Page 11 of Checking All Her Notes
He shrugs one shoulder. “I miss scoring. Guess I liked being part of the noise. The crowd going crazy when you light the lamp. Your name on the announcer’s lips.” He looks down at his hands. They’re scarred across the knuckles, bruised on two fingers. “Defense is different. You’re the guy nobody notices unless you screw up.”
The honesty makes my throat ache. Makes me want to say something that matters.
“You still are,” I tell him. “Part of the noise, I mean. You just protect the melody now.”
He glances at me, curious. Waiting.
I fumble for the right words. “Your role as a defenseman is kind of like a protector. And the triangle is the heartbeat of the ensemble. So in a way, defense is your new rhythm. You’re not scoring the goals, but you’re making sure everyone else can.”
He’s still not getting it. I can see it in the slight furrow between his eyebrows.
“That’s a music metaphor,” I add quickly, feeling my face heat. “Not flirting.”
“Shame,” he murmurs.
My face burns. Actually burns. I open my mouth to say something. Anything. But then he grins. Real and wide and absolutely devastating.
I’ve been collecting his almost-smiles like precious coins, but this is different. This is the whole treasure chest.
“You’re trouble,” I manage.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He picks up the triangle again, turning it in his hands. “Want to try another round?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. We play through the rhythm again. Somehow we’ve gotten even closer. His shoulder brushes mine each time he moves to hit the triangle. The warmth between us isn’t accidental. It’s deliberate. Intentional.
He glances down. “You’re staring.”
“I’m teaching.”
“You’re staring.”
He’s right. I am. His eyes catch the lamplight and they’re soft blue now. No storm in them. Just clear sky.
I force a breath. “Hit the triangle.”
He does. Perfectly.
“See?” I whisper. “You can follow the rhythm.”
He leans in, voice rough and low. “Or maybe I just follow you.”
The moment stretches. Too long. Too charged. My heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. If I move an inch, close the space between us, it’s a kiss. And I want to. I really, really want to.
But then the air vent kicks on. Loud and cold and rattling. Breaking the spell like someone smashed it with a hammer.
He clears his throat, sits back. Puts a careful foot of distance between us.
I pretend to fuss with the metronome, turning the volume knob that doesn’t need adjusting. “Good progress tonight.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and careful. “Something like that.”
We run through the rhythm one more time. Perfectly synchronized. But the magic from before is gone, replaced by something more careful. More aware.
When I finally tell him that’s enough for tonight, he stands and grabs his jacket from where he draped it over a chair. He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob.
