Page 109 of Triple Play
We’re seated at a table that could fit twelve, Senator Dickson at the head, Mrs. Dickson at the foot, Jordie’s two perfect sistersand their perfect husbands filling in the sides. I’m between Grant and Wyatt, with Jordie directly across from me.
Which means I can see every micro-expression on his face as his father holds court.
“Jordan’s stats are looking good this season,” the senator says, cutting into his steak. “Scouts have been calling.”
“Yeah it’s been a great season,” Jordie says, but his smile is strained.
“Of course, NHL careers are short. You’ll need a backup plan.” The senator looks at Grant. “You’re the captain, correct? What are your plans post-graduation?”
“NHL draft, sir. Got some interest from Boston and Toronto.”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
Grant’s jaw ticks. “It will.”
“Confidence. I like that.” The senator’s attention shifts to Wyatt. “You’re the scholarship kid. Carter, was it?”
I feel Wyatt tense beside me.
“Yes sir.”
“Impressive, pulling yourself up like that. What’s your family do?”
The silence is sharp enough to cut.
“They passed away when I was fourteen, sir.”
Mrs. Dickson makes a soft sound of sympathy, but the senator just nods. “Tough break. Built character, I’m sure.”
Under the table, I find Wyatt’s hand. Squeeze.
He doesn’t squeeze back, but his fingers curve around mine. Holding on.
“And Elise,” Mrs. Dickson jumps in, clearly trying to redirect. “Jordan says you’re top of your program?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“She’s being modest,” Jordie says. “She’s brilliant. Probably going to cure cancer or something.”
His sisters exchange a look I can’t quite read.
“How did you all meet?” The older sister—Catherine, I think—is watching me with sharp eyes.
“Housing assignment,” I say smoothly. “Four-bedroom townhouse. University housing is a nightmare.”
“You’re living with three men?” Mrs. Dickson’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
“It’s very platonic,” Grant says, his voice flat. “Separate rooms. Strict boundaries.”
Under the table, Jordie’s foot finds mine. Slides up my calf in a way that is definitely not platonic.
I kick him. Gently.
He grins at his plate.
The conversation moves to politics—the senator’s upcoming campaign, policy positions I should probably care about but can’t focus on because Wyatt’s thumb is tracing circles on my thigh and it’s distracting.
By the time dessert arrives, I’m wound tight enough to snap.
