Chapter Seven #2
I lift a shoulder. “You won’t let me call you by your last name, so you need a nickname. Everyone here has one.”
Honor stands, letting her camera drape across her from the strap that’s positioned between her breasts. Don’t look, I tell myself, keeping my eyes on her face.
“So you’re just Hoffman around here?”
“Hoffman, Number Eighteen, dumbass,” I muse, grinning at her. “Take your pick. I’d also accept Sexy Demi God.”
Coach’s daughter snorts in amusement. “Demi God, huh? Not a full blown one?” she questions with curious eyes. There’s a hint of playfulness in them. “I’m surprised.”
My grin spreads. “Wouldn’t want to offend the Gods,” I explain, making her eyes roll. “I don’t want Zues lighting my ass up with a bolt or Poseidon trying to drown me the next time I go to the beach.”
“Not a strong swimmer?” she guesses.
“I mean if I’m up against a God…”
She mulls it over. “Good point.”
After a moment of fidgeting with her camera, she peeks up at me through her lashes. “You made me banana bread.”
I was wondering if she’d bring it up. “You told me I’d need to make you a good loaf in order to be your friend.”
Her cheek twitches with a threat of a smile that she fights off. “Is that what you want? To be friends?”
Based on how my body buzzes around her, I probably want to be more.
But baby steps. “Yes” is what I tell her with an easy smile.
“So, did I level up from acquaintance? I know we’ve only seen each other for a whopping ten minutes at the aquarium, and an hour at The Hungry Greek, but I’d like to think we’re more than a passersby. ”
I’m not quite sure what I said that extinguishes the playful light in her eyes, but the smile she fought turns into a downtrodden frown that neutralizes after a microsecond.
“Honor?” I say, my own frown tilting my mouth. The high I’m riding from our victory starts to fade as she focuses on her camera rather than on me.
Clearing her throat, she lifts a shoulder. “I’m not sure. Guess it’ll depend on how good that bread is.”
There isn’t any amusement in her tone or teasing in her gaze when she picks her head up. I may not know her well, but I do know the smile she offers me is fake. “Sounds fair” is the safest answer I can come up with.
She nods silently.
I messed up, and I’m not sure how. I could ask her. I should ask her. But I don’t. Because it’s getting late and Gemma is waiting for me. And also because I don’t think Honor wants me to press. Because she says, “I have to get back. Puck is waiting in one of the back rooms.”
Although it’s none of my business, I question one of the few things I know about service animals. “Shouldn’t he be with you at all times?”
She huffs out a dry laugh. “Yes, Dad. But I’m on medicine and haven’t had an episode in over half a year. I know what signs to look out for now, so I made him stay back. He’s not locked in a room, so he can still come to me if he senses something is wrong.”
Normally, the only reaction I get from being called Dad is because of Gemma—my heart clenches and warmth spreads through my body. But this is different. Hearing that word come from Honor makes other parts of me warm. And that’s probably fucked up.
Clearing my throat, I tug at my jersey. I think I’m sweating more now than I did during the game thinking about her saying it again in other settings. More intimate ones.
Yep. Definitely fucked up.
“I should get going too. Did you still want to meet up later this week? We haven’t even touched on the full roster yet, and you never know when someone could be subbed in.”
It isn’t something I like to say aloud often or else it’ll jinx us. The last time somebody mentioned using a sub, one of our best defensemen tore his ACL and needed to undergo surgery and rehab. He was out for an entire season and a half.
Honor nibbles her bottom lip, and I can sense her nervousness as she frees it from her top two teeth.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” she admits, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself.
“My supervisor gave me all the login information for the team’s socials, and I need to start going through pictures and figuring out captions to post. God forbid I say something wrong or mislabel who a player is, I’ll never live it down. ”
It wouldn’t be the first time one of our social media pages had the wrong information plastered everywhere.
Mackenzie was only one of the page’s admins.
There were two other interns who were meant to keep an eye out for daily and weekly trends, help reply to fan messages and comments, and share important scheduling dates.
I remember when the head of PR had a conniption when a graphic was made and posted before it could be approved advertising discounted tickets to one of our biggest games of the year, which resulted in a lot of pissed off people when they realized it wasn’t going to be honored at admissions.
Needless to say, that intern didn’t last much longer. Granted, she also put the wrong names down on a few players and was a little more passive aggressive in her replies to online keyboard warriors, so her chances had dried up.
“What about Friday? We’re watching game tapes, so we should be out early, and Gemma has a sleepover at her friend’s house. It’ll give us an opportunity to go over some more.”
We start walking slowly toward the end of the hall, where we’ll go our separate ways. She glances at me briefly through her thick lashes, her inner cheek being pulled in by her teeth like she’s biting it.
“Or you can tell me what works best for you,” I offer, watching as her eyes widen a fraction. “I can’t say I’ll be available, because I have Gemma on and off. But I can try making it work.”
I have a strong desire to make her feel comfortable. Mostly because I hate that I make her feel anything but. If that means moving around the few plans I do have, so be it. It isn’t like Gemma hasn’t been to the aquarium, zoo, or park a million times already.
We stop at the end of the hall that splits in two different directions, and I wait for her to give me an answer.
It gives me time to see how she fiddles with her hair, and tugs at the hem of the purple shirt that makes her eyes look brighter than they usually are.
Honor is a gorgeous girl. Something I wish I didn’t think to make this a hell of a lot easier.
Her eyes meet mine and she releases her cheek. Something in her relaxes, easing the tension coiled in her squared shoulders. “Friday works,” she says quietly, rubbing her arm and moving her weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll see you then.”
I chuckle, backing toward the opposite side of the hall that she’s going down. “I’m sure we’ll see each other around here sooner. And I expect a full report on what you think of the bread, Pixel Picasso.”
Honor deadpans. “I don’t want to make you cry if I come back in with a Yelp review you don’t like. I’ve been told I can be too critical when it comes to food.”
Something tells me that isn’t true. She didn’t have a bad thing to say about Nina’s gyros, or the soup, or the dessert.
“And no to the nickname,” she adds.
I flash her my best smile. “I’ll think of a better name, just give me time.”
She watches me, studying me a little closer than before, before shaking her head. What she’s thinking, I don’t know. But damn do I want to figure it out.