“How old were you when you were adopted?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Six,” he says with a sigh. “You can go harder if you’d like.”
I smirk. Yes, I would like.
I dig my thumbs into his shoulders, now easing both sides of his broad back into a state of deep relaxation. More than with anyone else in my whole career, I’m loving the feel of this giant man melting beneath my fingertips. Maybe that’s the red wine talking.
“I don’t remember much about the foster homes I was in before,” he murmurs. “I was adopted by an older couple, and they raised me right. My dad was a huge hockey fan, so he signed me up for mini-mite camp when I was little. I worked hard at it because I wanted to make him proud. And now here I am.”
I smile, charmed by the unexpected insight I now have into Grant’s life. I dig the heel of my hand into a knot I can feel under his shoulder blade, and he releases another groan. Then I reluctantly give his back a little pat, letting him know that the massage has ended. After a moment, he sits back up, several inches closer to me now than he was before.
“I’m sure they’re very proud of you,” I say, my gaze wandering lazily over his facial features. Dark lashes . . . full lips. A chiseled jaw.
“They were, yeah.” Grant’s eyes are suddenly downcast.
Oh no.
“Were?” I ask carefully as I hand him his wineglass, and his warm fingers brush against mine.
He nods and takes a sip. “They were older when they adopted me. Dad passed six years ago, and Mom followed almost three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my heart aching for this man who has experienced so much loss. Just like me. I open my mouth to tell him about the loss of my own mother, but think better of it. Another time. I don’t want to bring the conversation back to me when I’m just starting to learn more about him.
“That’s all right. It’s been a while, and time heals, or whatever it is they say,” he says softly, and I swear there’s almost a smile on his lips when his eyes meet mine. “Thank you, though.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know the timeline of it all, but did they get to see you make it to the big leagues?” I feel a little embarrassed that I don’t know how long Grant has been a professional hockey player. Jason always gave me shit for not paying close attention to the league, even when I tried my best to follow a sport I know so little about.
“Don’t apologize,” Grant says with a chuckle.
Okay, now that is definitely a smile. Point one for Ana.
“Yes, they saw it all. I was drafted straight out of high school, and I’ve been at this for . . . shit, nearly fifteen years. Sometimes, especially around the rookies, I feel like the old man on the team at thirty-two.” He shakes his head a little mournfully, and I cover my giggle with one hand.
This is the most I’ve ever heard Grant talk. Who would have thought? Get some wine in the man and get my hands on him, and he’s suddenly an open book, a book I’m particularly interested in reading.
“Since you’re being so open, old man,” I say, cocking my head to one side, “would you let me take a bubble bath in that big tub of yours sometime?”
Grant’s cheekbones flush a little. “Sure,” he says after clearing his throat, his eyes suddenly trained on the wall behind me. “It’s yours. Never once used the thing.”
“Really? Thank you!”
I’m about to lean forward and peck him on the cheek when the timer on the oven beeps, popping me out of this weird bubble of intimacy we’ve created. Instead, I just shoot him a sly smile before scurrying off to the kitchen to plate our food.
“Do you need any help in there?” Grant calls from the next room.
Truthfully, I might, but I’d rather take a moment to catch my breath. My reflection in the kitchen window’s glass shows the extent of my red wine blush . . . now creeping onto my clavicle. You’re not on a date, Ana! Get ahold of yourself.
“No, I’m okay! Just give me a second.”
It ends up taking several seconds, but soon enough I’m armed with two full plates of piping-hot lasagna, toasted garlic bread, and garden salads. I set the plates down on the dining table and take a seat as Grant digs in. I have a mouth full of arugula when he starts the conversation again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nod, already anticipating that this won’t be an easy one to answer. No one ever starts an easy question with a precursor like that. They just ask the question.
“Do you love him?”
I swallow. Woof! That is a hard one. I take another long gulp of red wine, buying time.
Do I try to preserve formalities? Or do I tell the truth?
Grant’s eyes are locked on mine, seeking the answer I’ve yet to spill. I can’t bear to lie when he’s been so honest with me tonight, so I take a deep breath, averting my gaze to the floor.
“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. At one time, I did. But after everything that’s happened, I don’t think I do now.”
“So, why did you stay with him?” Grant asks, his voice equal parts irritated and polite.
“Huh-uh,” I say, wagging one finger in the air. “That’s not how this works. I get the next question. Then you can ask yours.”
Grant cocks an eyebrow at me, clearly on to my game. I already asked him tons of questions before dinner began. But he concedes with a smirk, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
“Hit me.”
“All right, ten questions. You already used your first one, so mine is . . . who’s your favorite guy on the team?”
His expression morphs from amusement to thoughtfulness as he takes a big bite of lasagna. He really thinks about it, smiles, and swallows.
“Jordie. Jordan, the rookie. That might be weird, since I’ve known him for the least amount of time. But that might be the reason why I like him.” Grant chuckles, his laughter bubbling from somewhere deep within.
Oh man. I really, really like that laugh.
“Plus, he wants to learn. He’s hungry to improve and takes advice well, which is nice. I like feeling useful, I guess.”
Nodding, I consider this. “Would you ever consider coaching after your playing career ends? You could get more of that useful feeling, helping the younger guys learn.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’ve thought it about it, yeah.”
“Okay. Your turn.” I pick up the wine bottle and replenish Grant’s now empty glass.
“Why did you stay with Jason?” he asks unflinchingly.
“Wow, I was hoping you’d forget that one,” I say with a little breathless laugh. “You’re a real hard hitter with these questions, aren’t you?”
“Is that a question?” Grant asks, leaning forward with the challenge.
My cheeks grow warmer with each passing second. He’s a lot more playful than I would have guessed from our first few interactions. I guess those were under less-than-playful circumstances.
“Nope,” I say, popping the “p” with my lips.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a moment. Without looking away, he asks again, “So, why did you stay with him?”
I take a moment to think it over, trying to cram two years of emotional turmoil into a simple answer. That’s just not possible. I can only do my best to explain how I’m feeling at this very moment. I take a sharp breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it. Then I meet his eyes.