“Good. Work hard and stay focused. But only do it if you really love it, okay? Do it for yourself.”
The kid nods, and when Cole stops talking, I say, “Say cheese.”
They both smile, and I snap a few pictures while the kid’s mom does the same with her phone. After Cole signs his cast, the boy runs back to his mom.
“I’ll put that up on Facebook,” Cole says, and the boy is totally losing his mind over that, talking about how Caleb is going to be so jealous. I can only assume Caleb is his hockey-playing older brother.
A few more people make their way over, and even though we’re in a hurry, Cole makes time for them. His smile is wide and his stories are animated as they ask him questions. I shake my head. He’s in total Playmaker mode, enjoying the interaction with his fans.
“So that winning play you made in Pittsburgh. That was awesome,” a man in his mid-forties says. “When you got that breakaway and put the biscuit in the basket, it was a beautiful thing, man.”
“Thanks. It was a great play, and I couldn’t have done it without Cason. He’s my wingman. The whole team actually made that play happen.”
The commotion gains the attention of men, women and kids alike, and they all make their way to the produce section. They all want to ask questions, touch him, and get their pictures taken. I step back a bit, a little overwhelmed, and I’m not even the one in the spotlight. I’m not sure I could handle that kind of attention.
Cole, however, handles it like the pro he is, taking credit when it’s due, then praising the plays made by his teammates. I have to say, I kind of admire him for it.
When the crowd dies down, and he’s alone for a second—unaware of my eyes still on him—he takes in a deep, shaky breath, and his Adam’s apple bobs as if going down for the third count. He swallows uneasily and briefly pinches his eyes shut.
What the hell? My heart trips up at the deep sadness on his face, and a heaviness fills my chest. The orange in my hand slips and falls into the cart.
The sound does something to him—makes him aware I’m still there. He turns and, when he sees me watching him, quickly snaps out of it. With his big, contagious smile back in place, not a trace of that discomfort to be found, he walks over to me.
“Sorry about that.”
“You okay?” I ask.
His hand brushes mine, sending shivers down my spine. He shrugs easily. “Yeah, great, why?”
“I…uh…well, you know, concussion and all. I’ve been there, remember?” I say, although I don’t think what I just saw had anything to do with his concussion at all. “That must have taken a lot out of you.”
“I’m fine.” He snags an orange, examines it, and drops it into the cart with the other one.
He seems fine now, but what the hell was that? Could it have been his concussion or something else? If something else, what?
“You really made that kid’s day.”
He nods. “I’m glad. Hey, can we get some Captain Crispies? I haven’t had them since forever.”
I laugh at his childlike enthusiasm. “You can get whatever you want, Cole. These are your groceries. Although Captain Crispies aren’t very good for you.”
“I’ll eat a banana to make up for it.” He grabs a bunch of bananas and adds them to the cart. He nudges me with his shoulder again—a gesture I’m growing accustomed to—and my body reacts to his closeness. “Actually, I put the banana in the cereal. A real time-saver,” he teases.
Needing a measure of distance, I turn toward the grapes. “How old are you, anyway?” I mock.
He reaches around me and chooses a bag of plump grapes. “Old enough.”
His breath is warm against my ear. Goose bumps prickle my neck. To hide my traitorous body’s reaction, I roll my eyes at him. “Come on, let’s get those steaks and your cereal.”
As we go down the aisles, Cole pulls food from the shelves and tosses everything in the cart, his attention solely on shopping. No more subtle touches, no veiled sexual innuendos. I’m both relieved and confused. Had I read too much into his actions?
By the time we reach the cash register, the cart is overflowing with groceries.
Nighttime falls over the city as we head back to his car and load the bags into the trunk. “You won’t have to order takeout for weeks,” I say.
“Yeah, but I’m going to have to hire someone to cook for me.”
“Well, since you’re helping me out, I can teach you how to cook. It’s not that hard.”