Page 73 of Hot Shot
“I thought you didn’t eat sweets during the season?” I tease.
He shrugs. “It’s got fruit in it. It’s not dessert.”
I chuckle and continue to eat. I make a mental note to play around with recipes to see if I can recreate it for him. I’ve made ice cream before so this is probably similar, except with pineapples and, if I had to guess, coconut milk instead of regular milk. Can’t be that hard.
As we’re getting ready to throw our garbage away, I notice a little boy, about eight, sitting catty-corner from us on a bench. His eyebrows rise as he stares at Hunter.
I lean over to Hunter. “I think you have an admirer.” I incline my head toward the little boy.
“Seriously?” He glances over at the boy, who drops his gaze.
“I mean, maybe it was a coincidence.”
“Come on.” He stands and holds out his hand for me. “Can you hold this? I’ll take the garbage.”
He hands me his hat and that’s when I realize he wants to be noticed by the kid.
As we stop at a trash can, I hear from behind us, “Hey, are you Rhodes?”
Hunter spins around, pulling me with him, and we come face to face with the little kid from the bench. “I am.”
“Grady. What are you doing?” A man my age, who I assume is the boy’s father, comes walking up behind us. “You can’t go wandering off in the park. There are a lot of people. You could get lost.”
“Dad. It’s Rhodes from the Storm,” the little boy says, bouncing on his feet, pointing at Hunter.
“Grady, I don’t think . . .” The man trails off as he looks at Hunter. “Crap, son. You’re right.”
Hunter laughs and puts out his hand to the guy before bending down to shake the little boy, Grady’s, hand.
I step back, letting Hunter talk to his fans.
A woman, the boy’s mother I assume, produces a Sharpie from her bag and hands it to Hunter, who signs the little boy’s Orlando Storm shirt and the father’s hat. They pose for a picture before Hunter crouches down to chat with the little boy. After waving goodbye to them, he heads over to where I’m sitting.
“Holy shit, Madison. That’s the first time I’ve ever been noticed. It was kind of surreal.” He runs a hand through his hair, a huge smile on his face as he sits down.
“Guess that means you’ve finally made it.” I bump his shoulder with mine.
“I guess so. I’ve had people before or after games ask for my signature but never randomly out in public like this.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
He stares at the spot where he was just talking to his fans, and I swear I see his eyes are shining with tears.
“You okay?” I ask, leaning closer to him.
He clears his throat before turning to me. “I—” He blinks a few times, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shit. That felt surreal. I didn’t. I can’t.” He shakes his head.
“Hey. It’s alright. I get it.” I place my hand on his arm.
He takes my hand in his, entwining our fingers together, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.
“After everything this season. That,” he says gesturing to where he was talking to the little boy, “is what finally made it real to me.”
He looks up at me, and I see the emotion written on his face. He clears his throat again and drops his gaze to our hands.
“What’d you say to the little boy at the end?” I ask after a few minutes.
“He said he plays hockey but he isn’t that good at it. I told him if he keeps practicing, he’ll get better. I also invited them to the game tomorrow. Turns out they’re from Minnesota. The father, Jack, went to Minnesota State and says he still goes to watch the games. Said he’s seen me play there too. Small world.”
“It is.”
