Page 3 of In It to Win It

“What kind of dog do you have?”

“Golden retriever. His name is Byron.”

“Nice. So that’s your test of whether someone is worth hanging out with? If your dog likes them?”

She nods, her lips quirked. “I’ve found it to be a reliable indicator. Dogs are smart.”

“Yeah. I like dogs. We had a standard poodle growing up. He was so smart it was scary.”

“And you know, sometimes you meet someone and things just . . . click.” Our eyes meet and hold again and the air buzzes around us. Yeah, I know that feeling. “When I met Lacey, right away I felt like I could talk to her about anything. She’s so . . . alive. Just fun to be with, yet she can be serious and she’s smart, too.”

I nod. I kind of feel like that about Taylor. This feels so easy . . . and yet so electrifying. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a speech language pathologist.”

“Whoa.”

She laughs. “Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m not even sure what a speech language pathologist does.”

A server removes our plates and we sit back for a moment. I pick up the wineglass someone has thoughtfully filled with a golden wine.

“I help children who have speech delays or disorders, language delays, sometimes swallowing or feeding disorders,” she says when the server has moved away. Her face softens. “I work mostly with kids. I love kids.”

I’m . . . blown away, I guess. This is not what I expected. “Do you work at a hospital?”

“No. A private clinic. I haven’t worked there long. I just graduated last year. You have to have a master’s degree to practice.”

Jesus. “Where did you go to college?”

“For my graduate degree, Seattle. University of Washington. I got my undergrad degree here in California.”

“Six years of university?”

“Yep.”

“That’s impressive.” I could never do that.

“Thanks. I love it.” She tilts her head. “You must love playing hockey.”

“I do.”

“What do you love about it?”

“Everything.” I give her a lopsided smile. “I love the action, how fast it is, the skills you need. I love competing. I love winning.”

“Don’t we all.”

I chuckle. “Yeah. Obviously, with my family, if you didn’t love hockey you’d be a complete misfit.”

Now our meals are served . . . charred lemon chicken piccata served over pasta. It looks delicious.

“There’s nobody in your family who doesn’t like hockey?” Taylor picks up her fork. “I mean, I know Everly doesn’tplayhockey, but she watches the game and works with the hockey team, sort of.”

“Yeah.” I nod and tip my wineglass to my lips. “The only ones who aren’t really involved in hockey are Chelsea—my grandpa’s wife?—”

“Yes, I know who she is.” She nods and cuts a piece of chicken.

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