Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Troy

I hold up my hands, palms out. "Nope. Drink your coffee however you like. No judgment here. I played hockey with a guy in college who was convinced coffee helped him play his best. And to be fair, there's evidence that caffeine helps with focus and physical performance, so he wasn't way off base. But the guy hated coffee, and he mixed it half and half with flavored creamer just to choke it down."

A small smile breaks out on her face, and she seems to relax. I'm not sure what just happened, but I obviously touched some kind of nerve.

Picking up my mug, I watch as she stirs three sugar packets and two tiny creamer cups into hers. Sure, it's more than I take since I drink my coffee black, but it's not nearly as insane as Nealy's coffee. Oh-so-casually I ask, "Did someone give you grief about having cream and sugar in your coffee?"

She carefully—and thoroughly—stirs her coffee before lightly tapping the spoon on the rim and setting it on her napkin. When she meets my eyes, she lifts her mug of coffee, holding it in front of her, and she lifts one shoulder in what's supposed to be a careless shrug, but I see the lines of tension in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. "An ex," she says at last in an attempt at a light tone.

If I couldn't see her, read her body language, I might even be fooled. But I'm not.

Still, I can tell she doesn't want to discuss it. Or him. And that's fine. This is a first date, after all. Sort of. Everyone knows that's an off-limits subject for a first date.

"Ah," I say, lifting my mug as well. "The same one you mentioned last night?" Her chin dips, and I nod too. "I'll stick with my statement that it's good he's an ex."

A surprised laugh escapes her, and she tilts her head to the side like it's sinking in that she's glad about that too. "You know? That's a really good point. And I know you said it last night, but …" Trailing off, she bites her lip and shakes her head.

I nearly open my mouth to ask her to explain, because it seems an awful lot like she hadn't had that thought before, though if someone makes you feel bad about how you take your coffee of all things, that alone is reason enough for them to be an ex in my opinion. Life's too short to willingly spend it with assholes.

But again, this is a first date. No need to dive into the deep end just yet. There'll be time enough for that later.

Will there?

The thought of having plenty of time with Anna catches me a little off guard. I'm only supposed to be in town for a vacation, after all. Sure, we're only a few days in, but ten days isn't a lot of time. Not for a relationship, at least. And besides, there's no guarantee she'll even want to see me again after this.

But why wouldn't she? We had a nice time last night. Despite some initial awkwardness, this is going well. And it's not like you have anywhere to be after this vacation ends. You could stay longer. If you want.

That last thought hits me like a defender slamming me into the boards, and I have to sip my coffee to cover my shock at the idea, trying to force my expression to stay as bland as possible. I could stay longer. I have no commitments at this point.

But there's no need to get ahead of myself. Staying in the moment is the best call right now, both for this date and for the future. I don't know what comes next, and I don't need to right now. All I need is to enjoy brunch with Anna.

"I used to drink mine with cream and sugar," I offer, needing to say something to distract me from the swirling fantasies in my brain of staying here and—what? Setting up some kind of hockey training program for teenagers?

Stay in the moment, Easton , I remind myself sternly.

A small smile claims her lips, and I can't help staring as she takes a delicate sip of her caramel colored coffee. "Oh yeah? What made you make the change?"

Grateful that she's willing to indulge in perhaps the most boring conversation topic in history, I grin. "We had a trainer in college who was trying to get all of us to give up refined sugar. He'd've had us off dairy too if he could've." I shake my head at the memory of the regular emails that trainer would send the whole team every week with links to a bunch of blog posts espousing the evils of sugar, wheat, and dairy.

"You know," Anna muses, "they say that giving up sugar and dairy results in an eighty percent reduction in joy."

I laugh, a loud, surprised bark at her deadpan delivery. "Having done that, I can confirm that whoever says that is right."

"The trainer convinced you, huh?"

I shrug. "I was nineteen, and he acted like it was the thing that would give me the edge to be a starter my sophomore year of college."

"And did it?"

I shake my head. "No. Not even close. It just made me a miserable son of a bitch, and made me lose weight I couldn't afford to lose. When I started struggling in the weight room, the strength coach lectured me about getting enough calories, though he was in favor of the black coffee. Said it'd put hair on my chest."

Her eyes twinkle as she smiles. "My grandpa always told me coffee'd keep my eyes brown."

I chuckle. "That's cute. And your eyes are brown, so maybe there's something to that."

Setting down her coffee, she shakes her head. "Except my grandma had blue eyes, and she drank just as much coffee as he did, so somehow I doubt it. Plus, you have blue eyes, and you drink coffee. My grandpa said a lot of goofy stuff, though." She shrugs. "It made his visits fun."

