Reagan: Saw part of the game. It was on the bar tv
Mikhail: It was a stupid game
Reagan: Why? You won, right?
Mikhail: Sometimes a win just isn’t enough
Reagan: Well, at least ur not working a roulette table w/ a guy whose laugh is so sharp it can break glass & breath smelling like 6 types of cheap beer.
Mikhail: How can you text from the table?
Reagan: On a quick break. I get off at midnight.
Mikhail: I’ll pick you up
Reagan: K. Thx.
*****
After shoveling some grilled chicken and a salad into my face, drinking a metric ton of water, and changing out of my dress clothes into regular ones, I feel moderately less pissed about the team situation. Around eleven-thirty, I walk over to the casino, hanging at the bar, William telling me he liked my “sneaky goal” tonight. To which I just thank him and leave it at that.
A little after midnight, Reagan joins me, having changed into ripped jeans and a tight green T-shirt that I’d love to peel off her body. With my teeth.
I’m genuinely glad to see her, and not just because she’s my flavor of female and I’m attracted to her. I’ve thought about her a lot since she told me about her situation with Sodorov. And yes, most definitely appreciating the incredible night we shared together in my bed, but it’s more than that, too. She’s become someone I look forward to seeing, and more unexpectedly, someone I worry about. All the time now.
“So, you scored tonight. I saw the replay, and it was both weird and cool that I was seeing my friend on TV’s all throughout the casino.”
Her friend. That’s how I’ve labeled it, right? So why then, do I feel slightly annoyed hearing her say the word? But now is not the time to analyze it so I deflect instead. “I did score tonight. But that’s my job.”
“So humble, for a guy with a huge poster on the side of a building not five blocks from here.”
“Meh,” I grunt. “The team’s kind of a mess right now. It took us way too long to get our footing. We easily could’ve lost that game. It’s a miracle we didn’t.”
We walk along in silence, the warmth of her small, delicate hand clasped in my much bigger one, feels right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for us to be holding hands while we just wander along the boulevard together toward home.
“I have to admit, I know next to nothing about hockey, Mikhail. Or any sports, to be honest. So even though I enjoyed watching you, I was clueless about a lot of it.” She sounds apologetic telling me this, but she doesn’t need to feel that way from my perspective.
“It’s okay. I appreciate being able to not think hockey sometimes.”
“Still, I feel like I should be watching your games or something. I want to learn and understand the rules better.”
The thought of Reagan wanting to watch me play thrills me in a way I haven’t felt before with anyone that I can recall. “Any time. I can get you in if you’re off when we have a home game. I’ll set you up at Will Call with standing home game tickets for Reagan Marlowe. Just give them your name at the window and you’re good to go.”
She smiles up at me and mouths the words, “thank you, friend.”
My gorgeous friend, you’re so fucking welcome.
She is freaking gorgeous right now smiling a true smile for once, looking happy and relaxed. If this is something I can help make happen for her, then I’m going to do it every chance I get and be damn proud of myself for it.
When we get to the building and step into the elevator, Reagan asks, “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
Fuck. Yes.
Although the “or something” probably more than the movie.
My answer to her question is the same for both.
“Your place or mine?”
