“No skeletons. I’m an open book. Everything you want to know about me is right there on the internet,” I mumble, my mouth tingling as the tart citrus hits my tastebuds. “I’m Callum Finnigan, right winger, jersey #23. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Alia tsks, a tempered reprimand. Or perhaps it’s an expression of disappointment. Either way, it makes me lift my head up.
“I’m asking who Callum Finnigan,the man, is,“ she clarifies in a gentle tone. “Not the hockey player. Simply. . . Cal.”
My ears ring with those two words, my mind curiously blank as I try to formulate an answer. I’m used to pressure. I’m used to being in the spotlight and answering tough questions in the media room. I’ve handled uncomfortable and inquisitive digs about my personal life and conjectures about why I had an off day on the ice.
Right now, with Alia’s guileless gaze settled upon me, the lack of expectation for a certain answer feels scarier than it should. There is no script I can follow, no guide on how to define my life or the person I am.
It hits me with unexpected clarity that this fear is what Alia lives with daily. This is what she’s trying to work through. The lack of structure is both freeing and terrifying.
I’ve never had to think about who I am outside of hockey. Will people still like me? Will she?
I’ve only known Alia for a short period of time, but I want her tolikeme. Not desire or lust—justlike.It’s an uncomplicated emotion: to enjoy someone’s company without wanting more from them.
I have that with my family, but elsewhere. . .
My teammates love the skills I bring to the ice; that’s why they like me.
Jenna said she liked mebecauseshe loved me. False on both counts. After a long line of women showing me I’m good enough in bed but not enough to be chosen outside of it, I don’t know what to think.
I want Alia to like me just because. Without reason, without condition.
She clears her throat, pinkening because I’ve been staring. Again.
“May I ask you something personal?” Her lower lip tucks in like she’s already regretting her question.
Alia has never initiated any intimate conversation and I’m beyond curious.
“Why ask permission when you’re going to do it anyway?” I tease, drawing a quick grin and a nose scrunch so cute, I have to close my eyes so I don’t lean forward and kiss it. “Go ahead, Tots. Do your worst.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
My brow arches.
“You don’t have to answer me. I. . .” She runs a hand through her hair, an embarrassed laugh tumbling forth. “The media coverage on your love life paints quite the colorful picture.”
“Playboy Cal. Charming Cal.” I know the stupid names they’ve coined. Never thought there’d be a time I’d be more embarrassed about that than now.
“I’m not passing judgement on you, you know that, right?”
I say nothing, choosing instead to scoop more cake into my mouth. I believe her; Alia doesn’t have a mean bone in her very pretty body. But I can also imagine how it must look to her. HowImust look. Caustic annoyance twists within me.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”
Alia tilts her head, studying me silently.
“I was cheated on as well.” Why the fuck did I reveal that? I never speak about Jenna. No one knows about her except Mom. To my complete horror, I continue talking.
“We met at one of the post-game celebrations early on in my career. I was playing for Tampa then. I fell for her, fast and hard. I was twenty-two, first year in the NHL, making a massive paycheck and, somehow, I’d found myself a beautiful girlfriend—I felt invincible. But the grueling schedule and the number of away games meant I couldn’t give her the attention she wanted. And she chose to find that with another man.”
Alia’s expression softens and she lays a hand on my arm. I’ve been touched like this before. An accidental graze sometimes, the dance of feminine fingers. But it’s never been to soothe me, like it is now. I’m entranced by the heat collecting between her palm and my skin.
I try to put myself in her shoes and wonder if I’d be as kind as her. Despite her belief that she’s weak, all I see is strength: strength to have lived through some tough losses and, importantly, strength to try to be better.
Not everyone has the ability to do that. I’ve seen sportsmen lose themselves after a career-ending injury. Drugs, alcohol, sex—everything in excess until they are a mere shadow of who they were. Alia is still so gentle with the people around her and this tells me everything I need to know about her fortitude. Far greater than she gives herself credit for.
Why she doesn’t see this is beyond me, but I’ll find a way to show her the beauty she reflects.