“You’ve done more than enough for the team. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
he says without missing a beat. “I understand why you’re nervous, though.
We don’t exactly have jobs that require interviews. It’s new territory.”
“Bashing bodies is your job application. Pouring liquor is mine,” I murmur, staring out the front windshield of the truck, my fingers clutching the binder in my lap. It contains electric bills for my apartment in both our names, mail Sumner has received at my place, pictures of us together that we’ve taken over the last six months. In the bar, at the Bridgeport Marina, in the stands after hockey practice. Our arms are around each other, and we’re smiling. Looking like a couple. There were a few times I wanted to suggest he kiss me in one of the photos, but something held me back.
Maybe a fear I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started? “Although, now that I’m a part owner in the bar,” I say, needing to distract myself from those wayward thoughts, “I’m realizing how little I know about the business end of things. In another life, I would . . .”
I can feel Sumner’s gaze brushing down the side of my cheek. “You’d what, Britta?”
“Go to business school. Maybe.”
I’m surprised by the nerves that bounce around in my stomach just having spoken that dream out loud. Why would I be apprehensive about something that will probably never happen? I don’t know, but the idea of spending significantly less time in the bar, while I attend classes, makes me feel more exposed than I would have expected. Almost like I would be without my armor. Has Sluggers become more of a safety zone than a livelihood?
“You’re an owner now, right?” he says, diverting my troubling thoughts, thankfully. “You could hire someone to work while you’re in class.”
“I could. You’re right. But speaking of job applications, I doubt a lot of bartenders have ‘hockey player babysitter’ listed under their special skills.”
He sighs. “Good help is hard to find these days.”
“Mmmm.”
We trade a slow smile, and my stomach does a somersault—which is beginning to become a regular thing. Out of necessity, Sumner and I have been spending time together, learning everything there is to know about one another’s lives, down to the names of our first-grade teachers and the outfits
we’d like to be buried in, in the event of our untimely deaths. I know his mother’s maiden name, his preferred brand of laundry detergent, and his favorite movie, which turned out to be A Dog’s Purpose.
In fact, I watched it alone one night, for research, and refused to speak to him for a week afterward, my emotional damage ran so deep.
“If they ask me your favorite movie, I’m going to lie, by the way,” I say, leaning closer to the air conditioner. “They probably don’t grant green cards to psychopaths.”
“Me?” He tips his head back on a laugh, and there’s his throat . . . that incredible throat. “Your favorite movie is Clue. If they should be worried about anyone, it’s you.”
“It’s a good thing they can’t kick me out of the country, I guess.”
His attention runs down to my bare thighs, lingering on the hem of my skirt, the black of his pupils expanding. “No one would kick you out of anything, sweetheart.”
Oh. Wow.
I resist the intense urge to squirm. Or cross my legs.
Did the temperature go up another fifty degrees in here?
“Sorry, I slipped,” he says, voice low.
“It’s okay.”
We stay quiet and still while his statement fades from the air, but the effect of his words doesn’t go away so easily. “Listen, I uh . . .” He clears his throat hard and leans back, digging in the pocket of his suit. “In the name of this, us, looking authentic . . .” He opens his palm and produces two gold bands. “I picked us up some rings to wear for the interview. Or for . . . whenever we want to wear them.” He slides the larger of the two onto his ring finger, and it’s such a natural movement, I almost wonder if he’s practiced it before. “I plan on keeping mine on while I’m in Canada this summer.”
I’m so distracted by the glint of the rings, his announcement almost slips past my notice. When it does sink in, however, my heart burrows down into my stomach. “While you’re . . . where?”
SUMNER
“While I’m in Canada,” I say again, slipping the gold band onto her finger while she’s not paying attention. Not very ethical, no, but I tell myself it’s a necessity for the interview. As soon as it’s finally on her all the way, a puck gets stuck in my throat, and there is no amount of swallowing that will dislodge it.