Page 122 of The Grumpy Defenseman
She smiled and buckled her seat belt.
I pulled away from the curb before I could stare at her long enough to embarrass both of us.
The city changed as we drove in. Neighborhood streets gave way to restaurant windows and people crossing at corners with their phones in their hands. The skyline rose ahead of us, familiar and different from this angle.
Sam looked out the window like she was taking it in without a camera.
That mattered.
I found parking near La Villita and killed the engine.
Before she could reach for the door, I looked at her.
“You good with this?”
She turned back. “With dinner?”
“With being seen.”
That shifted something in the truck.
Not badly.
Carefully.
She looked toward the street. Couples walking. Families headed toward the river. A man in a Spurs cap laughing into his phone.
Then she looked back at me.
“Are you?”
Fair question.
I had spent most of my life being seen only in ways I could control. Helmet on. Jersey on. Short answers and a face arranged for cameras. Anything personal held behind a wall and labeled unavailable.
This was different.
This was my hand on the console between us, close enough to hers that the choice was obvious.
“Yes,” I said.
She studied me for one second longer.
Then she put her hand in mine.
“Then yes.”
We walked into downtown like that.
Hand in hand.
No distance. No pretending we had arrived separately and ended up beside each other by coincidence.
The restaurant was small and tucked off a narrow street near the river, with tile floors, low light, and a hostess who recognized me and then very clearly decided not to make it anyone else’s problem.
I respected her immediately.
They seated us at a table near the back, not hidden exactly, but not on display. Sam noticed. Of course she did.
