“Your ex-wife?”
Huh. That’s a loaded question. “Maybe. Sort of. Not really.”
I’m scrambling in my head to figure out a way to explain that to Olivia. I am not a guy who is good with words. At least, not when they matter. Nash is the far more articulate one. Anne-Marie always used to tell me I have the communication skills of a toddler.
“You started dating her when you were…?”
“Fourteen.”
“So, the connection was mental and physical but it was also juvenile, right?” Olivia says, glancing up at me timidly through her lashes. “When couples get together at such a young age, it can be hard to grow emotionally. Not always but sometimes you get stuck in the less developed communication patterns you started in.”
I must look as stunned as I am because she smiles sheepishly. "Yeah I mean, I was connected to my ex emotionally and physically, obviously, but that didn't grow like it should have, like you said. But how did you know that?"
“I took a few psychology courses,” she replies. “And when everyone else was exploring human connection and acting on hormones I was just thinking about them. Analyzing them. Reading about it. Also, I’ve had boyfriends and some pretty solid relationships. But they always ended when I wouldn’t… I mean, there’s a place we would get to and I wouldn’t go farther so they always ended.”
“And then you just decided to pick a random guy in Vegas and go all-in?” I ask because it still doesn’t make sense to me. I keep telling myself it doesn’t have to. And it doesn’t. A woman has a right to make her own decisions, about sexuality or anything else, without anyone else’s approval or understanding. But I’m so damn curious.
"Well the universe kind of gave me a wake-up call that I should get on with it," Olivia confesses, but before I can quiz her about that statement because it seems slightly ominous, she keeps going. "And you weren't exactly, totally random. I recognized you, remember? I knew you were a stand-up guy. I was safe and it would be a solid effort on your part, even as a one-night stand. So… here we are."
“What was the wake?—”
“Oh shit.”
Olivia and I both snap our heads toward the voice and as soon as I see Grady’s face I take a step back, away from Olivia. I regret it immediately because it makes me look guilty. And I’m not. I’ve done nothing wrong. Grady's eyes flare and our gaze locks, but he turns away and focuses on his cousin. "Hey, Liv. Did I interrupt something? Sorry!"
“No. We were just saying goodbye,” Liv says as she walks over to him and gives him a hug. Over her shoulder, his eyes stay on me and they’re hard. “You know Crew, right?”
“Yeah. Through work,” Grady mutters.
She glances at me and I nod and toss a “Hey. Hi.” to Grady who ignores me. He starts up the steps to Olivia’s apartment.
“I’m here to see Uncle Devin.”
“Is Dad here?” Olivia asks. “He wasn’t when I left.”
“Left to go on a date with Crew?” Grady asks her.
"It wasn't a date," I interject for some stupid reason. Holy shit this is next-level awkward and I'm making it worse. "It was me trying to smooth over a misunderstanding. I… I should go. I guess, but actually, Grady I wanted to talk to you for a second about a hockey thing."
“Talk to me tomorrow,” Grady says without looking at me. He reaches for the door to the building. “I’m supposed to do an interview with Devin for TSN. He told me to meet him here.”
“I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”
“Not anymore.” Grady yanks open the door but finally stops to look at me. “I was traded.”
“To who?”
He cocks his head and looks at me like I’ve lost every single one of my marbles. I guess I have because it hits me at the same moment Olivia squeals the text abbreviation, “O-M-G! You’re a Quake?”
“Yeah. Their goalie is out for at least six months so they needed someone cheap and easy,” Grady announces as she leaps into his arms again for a celebratory hug. "I mean, someone other than Crew."
Ouch.
He smiles like he’s making a joke but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Olivia smacks his chest and rolls her eyes, not getting how personal that dig was. “Why do hockey players always talk shit to each other?”
“It’s called chirping,” I explain. “Integral part of the sport.”
She turns back to me. “Talk to you later?”