Hawke (Carolina Cold Fury Hockey #5)(19)

I found it fascinating watching him have a very close and personal hand in an athlete’s prowess. I started spending my days with him there, watching him rehab injuries and build muscle and core strength. I watched young men come to him for advice, and I watched him improve play.

And then I decided that’s what I wanted to do as well.

“I assume your lack of acknowledgment means you don’t want company,” Hawke says, and I shake my head slightly. He grins down at me, and because I know his face like my own, I can only imagine those two perfect dimples he sports underneath his beard. I miss those dimples, but the beard is a mighty fine look too.

I wave a hand to an empty seat. “Sorry. Was woolgathering.”

He plops down and unwraps a large Italian sub on his tray. “Thinking about your dad?”

I quickly shake my head because I’m not now, nor will I probably ever be ready to tell him what I had been thinking. It was too painful to think about the night of the party. Just talking about it would lead to more hurt feelings, mostly likely an argument, and I was enjoying this truce with him too much.

“No,” I say with a smile. “Actually just thinking about how good that beard looks on you. What made you decide to keep it after the play-offs?”

“Lazy groomer, I guess,” he says before taking another bite of his sandwich.

I dip my head so he doesn’t see my smile get bigger, because that was always Hawke. While he was fastidiously clean and always smelled amazing, he hardly ever paid attention to his appearance. Usually a quick brush of his fingers through his long hair or a shave once a week was as good as it got with him. I loved that wild, untamed look about him, though, and the beard definitely suits.

Hawke swallows, takes a sip of his bottled water, and tips his head at me. “What about you? You’ve changed a lot.”

I cock an eyebrow at him, seeking elucidation.

“The piercings,” he prompts.

“Oh,” I say in understanding as I absently run a finger across the bridge of my nose. “Well, turns out those aren’t the best things to be sporting when you’re trying to get a job. I got rid of them before I started my master’s. Tried to polish up my image just a bit.”

Hawke gives a gruntlike chuckle and then dives back into his sandwich. We eat in silence for a little bit and it’s not the slightest bit awkward. I’m wondering if that’s because we’ve shared hours of silence together before, and know the safety of it. Or maybe it’s just that we have nothing to say to each other and that’s okay too.

That’s probably it. So much time has gone by, feelings have died and we’re not who we were all those years ago.

Except, have feelings really died? There’s been anger and defensiveness on both of our parts for sure. He wronged me, I wronged him, he wronged me again. All things that we should wisely confront and clear the air because we were mere kids back then and we’re adults now. All things that will probably never happen because this peaceful little truce is safe and stress free.

“Your dad says you’ve been busting your ass with work,” Hawke says out of the blue. I look up from the remnants of my tuna salad and he’s eyeing me with concern. “Two jobs. You came home pretty late last week when I was visiting and I saw your dad yesterday. Stayed until around eight p.m. and you still hadn’t come home. Is that par for the course?”

“Yeah, well, it’s what we have to do right now. Dad’s treatment is covered by the clinical trial, but we’re still making his house payment back in Sydney and he can’t touch his retirement from the Oilers until he turns sixty-five. Plus I still have student loans and there are some incidental medications that aren’t covered by insurance, so it’s necessary right now.”

“Do you mind me asking what you make here?” Hawke asks, and while that’s a deeply personal question to ask an acquaintance, I suppose our history means something because it doesn’t bother me.

“Forty-one thousand dollars and some change. I bring home a few hundred extra bucks a week at the gym, but that’s commission based and I only have a handful of clients right now.”

Hawke is silent as he pops open a bag of chips. He’d finished his sandwich, but that was always the way Hawke ate, one thing on his plate at a time until it was finished. And he didn’t like his food touching, despite the fact I used to remind him often that it would do so in his stomach.

“Do you need some financial help?” he asks quietly, raising his eyes from the bag to me, pinning me in place.

“Financial help?” I practically squeak out in surprise.

“Yeah…money to help pay expenses or something. I make considerably more than forty-one thousand dollars and I don’t mind. You know I’d do anything to help…um, your dad.”

My head is shaking in the negative before he can even finish his sentence. “No, thanks. We’re good.”

“Then how about taking me on as a client?” he asks as he picks a chip out of his bag. He waves it in a circle in front of his face with an impish grin. “I could use some extra conditioning.”

“That’s part of the job I already get paid for,” I remind him with a stern look. “If you want to schedule some time with me each week, we can do that.”

“But I don’t like the equipment here,” he counters. “Your gym would be better.”