I sit on one of the bar stools at the small island. “You didn’t happen to make coffee too did you? Do athletes do caffeine?”
“This athlete does,” Conner replies. “But since it’s your day off, I thought we’d start with something else.”
He slides a glass of orange juice to me on the island. Only it's not in a regular glass. It's a wine glass filled with OJ. He grins again. It's such a good grin, equal parts mischief and kindness. "There're no champagne flutes so I’m using red wine glasses. It’s abigpour. Sorry, not sorry."
“Mimosas?” I question even though it’s quite evident with the open bottle of champagne on the counter. He nods. I contemplate not drinking it but he’s right. It’s my day off. And it’s the holidays. I have to work Christmas Day so this is as close as I’ll get to a celebration.
He tips his glass to mine and we clink in a cheers, then we drink. I take a bite of the breakfast sandwich and it’s as divine as he promised. I can’t help but groan as I chew and his hazel eyes twinkle with pride. “Told you.”
We both eat and sip our mimosas in silence, which is more comfortable than it should be all things considered. But Conner’s warm, welcoming energy I remember from when he was a kid is back. Maybe grumpy Conner only comes out when he's getting surprised, while naked, at midnight. The image of him naked flashes in my head again. I struggle to swallow the sandwich, so I grab the mimosa and take a big swig. When I recover from almost choking, Conner tops up my glass with more champagne than orange juice. I should object. I’m not a big drinker and one is more than enough. But I don’t object. It’s nice to have day drinks.
I think the last time I did this was Harlow Richard’s bachelorette party two years ago. The hangover I had for two days was not fabulous, but I’ll be more careful today. I move my eyes to his face. “This feels like liquid courage. For what?”
He takes in a long, slow breath. "Talking to my parents. If I just don't play today, without telling them why first, then Callie will freak out and assume I'm injured. Dad will start texting his hockey contacts and likely find out that I'm about to be dumped. Then he'll be freaking out that I didn't come to him first."
I remind him, “You’re just essentially being traded. In a weird, stupid way that—as a psychiatrist—I find slightly emotionally abusive if I’m honest." The poor guy now gets to carry around the feelings of failure longer than he should. “The holidays are already a really hard time for many people and they go and dump this on you too. Fuck them.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” Conner tells me as he puts the last bit of his uneaten sandwich down on a napkin on the island. “Do all psychiatrists use the medical terminology ‘fuck them’?”
I laugh. “I’m not a doctor, yet. I have a few months to go.”
He nods, chewing thoughtfully, eyes examining me the whole time. At least it feels that way. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a doctor when we were kids.”
“When we were kids I just wanted food, shelter, and stable parental figures,” I reply without thinking about it. My truths are always bombs. I sometimes forget that. Conner blinks his eyes, which have really cool flecks of smoke and amber in them along with a color I can only describe as terracotta.
“I never knew the details of your life before Alex and Brie adopted you,” he tells me. “My parents said it wasn’t cool to ask, and you never brought it up.”
I sip my mimosa. "I wanted to just be past it back then. Once I let go of the trauma of it, with counseling and a lot of patience and understanding from my parents, I didn't want to tell anyone about it. I guess I still don't."
“Okay.” Conner nods. “But you picked psychiatry to help kids who might need it, like you did?”
I catch his eye and let out a sheepish sigh. “I’m a cliché, aren’t I?”
“Only the best possible kind,” he returns with a wink. Man, this boy… now a man… went to charm school apparently.
"Yes. I wanted to be a psychologist to help kids, teens, and adults with addiction issues," I confirm. "And hockey players who are having existential crises."
He barks out a laugh, almost spitting out his mimosa. I grin at getting such a strong reaction from him. Wiping a dribble of champagne from his chin he cocks his head. “I appreciate that but I’m not into the idea of being your guinea pig.”
“The term is patient,” I correct him and take another bite of the dreamy sandwich. When I’m done, and have swallowed it down, I add, “Well speaking then as a daughter of a former professional hockey player, let me just remind you that the Garrison family is a well-respected institution in this sport. Andeveryoneknows you’re talented and destined for even more greatness than you’ve currently shown the sports world. The Barons’ struggles are not your fault. I bet the team loses tonight. That will just prove their failure has nothing to do with you.”
Spoiler Alert. The Brooklyn Barons win.
Chapter 5
Mac
It was an afternoon game because it was on a weekend. Conner didn’t call and warn his parents that he wouldn’t be playing because we got full-on day drunk on mimosas and lost track of time. We were catching up—laughing, sharing stories, and maybe, kind of, possibly flirting. I mean, I can’t be one hundred percent sure because it has beenyearssince I was flirted with, or did any flirting, but… our glances toward each other were too long, our smiles too deep, and we kept touching each other. A brush of hands, a knee pressing into a knee on the couch. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I just kept sipping my mimosas until analyzing it seemed like too much work.
We only realized the game had started when his phone started blowing up. Call after call and text after text from every member of his family. Cousins, parents, sisters, even his grandparents called. He didn’t pick up for any of them. And his mood, which had been upbeat, changed as the game went on. Grumpy Conner was back. With a vengeance.
It’s been a very long time since I felt helpless, but I felt just that watching Conner watch his team play—and win—without him. I could do nothing but keep refilling hisglass. We were out of orange juice now and by the time the buzzer went for the end of the third period, we were taking turns drinking straight from a second bottle of champagne.
“I guess itwasme,” Conner says as I click off the TV and his phone blows up beside him yet again. The name on the screen is Mama C, which I know is Callie Caplan-Garrison, his stepmom.
Once again he ignores it. “I don’t know everything about your family but I know that Callie is not a woman who puts up with being ignored.”
He glances over at me and shrugs. His handsome face is void of emotion, but I know his heart isn’t. He’s just putting on a stoic face because he doesn’t want to break down or freak out in front of a woman he barely knows. Or probably any woman. Or anyone. That’s why he’s hiding. Conner is a prideful beast. Most professional athletes are.