Chapter Ten
Leo
Henri played like a god last night.
Thanks to Sadie’s hover-coaching and whatever our assistant physical therapist was doing with him, he held down the line and kept us at a tied score for almost the entire game.
We didn’t win, but going to a shoot-out in OT was the closest we’ve gotten to victory in our four games so far.
Hell, I was proud of him. When one person plays better, we all do.
I couldn’t help but watch as Sadie pulled him aside after the game, after we’d gotten dressed and she gave us the little pep talk I’ve come to expect. She looked so damn proud of him as they discussed everything that went right. Her cheerfulness despite the loss made something in me ache.
But tonight—and pretty much since the second I got off the ice last night—it’s my head that’s aching as I step inside Harbor Lights, the diner in north Portland where we agreed to meet for dinner for my next report.
A step above a Denny’s or a Village Inn, none of the other players or staffers would think to drive up here for dinner unless they were in the mood for greasy food.
Or so we’re hoping. At least it’s busy enough that we don’t immediately stand out.
Sharp pains radiate through my shoulder even as I stand still in the entry. I force the thought out of my mind and scan the place.
I spot Sadie in a booth next to a window. She’s reading a book with a red cover and gold detailing and appears completely oblivious to the world around her. Her hair is tied up in a high bun and her tight black shirt with the word Fury embroidered where a name tag would go fits her like a glove.
“Leo McLoser.”
A group of young guys snicker like little shitheads at a table on my left. The words embarrassment and retire and ruined franchise follow their dumb nickname for me.
I change course and step up to their table, cupping my hand to my ear.
They fall silent. I didn’t even have to say a word.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I mutter, moving along as they grumble at my retreating back.
I strip off my knit cap and move to Sadie. She jumps when I toss the tiny bundle of fabric on the table.
“Oh. Hi!” The enthusiasm in her eyes goes out like a blown candle when she glimpses my face. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“Switch places with me.”
She sets her book aside. “What?”
“I want to be able to watch the restaurant. I don’t like the energy in here.” And I don’t particularly want those men to notice that the extremely recognizable head coach of our “ruined franchise” is here if they haven’t already.
Her brow furrows in concern. “Do you want to leave?”
“Nope. I want to eat. You get on this side, please.”
“Ohh-kay. No problem.” She swiftly switches to the other side.
I notch into her old spot, accidentally knocking her legs with mine. We shift until we both fit without touching.
And because I know how she is about things like greetings and politeness, I say, “Hi back, by the way.”
A smile turns her lips into a shape that makes my abs clench. “You’re learning. Now, I take it you’re hungry? Or are you just regular cranky?”
“Both.” My stomach grumbles to corroborate this claim. “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“I wasn’t.” She rests her chin on her closed fist as she reads the sticky plastic menu lying on the table. Her long, dark lashes nearly touch her pale cheeks as she looks down. My mind flies right back to that day in my truck.
It was the day I became a Portland homeowner. But the memory of Sadie putting on her makeup in my front seat is as vivid as the one where I handed over my cash offer fifteen minutes later to an overwhelmed real estate agent.
Parted lips. Strokes of color. A wand against lashes. And then she rubbed her lips together and I fought the powerful urge to smear the color with my thumb, just to feel them.
I chalk it up to the longest self-imposed dry spell of my life. That’s all it is. Physical, primal urges that happen without my permission.
It’s not like I’m ever going to act on them. But I can’t pretend they aren’t increasing in frequency. If I hadn’t agreed to be her informant, I would find a way to cancel any further alone time with her.
Too bad that’s not an option.
I turn my attention to the menu and keep staring at it long after I’ve made my selection. Our legs are forced to stay flush under the small table, and I’m forced to notice it every time she moves even slightly.
When the waitress shows up, Sadie orders a grilled turkey and cheese sandwich. I go for a Philly, narrowly resisting the urge to order one of everything.
My smartwatch lights up with a text message.
DON’T FORGET LEO. You promised!!
Followed by another.
Who do you think is going to take care of you in your old age since you don’t have any kids? Me. So you better treat me right.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, briefly debating throwing my smartwatch in the nearest river. But then Nola would just book a ticket on Dad’s credit card and fly herself here.
Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. “Before you start hounding me about Anders, there’s something I need to ask you.”
She laces her fingers together. “Go right ahead.”
