Page 59 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I play my ass off, get another goal and assist on my tally and we win the game against the Eagles handily. The moment the buzzer goes and my press obligations are complete (mostly painless for a change—or maybe it’s that, for once, I’m not thinking about Courtney but rather how quickly I can get home to Faye), I rush through my post-game routine, drive home (glad that the Eagles are in a neighboring city so it doesn’t take long), eager to see what Faye thought.
Of the game.
Of me.
But when I peek into her room, I find she’s asleep.
I linger in the open doorway as disappointment slices through me, watching her slow and steady breaths, wanting to crawl into bed beside her, but having no reason to.
She has no idea how much of that game was for her…
My only consolation is that the post-game broadcast is still playing on the TV.
Twenty
Faye
I don’t know what wakes me.
Last I remember, I was watching the Grizzlies game, hard-pressed to remember why I didn’t enjoy my previous attempts at hockey viewing.
I’m not saying that I’m going to seek it out or become a diehard, eighty-two-game-plus-playoffs viewer, but…
It’s a whole lot more interesting when I know someone on the ice.
Someones.
Because my gaze hadn’t just been glued to Gray out there—I’d also spotted Aiden and Leo and Ryan and Smitty.
It was fun watching them.
Not as fun as watching Gray of course.
But still different than before.
I guess I just needed the personal connection.
Because I’d been glued to the television.
I don’t remember turning it off, though maybe I had after Gray’s interview had finished and the commentators started droning on and on about line combinations and defensive metrics.
I’d been thinking about Gray’s wink during that interview. A wink that had matched one he’d given the camera right before it cut away to a commercial break in the second period.
A wink that had my heart fluttering.
No. It was two winks that had my pulse skittering through my veins.
Gorgeous man.
Talented player.
Soft, sweet heart.
Sighing, I curl onto my side and deliberately push my thoughts down. It’s early, the sun just beginning to peek over the hills to the east, to shine gently through the window, turning the room into soft shades of gold and pink and orange.
Pretty. But I’m tired. It’s been a trying—more than trying, that’s for damned sure—few days.
And I’m sure Gray is tired too. The game didn’t end until after ten and he had the interview, had to change and shower then drive home.
