Even if I try, I can’t stop the smile that splits my face when Alia announces her arrival. I leap off the hood of my car and whip around to see her sauntering toward me, hips swaying gracefully. She’s wearing dark leggings and a sweatshirt which engulfs her. I do a double take when I realize it’s the one I’d given her at the taco festival.
Seeing her in a messy hair-bun—the kind that makes women look extra homey and delectably rumpled—wearingmysweatshirt, has my heart doing a funny little somersault. Visions of her walkingaround in only my sweater dance in my mind’s eye: a sleepy Alia padding across my bedroom floor, cluttering my bathroom counter with her citrus-scented creams, sharing a coffee at the kitchen island, kissing her on the deck as the sun rises behind us. . .
I force those images to dissipate even as they form an alluring domestic picture, teasing me with echoes of a real future.
She’s going to India!I remind myself for what feels like the hundredth time. The clock is ticking on our time together and I vacillate between denial and cowardice in acknowledging it. As much as I avoid bringing it up, so does Alia; I wonder if it means she also isn’t looking forward to leaving. I will my foolish heart to quit yearning for more and clear my throat.
“You look nice.”
“Speak for yourself,” she chuckles. Her eyes make a slow sojourn down my body and back, the open appreciation doing wonders for my ego. “A little overdressed for a smoothie pitstop, aren’t you?”
I’m still in my post-game suit, having come straight here instead of stopping to change. I don’t regret it, especially when her attention lingers on my chest and arms.
“You up for a short drive?” I ask, opening the car door.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be,” I say. It’s never great to lose on home ice but a harder pill to swallow that it was Vancouver we lost to. Worse, we racked up penalties one after the other.
DuPont was on the receiving end of Vancouver continuously high-sticking him and getting away with it. Fucking refs were sleeping. Moore went in to defend Ben and ended up throwing gloves against Nixon Scott, Vancouver’s main enforcer. He spent more time in the sin bin tonight than in the last seven games combined. My passes didn’t stick, timing between Mateo and I sucked, and our defense had too many holes, leaving Theo working overtime. Overall, it was a shitshow.
Coach was rightfully pissed. The strain of the season got to us tonight, but we also let our feud with Vancouver trip us up too much. We see them again next week and can’t let their chirping get in our heads like it did today.
Alia and I catch up on our week as I drive us to my favorite lookout point. It’s the first time in a while that I’ve been able to get away from hockey commitments to spend time with her. She hasn’t complained, but I wish she would. I’ve told myself not to expect it since we’re not dating. But I’m quickly learning that applying logic to any emotion associated with Alia is a futile exercise.
As a sportsperson, she understands the demands of my career.
As a man who misses his more-than-a-friend, less-than-a-girlfriend, I wish she’d show she misses me too.
The grey area where we conduct our relationship feels constricting lately and I don’t know what to do about it.
We disembark in an unmarked parking space and I lead her around the thicket of bushes to a relatively flat, grassy area overlooking the water. The late winter chill lingers but the ground is dry, making it comfortable enough to be outside without too many layers. Given the time of night, we’re alone except for the occasional cries of birds flying home and the whoosh of the waves hitting the rocks below. I dump the duffel I brought on the ground and yank it open. The moon highlights every expression as Alia’s mouth forms a cute little ‘o’.
“Cricket bats?” she gasps, eyes widening when I pull out a rubber ball as well. She catches it single handedly when I toss it to her, in a way that tells me her body hasn’t forgotten how to play the game.
“You want to learn how to play cricket?” she asks, incredulity etched upon her face.
Resting the bat across my shoulders like I’m some big-shot champion, I shrug. “Why not? You’re determined to make bad choices, picking cricket over hockey. Figured I should know what all the fuss is about.”
“Hey now, no need for such terrible language, Mr. Finnigan,” she clucks. “We respect all sports in this house.”
“Yes, Coach,” I chant, shooting her a two fingered salute that makes her beam. “Okay, Coach Tots,” I say again, loving her little giggle. “Make me a cricketer.”
She jumps into action.
“You hold the bat like this,” she instructs, clasping both hands along the handle. “It needs a firm grip.”
“Do you have a firm grip?”
“Of course. I’ve had years of practice.”
“Is that so?” I grin. “I suppose I did find out firsthand how firm your grip is.”
Alia clues in to my teasing then, twisting her neck to stare at me. “You’re flirting with me.”
“I’m stating facts.”
She pins me with a mock frown. “You’re incorrigible.”