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I’m reaching for an empty coffee mug on the table when I hear the lock turn.
Not that I was listening for it.
Pickles hits the floor running, nails scrabbling across the hardwood, and Wyatt barely gets through the door before forty pounds of corgi launches himself at his shins.
“Jesus, buddy.”
Wyatt drops his bag and catches him, laughing as Pickles wriggles hard enough to nearly take them both down.
And for a second, I just stand there watching them.
There’s something different about Wyatt like this. No teammates around. No crowd. No cocky grin aimed at whoever happens to be watching.
Just him on his knees in the entryway, getting attacked by his ridiculous dog and laughing like he couldn’t be happier about it.
"Hey, buddy. Hey. Yeah, I missed you too, big guy, get down—"
Then he looks up and finds me standing in his kitchen, and something moves under the grin before the grin catches up to it.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself. You look like you got hit by a bus."
"Flattering. I scored a helper on the winning goal, you know."
"I heard. Pickles told me. He seemed very proud."
"He should be. Basically an assistant coach at this point."
He picks his bag back up and takes it into his room. I hear it drop inside the door. I notice, and I hate that I notice.
He returns and his eyes catch on what I'm wearing and I watch him decide what to say about it.
I am wearing his sweatshirt as I have for about six hours a day since day two. It isn't my fault his AC is so good. Could I have turned it up so I didn't need a sweatshirt? Maybe. But I didn't want to. And that is all I am willing to admit to myself.
“Comfortable?” Wyatt asks, eyeing the hoodie I’m wearing.
“Very. I might keep it.”
“Nice try. I’m gonna need that back. Though somehow, it looks way better on you than it does on me.”
I tug the sleeves over my hands. “Glad we agree.”
He heads into the kitchen and opens a cabinet. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Want to stay for dinner? I’ll make my specialty.”
I glance at the clock. He only just got back from Toronto.
“You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I’m cooking for myself anyway. Might as well make enough for two.”
He pulls out a box of spaghetti and sets it on the counter, followed by a jar of tomato sauce.
I raise an eyebrow. “This is your specialty?”
