Page 7 of Power Move
I hand it over, wiping my boots on the small mat by the door while he stows our coats in a closet. Laughter and the guys’ voices echo from further in the house. “This place is huge.”
“Right? I feel like we’re always uncovering something. It originally had nine bedrooms and six baths.” He swipes his hands through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. “I can give you a tour later.”
“I’d like that.” The floorboard squeaks with my step forward. Sage stays where he is, watching me, his bright eyes shining. His confidence on the ice was so different from who I saw the other night, and every facet of him is intriguing. “I want to see your space.”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. The tips of his fingers rest on my hip, their pressure light over the two layers of my shirt and hoodie. “I… We can do that.”
It’s been years since I felt this way about someone, and since I’ve wanted to do anything about it.
“Sage?” Remy’s voice rings out from beyond the hallway. “Did you and Rhys get lost out there?”
“Coming,” he calls over his shoulder. His fingers flex, then curl into the material before he steps away. “We should go. They’ll only wait so long to start eating.”
We trek down the long hall, passing more doors, turn two corners, and finally end up in the kitchen. It’s huge and warm and painted yellow.
Remy, dishing up chicken, bow tie pasta, and vegetables from a glass dish, waves with his spatula. “I outdid myself this time.”
Sage gestures for me to sit at the table, then grabs us sodas. “What did you do?”
“I don’t really know.” His brows draw together as he studies the food. “I wasn’t paying attention to how much seasoning went in. And I think I grabbed a wrong spice by mistake because this tastesdifferent, but it’s really good!”
Shoulders shaking from laughter, Morgan brings over the plates laden with food. “I don’t know how he does it, but everything he makes works… even when it shouldn’t.”
Remy points to himself. “Culinary genius.”
“Lucky,” Phil coughs the word.
Sage slides onto the seat beside mine. As we eat, the guys tell me stories of what they’ve done to renovate the house, and we compare differences between Metros and Slash practices.
After we finish, Phil and Gio give me a tour of the first floor, since it’s mainly theirs, aside from the communal kitchen and entryway rooms. Then Sage leads me upstairs.
Our footsteps creak on the landing. He points to the doors on the left side of the hall. “Those are Remy’s. He faces the backyard. And mine are on this side, facing the front. We tore down walls between a few of the original bedrooms, so we each have a large suite and bathroom.”
He opens a door, and we step into a huge room split into sections for living and sleeping. Yellow area rugs, an orange couch, green curtains, blue bedding, the space is colorful and the furniture is a mix of styles. The scent of eucalyptus wafts from the small tree in the corner, sunlight from two windows spills over its blue-green leaves.
A sleek turntable, speakers, and collection of records rest on shelves under a large flatscreen TV. At the room’s opposite end, past the bed, a rack of free weights sits beside hockey gear. A tiny refrigerator, microwave, and coffeemaker line the adjoining wall, next to a table. Sage’s guitar and amp are in front of his balcony windows, along with a leather chair big enough for two.
I turn in a circle, taking it in a second time. “This is nice.”
Sage slips a record onto the player. Soft guitar music fills the air. “It’s the first place that’s really felt like home.”
That softer tone tugs at me. It sounds like he means home in more ways than the decor. I want to learn everything about him. “Where did you live before coming to Saint Paul?”
“I spent two years in Des Moines, playing for the Monsters. Before that, Philadelphia. I grew up there.” His gaze flashes to his guitar, then he turns to me and his smile grows. “You grew up in Chicago, right? It’s cool your dad got to play his entire career with one team.”
“I think so too. He never wanted to be anywhere else. I wouldn’t mind playing my whole career here. The Metros organization’s been good to me.”
He picks up a hockey stick leaning in the corner and rests his hands on the top. “How does it compare to when you played for Vancouver?”
My stomach sours. I don’t want to talk about my former team, or get into the whole mess behind my being traded right now. It’ll spoil the mood. “Vancouver doesn’t even come close.”
Understanding lights his features. “The Metros are a well-respected organization. The Slash have been great, but I want a shot at the big league.”
“You’ll get it. You’re putting up great numbers this season.” I rock onto my heels. “You really impressed me at practice.The way you move, you’re fast as hell out there. Like nothing can get in your way.”
He sets the stick down. Dipping his hands into his pockets, he wanders closer. A skip in the song pulls him to the player to adjust the needle. “Thanks, I appreciate it. You looked good too. A defenseman master class. I liked having such a close view of you in action.”
I make my way over to join him at the turntable, using the excuse of studying the albums to stay near him. Sorted by genre,his collection ranges from classic rock, pop, folk, new age, and metal, an interesting mix. “You have a lot of records.”
