I tilt my head. “You know this clinic isn’t a big deal for you, right? You’ve done these a million times.”
“Yeah, Monroe,” he says, voice softer. “But it’s a big deal foryou. So, grilled cheese. It’s good luck.” He taps the processed cheese and tosses it into the cart.
I stare at his back, dumbfounded. Here’s this six-foot-three hockey god, who I’m still keeping at kind of a distance, taking me grocery shopping and sharing his good luck food with me.
I clear my throat, following him from the dairy aisle to the bread aisle. “If I choke on this and the clinic sucks, I’m blaming you.”
Rhodes just smiles, plucking a loaf of bread off the shelf.
“Deal, sweetheart. Now let’s go make some grilled cheeses.”
* * * *
Spoiler—the grilled cheese is actually really damn good. Like really, really good. Rhodes must have spent years honing the perfect melty, cheesy craft.
“I know you’re fighting giving me a compliment right now,” Rhodes points a knife at me, mouth full of food, “but I can tell that this is the best fucking grilled cheese of your life, so I’m going to take the compliment anyways.”
I snort. “So confident. How do you know I haven’t had a better grilled cheese?” I haven’t.
“Not possible. I could open a restaurant and just sell these.” He’s right. He totally could. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, though, so I just take another bite and roll my eyes.
He looks young like this. Gray sweatshirt, matching sweats. Hair curling slightly over his forehead, around his ears. Navy-blue eyes locked on me. Smile playing on his mouth. I can picture what college Rhodes must have looked like, wrecking all kinds of havoc on campus girls.
Damn, he really is pretty.
My phone lights up on the table next to me, the soft glow catching my attention. I glance at the screen—and my stomach drops.
Aaron.I go completely still.
Rhodes notices. “Who’s it from?” His voice is easy, casual—but his eyes aren’t. They’re narrowed at the phone on the table.
I hesitate, just for a second too long. “Uh,” I start. “Aaron, actually.”
“Your old pairs partner?” He glances at my phone again. “He’s been texting you?”
I exhale through my nose, staring at the name on my screen. I have no idea what Rhodes knows about how Aaron and I fell apart, what rumors have made their way through the ice rink grapevine, back then or right now.
In a way, I felt for Aaron. He’d been a casualty of the accident, too. What do you do when you’re a pairs skater on track to go to the Olympics and your partner has a career-ending accident?
You find a new partner and you skate.
If I had been in Aaron’s position, would I have sacrificed my career for him? No. I wouldn’t have. I don’t blame him for continuing to skate.
But I blame him for everything else.
He chose not to tell me first when he decided to go with Natalie as his new pair. As much as it would have stung, I was obviously not in any condition to go to the Olympics. I would have been a lot less hurt if I’d found out from him, and not a press release after weeks of not talking to me. Seven years of friendship and it was radio silence.
We hadn’t talked since the accident.
“No,” I say slowly. “I’m not sure why he’s texting me.”
Rhodes’ jaw tightens. “Do you think he heard about you skating again?”
I shrug, even though my stomach churns. “I’m sure. Elsie would’ve had to share who was teaching the clinic. Maybe one of the Nationals girls heard and it got back to him.”
“Are you going to read the text?” Rhodes asks.
I probably should. But the thought makes my stomach turn over, my fingers twitching against the table. Not that I’d tell Rhodes that.