Page 13 of Cross Check

A gentle tug. A palm on my elbow. I’m guided away from the water and back to the graveled path, upright, dry, and out of breath.

“Are you okay?” a low voice asks. “Amelia?”

I squint through my sunglasses and find Grant Everett staring at me. Mouth half parted and eyes wide, my surprise probably mirrors his.

“Grant?” I blow out an exhale, coming down from the high of the last fifteen seconds. “What are you doing here?”

“Coach canceled morning skate because a couple players have the stomach bug. Told us to go for a run instead.” His eyes bounce to my feet firmly planted on solid ground, and his hands fall away from their protective hold on my body. “What are you doing here? We don’t play y’all until the day after tomorrow.”

“We landed this morning after our game in Atlanta last night. The team has a rest day before our matchup with you on Thursday. Figured I’d get a workout in.”

“Want to run together?”

“Look.” I push my sunglasses up my nose. “I’m sure you’re a great guy, but I told you I don’t associate with men in the league off the ice.”

“Ah, shit. I didn’t think of how that would come across. I understand.” Grant nods and tugs on the brim of his hat. Some of his dark hair sneaks out by his ears, and it hits me how long it’s been since we last saw each other—a year at this point. “Emmy Hartwell joined our team earlier this season, and I’ve seen firsthand how differently she’s treated because she’s a woman. Reporters ask her different questions. Some of our opponents make comments about her under their breath. It’s bullshit. I’d never want you to be painted in a bad light.”

“Emerson. Yeah.” I smile. “Our publicity people set up a meet and greet for us tomorrow.”

Called up from the ECHL back in the fall, Emerson Hartwell is the first woman in NHL history to play in a regular season game. She signed a one-year contract with the Stars and has been kicking ass. Our game on Thursday will be the first time our paths cross this year.

“I like her a lot,” Grant says. “She works hard, and she’s funny as hell. Watching her put Maverick in his place is the highlight of my day.”

“That’s great.” My watch beeps, letting me know it’s time to start moving. “I should get going. Sorry for almost knocking you out.”

“No need to apologize. Glad I was in the right place at the right time. Here’s a thought: What if I run in the same direction, but five feet away? Technically, we’re not running together.”

I should tell him no. My brain is screaming at me to walk away, but he’s smiling in that goofy way I remember. He’s waiting patiently for me to answer, and I weigh my options.

He lives on the other side of the country. I see him twice a year when our teams play each other. There are some guys in the league I’m friendly with after going to college together, and we send the occasional text to check in.

It’s just a run, and when I look at Grant again, I decide thirty minutes with him can’t be the worst thing in the world. It’s two people existing in the same space, and that’s allowed.

“Okay,” I say, and he lights up.

“I’ll stop any other falls into the Reflecting Pool.” Grant taps his watch screen, and we veer onto a straightaway. “How long are you going for?”

“Another three miles or so. You’re not allowed to blame me if you’re tired on Thursday.”

“I’m twenty-two. I don’t get tired,” he says, and I fall into a jog next to him. “You’re thirty, right?”

“I am. My birthday is in August. What about you?”

“July. Never liked that I couldn’t celebrate with my classmates because we were on summer break.” He might be shorter than me, but his stride is long. He slows to match my pace. “Lots of pool parties as a kid.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Florida. Near Tallahassee. I didn’t spread my wings much when I went to FSU, and coming to DC and living on my own has been an experience. I like when we’re on the road. I get to share a room with Ethan Richardson, and it’s like having a sleepover every night.”

“What’s that like? I haven’t shared a room with anyone in years.”

“Makes the long stretches on the road less lonely.” He lifts his shirt to wipe a bead of sweat away from his cheek. The move shows off abdominal muscles and a trail of dark hair on his stomach that disappears into his athletic shorts. I focus my attention on the path ahead of us. “You’re from Wisconsin, right?”

“Born and raised. I did the same as you and didn’t venture far from home.”

“How did you make your way to the NHL? I know you coached in the NCAA.”

“You sure know a lot about me,” I say. “Should I be worried?”