"What else?"

She screws up her face in thought, looking up to the side as she thinks, a smile breaking out on her face when she returns her gaze to mine. "I can't remember everything. But whenever someone would knock on the door, he'd look at me with exaggerated surprise and say, ‘Now who could that be? Ain't nobody home but us chickens!'"

My grin is as broad as hers, not just because of the nonsense her grandpa'd apparently say, but because she's so adorable as she tells that story. "Sounds like you had fun with him."

She nods. "He was a good grandpa."

"Did he live around here?"

She shakes her head. "No. My grandparents lived in Portland. I grew up in the Seattle area."

That surprises me a little, though I'm not sure why. "Oh yeah? In the main city, or in one of the suburbs?"

"A little north. In Everett."

"Oh wow. That's cool. I've been in Seattle the last few years."

That has her eyebrows jumping. "Oh, that's right. There's a hockey team there now. How long ago did that happen?"

I can't help grinning at that response, because usually people I talk to know all about hockey and the team's history. "About five years ago. I got traded for the second season, and that's where I've been since."

She plants her chin on her hand. "Do you like Seattle? Where were you before that? And where are you from originally?"

"I like Seattle. It's different, but it's a cool city. Big enough, but not overwhelming like some places can be. Before that, I was in Dallas, which is very different. I've played for several teams, though, between college and going pro. I grew up in Wisconsin. Hockey's a big deal in the Midwest."

"How'd you get into it?" Her eyes are sparkling, and she's watching me like this is the most fascinating conversation she's had in ages. Which is flattering, if a little strange, since the broad strokes of these details are available for public consumption.

"My dad played his whole life, though never at a professional level. He played for clubs in high school but wasn't competitive enough to play in college." Sitting back in my chair, I fiddle with the handle of my mug, settling into storytime. Even though the teams I've played for and the fact that my dad played are widely publicized in my online stats, people don't get the full story like this, and it's nice to be able to tell it to an interested listener who doesn't bring any of her own biases about it to the table.

"He still played for local leagues, though, for fun. I grew up going to his games." I shrug, leaving the clear course of events left unsaid.

"Was it one of those things where you were skating as soon as you could walk?"

Laughing, I nod. "Basically. Dad had me out on the ice as soon as he could."

"How'd your mom feel about that?"

"Okay, as far as I know. They didn't tell me stories about her being mad or anything. She has pictures of me in my first pair of skates, Dad skating around with me at the local rink as a toddler. It was just part of our life. Like some people go to amusement parks or I dunno, the lake or the cabin and they swim from the time they're babies. For us, it was the skating rink. My mom skated too, though just recreationally at the rink with dad and me."

"When did you start playing hockey?"

"When I was five. I think I could've started a year or two sooner, but I think Mom wanted me to wait until I was school age. So my first season was the fall I started Kindergarten."

"Your dad didn't mind you waiting?"

Shrugging, I shake my head. "I don't think so. He's a big hockey nut, for sure, but he's not an unreasonable guy. Both my parents have supported my hockey playing my whole life."

"That sounds pretty great."

"It is."

She's quiet for a moment, looking out the window as she sips her coffee. "Now that you're retired, are you planning on moving closer to them?" Holding up her hand, she seems to stop herself. "I mean, I'm assuming they still live in Wisconsin. I guess it's possible they moved closer to you. Did they?"

"They're still in Wisconsin, yeah. My brother, too."

Her eyebrows jump. "I didn't realize you had a brother. Younger or older?"

"Younger by about three years. In fact, I think that might've been why I didn't start hockey earlier. Mom didn't want to deal with an infant and getting a toddler on the ice."

She nods. "I can understand that. Did he play hockey too?"

"For a while. Not like I did, though. He quit by the time he was in high school. I always figured it was because he didn't want to grow up in my shadow. He needed to find other ways of distinguishing himself."

"That makes sense," she murmurs as the waitress shows up with our food.

My plate is piled high with golden brown French toast, a slit in the side of each piece overflowing with sausage and eggs, and a small container of maple syrup on the side. Anna's plate is similarly piled high, but her French toast is covered in whipped cream, a garnish of berries dripping down the side, a small container of purple syrup on the edge of her plate.

Her eyes widen at the sight. "Oh my god. I don't know if I'll be able to eat all that."

Picking up my fork, I give her a goofy salute with it. "We'll have to do our best."

She grins. "It's our duty, right?"

"Exactly."