and spending an evening with a woman without the expectation of sex? I haven’t done that in a long, long time.
Unfortunately, I take so long thinking about it that I miss my window. Hailey has set her mug on the table and is rising to her feet.
“I should go,” she says, and I hear both reluctance and eagerness in her tone, as if she’s simultaneously dying to stay and dying to flee.
I guess she picks the latter, because she starts edging toward the hall. “Hold on, I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.
“Anyway, I assume you want me to keep walking Rufus, so just let me know your schedule for the week and I’ll pencil it in on my calendar.” She’s babbling again, while averting her eyes. “We’ll confirm everything through the Fetch app and I can send you updates, and thank you for the coffee and the conversation. This was really nice. Enjoy the rest of your day, Math—I mean Matt! We’ll talk soon. Bye!”
She’s out the door before I can blink, leaving me to wonder—did she just call me Math?
Since I don’t have a game tonight and the girls are with their mom, I’m quick to say yes when Blake Riley calls and invites me over to his place for poker night.
“Who else will be there?” I ask, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I hurriedly shove my sweatpants down my hips and replace them with faded jeans.
“Wesmie, Hewitt, and Lemming,” Blake answers. “I was hoping Luko, too, but his in-laws are in town. Shame, because that’s free money, y’know?”
I do know. Our team captain’s poker face is like a window without curtains—you can see right fucking through it.
“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say. “Want me to bring anything?”
“Just your fine ass—” Blake suddenly yelps. “What the what, J-Babe! Cheezus! That hurt!”
I hear a muffled female voice in the background. It’s Jess, Blake’s live-in girlfriend. “Her fine ass?” she asks. “Who are you talking to!”
There’s a howl of laughter in my ear. “Eriksson!” Blake shouts between laughs. “I was referring to Eriksson’s fine ass!”
“My ass is fine,” I agree. “Tell Jess I’d be happy to show it to her when I get there.”
“Sure, I’ll tell her,” Blake answers cheerfully. “After I chop your balls off and feed them to a sheep.”
A sheep?
Before I can question that, my teammate says, “See you in a New York minute!” and then hangs up.
Blake is really fucking weird. I don’t understand half the shit he says. Granted, I don’t think anyone does, his girlfriend included.
I pull a hoodie over my T-shirt, then leave the bedroom in search of my coat. This apartment doesn’t have a coat closet by the front door, so I always toss the damn thing somewhere and then can’t remember where. I find it on one of the kitchen stools, shrug it on, and tug a toque over my head on my way out the door.
Blake lives near the lake, and it’s too far to walk, especially now that the weather has turned on us. I grew up in Tampa, so the Toronto winters took a while getting used to. I’m still not a fan. The chill in a hockey arena, I fuel off of. Canadian winters? Suck balls. So I ride the elevator down to the underground and get into my Porsche Cayenne, clicking on the seat warmer.
When I walk into Blake’s apartment a half hour later, the rest of the crew is already there. Wes and Jamie live in the same building, just a short elevator ride away. Lemming and Hewitt live nearby, too.
“Yo! Matty-Cake!” Blake shouts from his seat by the green felt-covered poker table. “You ready for an ass-whupping?”
I grin at him. He’s wearing a visor and has a toothpick sticking out the corner of his mouth, like some old-timey card sharp. “Maybe I should’ve stayed home,” I remark dryly.
Jamie Canning, who’d let me in, offers a wry smile in return. “Was thinking the same thing the second I saw that visor.”
Blake proves to have superhuman hearing. “What’s wrong with my visor?” He looks genuinely insulted. “Don’t you know that saying? A visor makes ya wiser.”
“That’s not a saying.” Wes sighs from the kitchen counter. He’s in the process of pulling two beers from the stainless steel fridge. “Eriksson, beer?”
“Yes, please.” I grab the bottle he hands me and join the others at the table.
Ben Hewitt and Chad Lemming, a left winger and d-man, respectively, greet me with nods and grunts. Blake is busy shuffling a deck of cards, while Wes starts doling out colored chips.
“Where’s Jess?” I ask our host.
“Downstairs at Wesmie’s. She’s studying for a nursing test and claims she needs complete silence.” Blake shakes his head. “I don’t get it. She can study in the bedroom, right? It’s not like I’m loud. You guys think I’m loud?”
“Dude, loud is an understatement,” Wes informs him. “You’re…” He stops, searching for the right word.
“Decibel-ly challenged,” Lemming says helpfully.
Wes purses his lips. “Still doesn’t accurately describe it.”
“Wall-rattling,” Jamie offers.
“Better.”
“Quiet-deficient,” Hewitt suggests.
“Fuck you all very much,” Blake grumbles.
“Hey, at least you’re not as loud as your mom,” I say in an attempt to reassure him.
Jamie blanches. “I’m pretty sure one of my eardrums is permanently shattered thanks to Blake’s mom.”
“EAT THEIR BABIES, BLAKEY!” Wes yells in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Riley, and everyone bursts out laughing, including Blake.
“C’mon,” Hewitt says, reaching for his pile of chips. “Let’s do this shit. Katie wants me home by ten.”
Lemming makes a whip sound.