11. Scottie Elise Reed
Scottie Elise Reed
Dean: You still alive?
Me: Barely.
Dean: Cash?
Me: Unfortunately.
***
The Goalie-Mobile is making a sound like a bag of wrenches in a dryer, and I am leaning halfway out the window just to feel the rush of the wind against my face.
I pull my head back inside, my hair a wind-whipped, tangled mess.
I don’t care.
I feel strangely, vibrantly electric. Maybe it’s the third double-shot espresso I hammered back at the gas station a few miles back, or maybe it’s the fact that after nearly three hours of driving, we are almost there—with barely an hour or two left until we hit the heart of Philadelphia.
I’m three hundred miles away from anyone who expects me to be the ‘Shark.’ No client emergencies, no contract disputes, no late-night emails. Just me, the humid night air, and a man who is currently humming a song he doesn’t know the lyrics to.
“I’m hungry,” I announce. “And don’t give me that look. I know I had the burger at the rest stop. That was a snack. This is a crisis.”
Cash laughs. “A crisis? We ate forty-five minutes ago, Scottie. You had a double patty with extra pickles. Where do you put it all? It’s like watching a magician perform a disappearing act with a cheeseburger.”
“I have a very fast metabolism, Finnian. Don’t you dare judge a hungry woman.” I point a manicured finger at a flickering neon sign emerging from the gloom. It’s a giant, glowing pink potato holding a pitchfork. “The Rusty Spud. It’s a sign. Literally. Destiny.”
“It looks like a place where people go to get disappeared,” Cash says, eyeing the flickering light, but he’s already signaling. “The paint is peeling off the potato, Scottie. That’s usually a warning sign for the stomach, not a destination.”
“Peeling paint just means they’ve been open since the seventies. That means the grease is seasoned. It’s historical.”
The second the engine cuts out, the silence is deafening. We both just sit there for a second, the heat radiating off the rear-mounted engine, the quiet hum of the night settling around us.
“You okay?” Cash asks.
“I’m about to eat my weight in starch,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I’ve never been better.”
We climb out, and I immediately stretch, my back popping in three distinct, satisfying places.
I catch Cash watching me, his eyes trailing the line of my waist where my silk blouse has come untucked from my jeans. I don’t tuck it back in. I just smirk and head for the door, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.
The inside of The Rusty Spud is a masterpiece of 1950s grime and local charm. The walls are wood-paneled and covered in faded, yellowing photos from the seventies.
“Sit anywhere, sweetie,” a woman with a name tag that says LORETTA shouts from behind the counter, not even looking up from her crossword.
We slide into a corner booth with red vinyl that has more silver duct tape than actual leather. