Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(25)
She reaches across the couch and playfully boops me on the nose. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Goaltending hones your patience, and right now, that’s a good thing. Seraphina has been leafing through the menus for various local restaurants for over twenty minutes, flipping back and forth like it’s a life-or-death decision. I’m trying not to rush her, but my stomach is growling so loudly it sounds like there’s an angry rottweiler in the room and I’m going to gnaw off my own arm if I don’t get something to eat soon. I’d happily take food from any or all of these restaurants at this point. Hell, we can hit up three or four places if that’s easier.
She scrunches up her mouth, inclining her head as she studies a yellow-printed leaflet for Thai Boat.
“What do you want to order, Tink?” I ask.
Her head snaps up, her dark eyes wide. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen so many menus in my life. There are too many options.” She waves a hand at the list, growing frantic. “Whenever I go to restaurants, I always check online ahead of time because I’m indecisive and I freeze on the spot. And now there are like fifty restaurants to choose from.”
“I can give you some suggestions to help narrow it down if you want.”
“Can you just pick a place and order a few things for us to share? I’m not picky.”
“Any dealbreakers?” I ask, gently prying the stack of leaflets from her hands. I’m beginning to see that she isn’t quite as easygoing as she tries to make everyone else think. And I don’t mind that—at all. I’m just not sure why she puts on a front.
“Mushrooms and olives.” Pausing, she shudders. “No organ meats, either.”
It’s not a lot of direction to go off, so I verify the order with her before I submit it online to make sure we’ve got things she’ll eat. An hour later, we’re surrounded by a sea of nearly empty takeout containers.
“Guess how I know you were the last one to empty the dishwasher?” I offer her the last samosa, then take it for myself when she declines.
“How?” She sets down her fork, cocking her head.
“Because you left half the cupboards open.” This isn’t an exaggeration. It might have been more than half.
Seraphina bursts out laughing. “That isn’t my fault,” she protests, gesturing with a piece of coconut naan. “That’s an ADHD thing. I can’t help it. It’s like I legitimately don’t see them.”
“Honestly, I think it’s cute. It’s your calling card, like a reminder Tinker Bell was here.” It made me smile when I saw it this morning. She leaves a little trail of destruction everywhere she goes, and I find it oddly endearing.
Don’t get me started on our shared bathroom. Between the jars, vials, and tubes, there’s zero counter space to be had. The entire room smells delicious 24/7, so I can’t complain too much. I’d never live it down if anyone else knew I secretly sniffed her coconut shampoo every time I’m in the shower.
“Shut up, Ty.” She shakes her head, still giggling.
“Question fifteen,” I say, leaning my forearms on my thighs. “What are you taking in school?”
It’s the wrong use of a question. Her mouth pulls into a frown, and she looks away before answering. “I…don’t know yet. I need to decide soon, but I haven’t found the right fit.”
“That’s okay. There’s no rush.”
“Well, there kind of is.” She fidgets with her napkin, refusing to meet my eyes. “I have to declare my major before the end of the semester. But like I said, I get analysis paralysis and have trouble making decisions. What about you?”
“Biochemistry.”
Her brows tug, eyes shining with curiosity. “You’re smart, huh?”
“I don’t know about that. I just like science. It explains the way things work.”
“On that note, what would your career be if you didn’t play hockey?” she asks, immediately catching herself. “Oops. Question sixteen. I forgot to add that.”
“In another life, I would’ve been pre-med with the intent to go into medical research or something surgery related. Guess that’s my backup plan should I ever get injured.”
“Do you worry about that?” her voice softens.
I pause, pushing the last grains of saffron rice around my plate while I debate how to respond. “Sometimes.” This is something I rarely admit even to myself. Denial is a powerful drug. “There are no guarantees I’ll ever set foot on the ice in a single professional game.”
That’s a difficult truth to digest when you consider how much of my existence revolves around hockey. It’s more than a little sickening to think I’ve devoted the better part of my life to pursuing something that may never come to fruition. I’m betting big on myself and praying it pays off.
Seraphina shifts to face me. “I see how hard you work, Ty. And you’re crazy talented to begin with. That’s coming from a girl who knows her hockey. There’s no question you’ll be out there someday.”
“Thanks, Tink.”
Thing is, only half of the players who are drafted actually make it to the pros.
My worst fear is being one of the ones that don’t.