I see all of that when he faces the window to the hallway again, his harsh reality fully on display now that he thinks no one’s watching. He takes a tentative step, grimacing in a way he wasn’t a moment ago in the show for his trainer. The mask. The lie. The story that everything’s fine when inside it’s an exploding nightmare thrashing to come out. But it won’t. It can’t when you’re the hopes and dreams of everyone else. When you’re Genevieve Fox.
I watch the young hockey player limp across the weight room toward the showers.
And maybe when you’re Oliver Levesque.
Oliver is a different man when he joins us in the conference room twenty minutes later. Still smelling strongly of shampoo and bodywash, he’s obviously cleansed himself of any visible demons as well. The ends of his wet hair curl around a backwards Trojans ball cap, and a Trojans tee stretches over his broad shoulders, hinting at the power beneath. His smile is wide and contagious. Dark eyes that blistered with pain just minutes ago now glow with a warmth that has me wondering if I misinterpreted that entire scene in the weight room. Have I met someone who plays the game as well as I do?
“It’s so strange to be in this room without Coach yelling at me,” he says, eyes bright with humor. Everyone laughs, quickly falling under his spell. Can’t really blame them. Even I’m cracking a real smile through my polished lips. “Genevieve, it’s so nice to meet you.” His Quebec accent stirs my blood, sending my thoughts back to an expletive-laced stream of frustration. Dimensions—complicated is my kryptonite. And his eyes. Up close, a girl doesn’t stand a chance against those dark thick lashes and hint of laid-back amusement. A small dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles, and his brows are so perfect they almost look sculpted. His whole face really, but there’s no way the man I saw in the weight room gives a second thought to his appearance. In my refined and polished world, Oliver’s effortless appeal might be the most infectious thing about him. He walked out of the shower like this; my routine takes an entire morning.
I take his hand, returning my own well-trained smile.
“Great to meet you as well,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. He’s a good foot taller, so it’s no easy feat.
Our fingers linger in a strange connection, and our smiles falter for the briefest of seconds. He lets go first, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“It’s so nice of you to visit us here. I’m sure you’re very busy,” he says. I try not to notice how his t-shirt stretches over his chest when he stands in that position, again highlighting the toned body beneath it.
“It’s my pleasure. I’m just glad you’re not getting yelled at for once,” I tease. Tease? I did, didn’t I. Well, that’s a first.
His return laugh coaxes my smile into genuine.
Our eyes remain locked in that same strange bond, a spark shooting through me as he searches. What is wrong with me? I glimpsed his secret and now I want more. Professional curiosity, that’s what it is. Must be. A desire to pick his brain about how he survives the endless glare of a lying spotlight. No, my hungry gaze has nothing to do with the way he’s staring into me now. Like maybe I’m a puzzle he wants to solve as well. I’m used to being looked at, but not in.
I clear my throat and tear my gaze away. Hadley’s waiting with a pensive expression when I focus on her, and I shudder at how well she reads me. The Trojan’s community relations director calls us to attention to review the plan, and I do my best to avoid Oliver’s dangerous gaze for the rest of the meeting. Focus, that’s what I need right now. Heaven knows my brain is already filled to capacity with distractions.
But there’s no avoiding his presence throughout the rest of the meeting. He’s a force I feel even when I’m not looking… all because I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.
On the ice, equilibrium returns. I’m much more confident once cameras are flashing and a fixed smile is enough to satisfy those around me. That’s all anyone wants from me anyway. A moment. A speck of time they can display as a trophy in their real lives to their real friends. Me, I’m an accessory. A commodity who grins and waves and flashes green eyes no one knows reflect bits of brown in the sun.
“No way! You have three hamsters?”
I glance over at Oliver’s laugh. It’s magnetic to me somehow. How his face becomes the sound. I can’t look away. He’s crouched beside one of the children and looks genuinely happy to be there. The little boy is enamored, that much is clear. Maybe I would be too if that laugh and bright stare were directed at me.
“Yep!” the little boy says, holding up his hand. “Jim.” He ticks off one finger. “Steve. And Winston.”
“Oh man. Do you feed them and help take care of them?”
The boy nods his bald head vigorously.
