Page 34 of From Coast to Coast
“I can’t wait for you to have a record year in points. I fucking love saying ‘I told you so.’”
“The divorce is making more sense,” I joke, but immediately regret the words. Thankfully, Remy laughs and then it’s our turn to congratulate Gordon, so the conversation stalls.
We’re flying back home tonight, and it’s a relatively subdued group that boards the team bus to head back to the airport. Everyone is tired and ready to crawl into bed, not hop onto a plane and fly home. I take an aisle seat and wait for Zolkov to board.
Remy walks onto the plane, leaning over and muttering something to the flight attendant that makes her smile and flush. He scans the plane and smiles when his eyesmeet mine across the sea of empty seats. I expect him to sit in the row directly in front of me, and am slightly surprised when he comes to a stop next to me and taps my shoulder.
“You mind?” he asks, nodding toward the empty row beside me.
“No, ’course not,” I mutter, unfolding myself from the seat and letting him slide through. While he gets settled, I look toward the front of the plane and see Zolkov boarding. Seeing his usual seat occupied, he sits in the very first row; I can imagine him up there, spending the long flight flirting with the attendants.
When I sit back down, Remy is angled toward me and checking his phone. He looks up and holds it out to me, eyes alight and smile wide.
“Look at that,” he prompts, and waits for me to take the phone and read the email he’s got pulled up.
It’s a message from the office manager of the apartment complex that he’d been looking at, letting him know that the previous tenants had vacated and he could move in early. The new move-in date—if he is available—is this Thursday. When I finish reading, I hold his phone back out and look up to find him watching me. Inappropriately, heat pools in my stomach and my chest feels a little tight, as though my body knows exactly what this means.
“That’s great,” I tell him noncommittally.
“Want to help me move?” he asks, still grinning cheekily. “We can celebrate afterward.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Celebrate” is obviously a teammate-approved innuendo about kicking off our friends-with-benefits situation. If anybody is listening in, they’ll think we are going out to get drinks, not fucking.
“Sure,” I agree, smiling at him. “We’ll celebrate.”
“Excellent.” He settles back into his seat, kicking his legs out in front of himself and tipping his head back, eyes closed. “I’ve got some ideas.”
I don’t respond, because if this conversation goes any further, I’ll be getting a hard-on and confirming all of my teammates’ fears about me being a sexual deviant. I also make sure to direct my thoughts away from anyideasof my own. The list of things I’d like to do to, and with, Remy is extensive and detailed and wholly unsuitable for this airplane.
After a flight spent dozing in and out of sleep—Remy breathing softly beside me, leg occasionally brushing mine—we land and trudge blearily off of the airplane. Silently, we all peel off toward our respective vehicles and I’m halfway across the parking lot to mine before my sleepy brain remembers I’m Remy’s ride. I turn around and find him walking a few paces behind me, yawning.
“You forgot me!” he exclaims, loud enough that several of the guys close to us turn and look.
“I didn’t,” I protest, even though I did.
We climb into my SUV and he chafes his palms together, blowing out his cheeks dramatically as the car warms up. “It’s cold,” he complains, when he sees me watching him.
“It’s October. This isn’t cold.” He shoots me a withering look and I laugh, reaching toward my dashboard and flicking on his heated seat. He watches as I adjust the heat and then angle the vents to all point toward him.
“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” he asks seriously.
“Probably.” I nod solemnly. Backing out of the parking space, I wait for one of my teammates to leave ahead of me before putting the car in drive and following him. Remy has his head down, reading something on his phone. I drive insilence, not bothering to even put on the radio until we’re halfway home.
“My wife texted me,” he says suddenly.Ex-wife, I correct in my head as a thread of fear coils around my spine and settles in.
“Oh,” is all I can think of to say in response.
“She watched the game, I guess.” He looks out the window, tapping his phone on his leg to the beat of the music playing softly through the stereo. “I didn’t want to get a divorce. She was the one who asked for it.”
Fucking hell, are we really going to do this now?“I’m sorry.”
What I want to ask iswhyshe asked for it, but I have no idea what the etiquette is with divorces—what you’re allowed to ask and what is taboo.
“We were only married for three years, but they weren’t bad years, you know? She was a really good friend and we had so much fun together. She’s a hockey fan!” He says this last thing like it’s the most important aspect of a healthy relationship. I nod, because it is—if you can’t talk about hockey, what can you talk about? “So, yeah, marriage was great except for our sex life.”
Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting him to say.I glance over at him, floundering over whether I’m expected to offer any sort of support or if it’s best for me to just sit here and shut up.
“Oh,” I say again, because that seems to be the best of both worlds.