Page 51 of Cross Check

“If you get sick, I’ll accept full responsibility.” He hands over a stack of napkins, then my food. “But that’s not going to happen.”

“Fuck.” I almost whimper as I unwrap the meatball sub. There’s a beyond generous portion of parmesan on top, and I’m pretty sure I’m in heaven. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Besides this moment, what else would be the best day of your life?”

“Hang on. I need some brain power.” I take a bite and groan, not giving a damn about the sauce that stains my fingers. A second bite follows, and I barely come up for air. “Best day of my life? The first time I ever scored a goal in hockey. I was playing on a U8 team full of boys. My mom and some of the coaches spent weeks trying to convince me to play something else. The sport was too rough for a girl my size, they told me. When I scored that first goal, it felt like I was floating. In the grand scheme of everything I’ve done in life, it’s so insignificant. I couldn’t tell you who was on that team’s roster or what color my jersey was. But I remember that exact moment down to what move I used, and it was nothing but elation. Of thinking this was something I’d be happy doing for the rest of my life despite hundreds of people telling me I can’t find joy in the impossible.”

“Wow.” Grant stares at me like he’s hanging on to every word. Perfectly enthralled and on the edge of his seat. I wish I could explain why the attention makes me giddy. “The fact that you remember it so clearly must mean it’s special. And look at how far you’ve come! You’re a goddamn inspiration.”

“Thanks.” I hide my blush with another bite of my sandwich. “What about you? What’s the happiest day of your life?”

“Ah.” It’s his turn for crimson cheeks. He coughs, delaying his answer by opening the package of fries and setting them on the center console between us. “Probably, um, the day I was drafted by the Stars. Or when I met all the guys on the first day of training camp. Yeah. That.”

“Figured that might be the case.” I gesture to where the team photo is hiding. “I looked around while you were gone. Sorry.”

“And you didn’t find my collection of stamps and taxidermy animals? Sounds like I finally landed on a good hiding spot for them.”

“Weirdo.” I laugh and swat at him. “Not a thing about you suggests you’d ever have a dead, stuffed animal in your possession. You probably cry when you have to kill a bee.”

“Instant tears. I’m a sensitive soul.” He pops a fry in his mouth and hums. “I don’t mind that you looked around, by the way. I keep all the top secret stuff in my apartment.”

“Probably in a drawer next to your bed, huh?”

“Or the closet in the spare bedroom.”

“Oh, good call. Very unsuspecting.”

Comfortable silence, the kind that you slip into when you’re around someone who makes you feel safe, wedges its way between us. His fingers brush against mine when we both reach for the fries at the same time, and the faint graze makes me feel like I’ve been electrocuted. I’m hyperaware of how close our arms are and how the temperature in the car has shifted from pleasant to almost too warm.

Grant must notice it too, because he switches the heat off, replacing it with air conditioning that cools my overheated skin.

“Want to play a game?” he asks.

“Is it who can finish their sandwich faster? Because I’m kicking your ass.”

“Only because I don’t know when to shut up.” He takes a big bite of his sub, waiting until he swallows before talking again. “It’s called this or that. I ask you two things, and you decide between them without thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous.” I grin. “I’m in.”

“Hell yeah.” Grant wipes his hands. “Summer or winter?”

“Easy. Winter.”

“Hot showers or cold showers?”

“Scalding hot, and I don’t care that it’s bad for my skin.”

“Beer or wine?”

“Wine, but I love a fun cocktail when I’m out.”

“East Coast or West Coast?

“East,” I say, and I gasp. “Damn you, Everett. That was unexpected.”

“Your heart is doing the answering. I’m just asking the questions.” He closes his eyes and touches his forehead. “Hang on. I’m trying to commit these to memory.”

“Why? No one will ever care that I like Chardonnay over craft beer.”