Page 4 of Cross Check

“Can I help you?” I ask, staring at the press of his fingers on my forearm.

“Sorry to stop you. I wanted you to know your date was—” He clears his throat. His smile stretches into a grin before his eyes widen. “Oh my god. Are you Amelia Green?”

“I am. Do I know you?”

“Holy shit.” His hand falls from my arm and he pops to his feet. “I’m Grant. Grant Everett. The rookie drafted by the DC Stars? Third line right winger?” He follows it up with a laugh. “I don’t know why I’m saying that. There’s no chance you know who I am.”

“Grant Everett. Right.” I nod. His name and face are vaguely familiar, and I assess him. I’m five eleven in my sneakers, and he’s shorter than me. Not as muscular as some of the guys I coach, like he hasn’t filled out his frame yet. He’s stuck between lanky and broad, but a couple of years in an NHL weight room will bulk him right up. “I’m sorry. I make a point of recognizing players on the ice, not off of it. Conflict of interest, you know?”

“Absolutely.” Grant bobs his head. “But pretend I’m not a hockey player right now. I overheard the guy you were sitting with—it was hard not to—and it’s my moral obligation to let you know he’s a fucking idiot.”

My lips twitch with a smile. “He is, isn’t he?”

“It took a lot of self-restraint to stay out of your conversation, and I deserve a medal for keeping my mouth shut. The things I wanted to say would have gotten me in a shitload of trouble.”

“Funny. I was thinking I deserve an award for suffering as long as I did.”

“You do.” He rubs the back of his neck. His eyes bounce to the empty seat at his table. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for your shitty night?”

“That’s kind of you, but I have a no-fraternization policy with anyone in the league. I don’t want there to be any misplaced ideas of what my intentions are with players.”

“Of course. I understand. For the record, I didn’t mean it like that. No offense or anything,” he hurries to add, and his cheeks turn red. “I meant as a friend. Or more like an admirer of your game. I’m, um, a fan. A big fan. I’ve watched your Wisconsin highlights a thousand times.”

That makes me pause.

The days of my collegiate career are long gone. People know Wisconsin is where I got my start, but all anyone wants to talk about is my rise to the NHL. They forget about my years as a player and the skills I perfected that led me down the coaching pipeline.

I’m under an immense amount of scrutiny at all times, but as I look around the restaurant, it’s obvious the other diners aren’t paying attention to us. They don’t care who I might be. When I lower myself into the available chair, I’m awarded with a bright beam.

Crinkled eyes, the scrunch of his nose. A hint of a dimple on his cheek and a full set of teeth.

Grant Everett is an objectively attractive man, and the faint echo of an alarm begins to sound.

“This is a work conversation,” I say, shutting the noise out. “That’s all.”

“Means it’s a tax write-off. Even better.”

“You’ve watched my highlights? Why?”

“Because you’re good.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I’m not saying it to be complimentary. Well, I am. But it’s the truth. Player to player.”

“You mentioned you’re a rookie.” I wince. “Please tell me you’re older than eighteen.”

“I’m twenty-one,” he says. “I graduated high school early. Went to FSU and played on their club team. Somehow managed to get drafted by the Stars where I survived training camp and earned a spot on the roster.” Grant shrugs. “To be honest, I’m waiting for someone to tell me all of this is a mistake and I don’t deserve to be here.”

I smile. He’s humble. Someone who must have skills to have gotten this far, but he’s also had to work hard to prove himself. There’s no ego, and I’ve always loved the scrappy athletes.

“Speaking of honesty, I don’t hear enough complimentary things about my game. Feel free to keep gushing if you want.”

“Next time.” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to spend the few minutes I have with you acting like a fanboy.”

“Hang on. You said you’re on the Stars? That means we’re playing you tomorrow.”

“You are.”