Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (11)
The drive to the restaurant is short, and when I head up, the host leads me inside to an empty room.
As my watch ticks thirty minutes past six and the server gives me a pitying look, I’m sure she isn’t coming, but the ding of the elevator pulls my attention from my wrist.
Sage is wearing a simple lavender blouse and black jeans, whereas my button-down and dress pants scream try-hard. It’s been a few years since I’ve been on a date, but surely, I’m not that much out of practice. There’s a heavy contrast between the nervous energy thrumming off me and Sage’s infectious confidence.
When she finally sees me, she beams, a soft, light smile that tells me this girl really doesn’t hold grudges. It would be easy for her to rule me out and put me in a box with all her hockey stereotypes when I haven’t done much to prove them wrong.
She scans the restaurant and the view of the city below us. I can’t tell if she’s impressed.
Do I want her to be impressed?
Her gaze falls to my clothes, then back to my face. “Where is everyone?”
“What?”
“The other diners,” she says, tilting to the side to look behind a wall as if they’re hiding from her. The revolving restaurant rotates three hundred sixty degrees every seventy-two minutes. It’s the tallest freestanding structure in the world, and they have great food. It’s impossible to get a last-minute reservation, but with Mason’s help, we secured one.
“It’s just us,” I explain.
“Right, because you rented the place out.” She laughs, but her smile quickly dissipates when she notices my blank expression. “Are you serious?”
I shrug. “Thought this would be more comfortable for both of us.”
“Why? I doubt anyone cares that much.” She looks at me critically.
This is never a fun topic to discuss. “I’m cautious. From the moment I went viral, I can’t seem to catch a break.”
There are a few rookies who met much the same fate, but none of them have defamatory articles written about them on slow news days. They’re all in long-term relationships, so I became the ideal target.
I pull out her chair and move to sit across from her. The faint classical music playing in the restaurant serves as a buffer. When the server finally comes over, we both straighten, letting the attention fall on him.
“Oysters,” he says, placing the plate between us.
When he’s gone, it’s quiet again, and for a second, I think this is how the entire evening will go. Then Sage slurps an oyster and drops the shell on her plate with a loud clunk. She stares at me intently. “Okay, don’t ask me what my favorite color is or any of that crap. Tell me about your deepest, darkest secrets.” She places her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands.
I’m stunned and find it difficult to answer. Or where to start. Sage stares at me for a long minute, patiently waiting.
Then she sighs. “Fine, I’ll go first. My parents spent my childhood in some dark alley, using drugs I can’t pronounce, and left me and my younger diabetic brother to fend for ourselves. They are currently on the run for their involvement in the sale of illegal narcotics, which means I haven’t seen them in years. So, life is going pretty well, and I’ve gained extensive knowledge on type 1 diabetes and family law in case someone tries me. Your turn.”
The torrent of information catches me off guard, but Sage spills it all with such ease that I can’t help but envy her nonchalance in sharing the depths of her life.
I sip my water, processing that information. “You really don’t hide anything, do you?”
“What’s the point?”
“Privacy?”
She plays with the stem of an empty wineglass, surveying the secluded restaurant. “You don’t get a lot of that?”
“I’m in the media at least once a week. I’m not allowed to have privacy.”
She frowns, assessing me like she’s trying to figure me out. Just then the server brings out the truffle risotto and lobster thermidor. Sage stares wide-eyed at the food.
“Wine?” the server asks.
I wave a hand to refuse just as Sage does the same. She watches me curiously.
“I don’t drink,” I explain.
“Me neither,” she says. “Well, not before auditions or rehearsals, and I have both tomorrow.”
“Auditions?”
She nods. “I’m a ballerina. That’s why I was at the auction.”
Suddenly, her posture being the thing I first noticed about her makes sense.
“How do you know Aiden Crawford?” she asks. “I know you’re teammates, but he really went all out for you at the auction.”
“He’s like a brother. I’ve known him my whole life, and we went to Dalton together. Even lived together in the hockey house with a few of our other friends.”
Sage’s questions about hockey are limited, and I’m glad for it, but her personal anecdotes haven’t ended, and I don’t mind learning about her. When she talks about ballet, it’s hard to miss the passion in her eyes, and it makes me curious.
“I want to be a principal dancer for the production of Swan Lake.” She leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Have you heard of Misty Copeland? The first-ever African American woman to be promoted to principal dancer in American Ballet Theatre history? The first person to advocate for diversity in the industry?”