Page 43 of Grief & Glitter

Nobody laughed. Mikey Russo nodded first and said his wife, Lena, would do it. Nate said his wife, Claire, probably would too. Dylan already had his phone out to text Jess, who worked in marketing upstairs. Arnaud raised his hand like he was in school.

“I volunteer.”

“You’re not a wife or a girlfriend,” Bob muttered.

“I have a face,” Arnaud said.

Bob muttered something I didn’t hear, and he got something angry returned to him in French, and that was the end of anything useful. It didn’t matter. I’d asked. That was the part I cared about.

Walker’s place was already loud by the time I got there, cars lined up both sides of the street, and I regretted turning down Chip’s offer of a ride the second I had to walk half a block from where I parked. Finn opened the door before I knocked, told me shoes go wherever I could find room, food in the kitchen, beer in the fridge, and that Walker was pretending to be in charge of the grill.

“I am in charge of the grill,” Walker shouted from the back of the house.

“You’re burning the chicken,” Finn called back without even turning around and disappeared toward the yard swearing.

The house was full—players, wives, girlfriends, kids, someone’s baby asleep in a carrier by the kitchen—and food covering every surface like the whole organization needed feeding. I found Ryan by the island, a plate in one hand, talking to Claire Mercer. He’d changed into black jeans and a lacy shirt, some subtle makeup on his eyes, his hair still a little damp from a shower, gold catching at the corners of his eyes whenever he turned his head. When he saw me, he smiled the smile that was just for me, and I stole the sweetest of kisses.

“Good game,” he said. “You were very hockey.”

“Hockey?” I asked, and he smiled again, teasing this time.

“I might work here, but it doesn’t mean I understand what you all do out there, just that you, Gideon Taftwell, look sexy while you do it.”

Claire laughed and excused herself to go find Nate before he ate everything, and Ryan turned straight back to me.

“I heard you’ve been pimping out my services.”

“I asked.”

“You did?” Something shifted in his face, and before I could answer, he’d stepped in and wrapped his arms around my waist, fast enough that I didn’t have time to brace for it. I put mine around his shoulders, and he fit there. “Thank you,” he said into my chest.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It is to me.”

I looked down at him, and he looked up, eyes bright. For a few seconds, the noise of the party dropped away enough that I thought about kissing him right there in Walker’s kitchen. I could have. That was still new, wanting something and knowing I was allowed to reach for it. Someone shoved past behind me for the beer, and the moment broke before I did anything with it, and Ryan stepped back.

Dinner wasn’t really dinner with that many people in one house. Plates balanced on knees, kids stealing food off anyone who wasn’t watching their plate, Finn insisting to Walker that he cooked for fifty people and Walker insisting that was the whole point of leftovers. I was halfway through my second plate before I noticed Ryan wasn’t next to me anymore. He was across the room with Claire, who was pointing at her own face, and then Lena joined them. I watched him touch under his own eye, explaining something. Claire asked a question, and Ryan answered it with his hands moving. Jess joined next, then Sophie Brennan, whom I barely knew beyond team functions and a couple of hellos, standing there with a wineglass, listening before she pulled out her phone to show Ryan something. He zoomed in on it. Another woman joined. Then another.

“What are you staring at?” Finn asked, following my line of sight before I could pretend I wasn’t.

“Nothing.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.” He didn’t deny it, just stole a fry off my plate.

By the time I looked back, six women were around Ryan. Six. I’d asked the guys to tell their wives. That was all. Ryan had done the rest himself, perched now on the arm of the sofa with all of them gathered close as he talked, hands moving fast, pointing at Claire’s eyes, then Lena’s, then miming something on his own face. Someone asked a question, and he answered without checking whether anyone thought he belonged in that conversation. He knew this. They were listening to him, and I liked watching it more than I wanted to admit. I’d gotten used to nervous Ryan, unsure Ryan, Ryan trying to take up as little space as possible in a room. This Ryan had something to say, and people wanted to hear it. By dessert, all six of them had their phones out, comparing schedules—Wednesday, six-thirty, two at a time, photos—and Ryan was organizing every bit of it.

He found me by the front door once the coats started coming out and the kids were being rounded up.

He grinned and rattled off the list like it was the best thing that had happened to him all week: Claire’s dry skin, Emma’s oily skin, Jess’s hooded eyes, Lena’s sensitive skin, Sophie’s darker skin, and wanting something specific for a wedding she was going to. I understood maybe sixty percent of it, but it sounded good. Ryan said it was fucking amazing, so it must be good.

“A couple of them are coming to yours. Wednesday.” Ryan hesitated. “Are you sure it’s okay to do it at your place?”