I drag ass on replying, as if I’m not the one who initiated this conversation in the first place. “Do you remember my sister?” As she opens her mouth to answer, I beat her to it. “What am I saying, of course you do. You probably know her most up-to-date peewee stats.”
The look she gives me is a dagger wrapped in glitter. “Do you actually need me for this conversation, or shall I see myself out?”
“It’s this.” I reach into my pocket and whip out a small photo of none other than Sadie herself. Photo Rivers is cheerful and smiling with hair down and glossy, not one single strand out of place. “Would you sign this? For Nola.”
She rolls her lips together as her headshot sits on the table between us, like she’s trapping a laugh.
I rub my temple. “What? You already know she’s a fangirl, courtesy of your eavesdropping.”
“No, it’s just—how did you get a teeny-tiny photo of me?”
My skin burns. Photo Rivers cost me nineteen cents to print and have mailed to my house, and will cost me five dollars to ship to California, so I got it with American dollars.
“I had it printed with the sole intention of fitting it in my pocket. I wanted something small and easy to handle discreetly.”
Her brows lift. “Is my photo contraband, in your eyes?”
“No. Why would you even say that?”
“Uh, because you used the word discreetly? And you seem pretty uncomfortable having it in your possession.”
“And you seem like you’re enjoying giving me a hard time.”
She bites her bottom lip, and I feel an answering twinge in mine. “Are you embarrassed that your sister likes me?”
I sigh, glancing briefly out the window at the parking lot that butts up against the bay. Now she thinks that I think she’s not worth an autograph.
This conversation is quickly getting the best of me.
“No,” I finally say. “It makes all the sense in the world that a girl her age would idolize you.”
Her eyes widen.
“A girl of any age,” I clarify, so as not to piss her off. “Any person, any age, doesn’t matter. There are more than enough reasons to admire you.”
The sound of ceramic clinking against a table, shoes squeaking on linoleum, laughter swelling in a nearby booth fills the silence as she blinks at me.
“Thank you.” She fiddles with her ring. “If you actually believe that, then why are you being weird about this?”
I can’t drag my eyes away from her hands as she spins, spins, spins that ring, her delicate fingers as fidgety as I am.
I don’t get fidgety.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “I think I’m just hungry.”
She extends her hand, palm face up.
My chest constricts painfully as I stare at it. “What?”
“Do you have a pen?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I pull a blue Sharpie out of my pocket and lay it in her hand. Goose bumps bloom up her wrist as she closes it in her grasp, drawing attention to her skin. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. How her hand would feel gliding up my arm. Raking through my hair. Dragging down my chest—
Enough. I inhale coffee-scented diner air to steady my thoughts.
The food appears shortly after, a welcome distraction from staring at her at close range while simultaneously pretending I’m not staring at her. Tiny booths are a minefield that way.
The Philly, though, is outstanding. I am mulling over whether this place should be awarded a Wonder of the World designation when Sadie finally speaks.
“So Anders.”
I finish chewing a large bite. “Right. Anders takes care of a kid. Like an infant, I mean.”
Sadie nearly gasps. “What? Anders has a baby?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t think he does.” I lift a hand. “I mean, it’s not his child. But it is his responsibility, and it’s kicking his ass. That’s all I’ve gathered.”
“So maybe he has a girlfriend with a baby. But then, is she helping? Why is it kicking his ass, specifically?”
“Maybe both their asses?”
“Their joint ass,” she echoes, amused. “Well, that’s interesting. I’d think he’d be open about something like that. Why hide it?”
“When would a baby come up at practice? Some things just don’t naturally present themselves unless you ask.”
She watches me for a beat.
“You don’t…” She shifts in her seat, stretching her neck side to side. “I mean, in your truck, there was no car seat.”
“Are you seriously asking if I’m hiding a small child from you right now?”
“What?” she huffs. “Apparently guys don’t disclose their families unless directly asked! I wasn’t sure if you…” She winces, cheeks turning pink as she turns her gaze to the window. “Never mind.”
“Well, I don’t,” I say.
“Got it.”
“No baby.”
“Heard that.”
“No older children, either,” I add. “Just pain-in-the-ass twin siblings who give unsolicited opinions and think they’re grown. Parents who are busy being absolute fucking dynamos. Old teammates who would answer if I called.”
“Right.”
“And no one else.”
My words hang between us.