“It’s my pleasure. I’m just glad you’re not getting yelled at for once,” I tease. Tease? I did, didn’t I. Well, that’s a first.
His return laugh coaxes my smile into genuine.
Our eyes remain locked in that same strange bond, a spark shooting through me as he searches. What is wrong with me? I glimpsed his secret and now I want more. Professional curiosity, that’s what it is. Must be. A desire to pick his brain about how he survives the endless glare of a lying spotlight. No, my hungry gaze has nothing to do with the way he’s staring into me now. Like maybe I’m a puzzle he wants to solve as well. I’m used to being looked at, but not in.
I clear my throat and tear my gaze away. Hadley’s waiting with a pensive expression when I focus on her, and I shudder at how well she reads me. The Trojan’s community relations director calls us to attention to review the plan, and I do my best to avoid Oliver’s dangerous gaze for the rest of the meeting. Focus, that’s what I need right now. Heaven knows my brain is already filled to capacity with distractions.
But there’s no avoiding his presence throughout the rest of the meeting. He’s a force I feel even when I’m not looking… all because I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.
On the ice, equilibrium returns. I’m much more confident once cameras are flashing and a fixed smile is enough to satisfy those around me. That’s all anyone wants from me anyway. A moment. A speck of time they can display as a trophy in their real lives to their real friends. Me, I’m an accessory. A commodity who grins and waves and flashes green eyes no one knows reflect bits of brown in the sun.
“No way! You have three hamsters?”
I glance over at Oliver’s laugh. It’s magnetic to me somehow. How his face becomes the sound. I can’t look away. He’s crouched beside one of the children and looks genuinely happy to be there. The little boy is enamored, that much is clear. Maybe I would be too if that laugh and bright stare were directed at me.
“Yep!” the little boy says, holding up his hand. “Jim.” He ticks off one finger. “Steve. And Winston.”
“Oh man. Do you feed them and help take care of them?”
The boy nods his bald head vigorously. “Mommy says I can be a vetry-narian when I grow up.”
“Oh yeah? For sure you can,” Oliver says. He plucks a jersey from the stack on his shoulder and checks the name. “Richards?” he asks, verifying the boy’s last name. The child nods, and Oliver stretches the jersey out in front of his little body. “What do you think? You want to be an honorary Trojan?”
“Yes, please!” the boy says, bouncing on his toes.
Oliver grins and helps fit the jersey over his head. Cameras assault the sweet exchange from all angles, but Oliver doesn’t seem to notice. He certainly doesn’t let it affect his interaction with the Richards boy. They’re an oasis, a brush of authenticity and peace in this fabricated scene. Oliver made it real. Deep longing wells within me to join their island, but I’d only break it. My own interactions with the kids made great photos but little else. Right now, I’m standing awkwardly next to a seven-year-old girl in a wheelchair, waiting for my turn with the hamster kid since my smile session with her is complete. Three down, two to go was my thought a second ago. It seems callous now, and I swallow a twinge of regret. I turn back to the girl to try again, but her gaze is glued to Oliver as well. Guess I can’t blame her.
Oliver adjusts to stand, and a flicker of pain skims over his face. Crap, his knee. His smile falters as he reaches beside him to brace his fists on the carpet beneath us. Without thinking, I step over and grip his arm to help him up. His gaze snaps to mine in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he forces a brief smile and mumbles a thanks. I don’t believe this one as much as the others. His bicep tightens in my hands when I tug, and my entire grip isn’t enough to connect around his thick upper arm. The scene must look ridiculous from the outside. Me, a tiny pop princess, trying to support the weight of a hockey gladiator twice my size. I don’t know how much I helped when he finally gets to his feet, but I catch the hiss of air he inhales. Instinctively, I glance at his knee as if I’ll see bone fragments jutting through his jeans.
With a weak smile, he thanks me again and moves toward the next child. He has a slight limp now, and his fist flexes at his side sending ripples of tense muscle up and down his arm. This time when he reaches the girl, he bends at the waist and rests his palms on his thighs to get as close to eyelevel as possible. But his smile for her? Still sincere.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, twisting off the cap of a water bottle back in the conference room.
The event has wrapped, and for some reason I feel exhausted. More than usual, anyway, and I’m not sure if it’s the weight of my sour mood from this morning or something more problematic—like my fascination with a certain hockey player. My brain is heavy with details of his every movement and interaction today. Somehow it’s become a sponge that soaked up each smile and frown and laugh and flex and expression… yes, “fascinated” is a good word. Obsessed is too dangerous. I try to convince myself I’m just curious about his foreign approach to the spotlight, but the small ember of panic that’s burning low in my gut suggests otherwise. Once we finish our snacks, my connection with Oliver Levesque will end. Forever. I will be that time he met Genevieve Fox. For some reason the thought of being reduced to a timestamp for him hurts more than the others.
“I’m fine,” he says with a quick smile. His gaze flickers over mine, almost shy, before he focuses back on the sports drink in his own hands. “Thank you for your help on the ice. I’m still not used to…” His voice fades out, and a muscle moves in his jaw.
Weakness.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” I take a swallow of water to lighten my question. Just making conversation. Small talk. I’m an expert at that. But when he lowers those brown eyes on me, there’s nothing small in his response. In fact, there’s nothing small about him period.
“Not really. Only sometimes after PT and training, but I’m working through it.”
I know. I want to say. I saw. It’s why I can’t seem to leave you alone.
Instead, “how long since your injury?” Even though I know the answer to that too. Everyone does.
“About eleven weeks. Seven since surgery.” He looks away again, and I fight the urge to ask more questions about it. That must be all he gets anymore, all he is. How he’s defined, assessed, and valued. He’s become his injury. No wonder he’s pushing so hard to overcome it. He’s nothing but an ACL tear now.
“How’s your family?” I ask. I read somewhere they’re close, even though he lives across the continent now.
I thank whatever article dropped that hint when his expression noticeably lifts.
“They’re doing well. I’m hoping to visit them in a few weeks. Once we’re further into my rehab.”
“They’re still in Quebec?”
He nods, training that heart-stopping smile on me. And stop me it does. I pull in a quick inhale at the effect. Don’t say goodbye. Don’t leave, my mind is pleading. I’ve known him for an hour and his light has become a craving.