"Need some muscle?" I offer, approaching with what I hope is a friendly smile.
She looks up, surprise crossing her face. "Oh! Thanks, this thing is determined to resist me." She hands me the bottle.
I twist it open easily and hand it back. "Sadists design those caps."
"Or dentists looking for business when people chip their teeth trying to open them with their mouth," she laughs.
"You must be Dr. Sinclair." I extend my hand. "Alder Stag. I play defense."
"Lena," she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "And yes, I've been studying the roster. You're the one with the twin, right?"
"That's me. We come as a package deal." I gesture toward Tucker, who's now operating the grill while Coach takes a break. "He's the better-looking one, but I've got the better slapshot."
She laughs a genuine sound that puts me at ease somehow. Up close, I can see she's wearing minimal makeup, just enough to make her eyelashes seem longer and her cheeks slightly flushed. I shouldn’t be looking at her like that, though.
I reach into the cooler and grab a lemonade. "What's your professional position on this sugar-laden lemonade versus the probiotic stuff?"
She considers the question with mock seriousness. "It depends how many of those teeth are your own and how many are crowns."
"Knock on wood. All the Stag brothers still have all our originals," I say, rapping my knuckles against the wooden table. "Hockey miracle, I guess."
"Well then, I'd say life's too short to drink probiotic seltzer. Though I would recommend a good rinse afterward." Her smile is easy and confident. "Congratulations on making the playoffs."
We chat for a few minutes about the upcoming series against Montreal. She knows hockey surprisingly well, asking smart questions about defensive strategies and our opponents' scoring patterns. It's refreshing to talk to someone who gets it without being in the business — although I guess she’s in the business now.
I find myself relaxing for the first time since arriving. "So…what’s your deal? Are you a local? Family close by?”
A shadow passes across her face. "My boyfriend Brad is here somewhere." She glances around, then adds with obvious discomfort, "He needed to step away to 'center himself.' The sports talk was somewhat overwhelming for him."
I watch her shrink slightly as she says this, her shoulders curving inward, her voice growing softer. It's like watching someone dim their light.
"I get that," I say, nodding toward where Adam disappeared. "My boyfriend had to take a 'work call' two minutes after we arrived."
Her expression shifts to one of surprise, then recognition, then something like relief. “Boyfriend, huh? I do remember reading that there were a few guys on the Fury who are LGBTQ.”
I nod. “I’m the B in that alphabet soup.”
She grins. “So is Brad. Bisexual, I mean. He’s finishing his dissertation in philosophy, so he's... particular about social settings."
"Adam works in sports PR, ironically enough. Just not comfortable with the spotlight himself." I try to sound understanding rather than disappointed.
She nods, offering a rueful smile. "Sometimes I think Brad agreed to come just so he could tell people he was at a 'professional athlete gathering' later."
We share a laugh that feels almost conspiratorial. There's acomfort in this shared experience, even if it's not a positive one.
"I should probably find him," Lena says, looking toward the house. "Make sure he hasn't started debating existentialism with your teammates."
"I'll help you look," I offer. "I should check on Adam anyway."
We wander toward the sliding glass doors leading to the kitchen. Through the window, I spot two figures by Coach's fancy bar cart in the corner of the dining room. Adam and another man—could it be Brad?—are examining a bottle of brandy, their heads bent close in conversation.
Adam gestures animatedly, a genuine smile on his face that I haven't seen in weeks. The other man—wearing a blazer despite the heat—is nodding enthusiastically, seemingly hanging on every word.
"Found them," I say unnecessarily.
Lena follows my gaze, her expression unreadable. "Of course. The one place with alcohol."
We watch for a moment as our boyfriends continue their intense conversation, utterly oblivious to our presence or the party around them. Adam says something that makes Brad throw his head back in laughter, his hand landing casually on Adam's shoulder.
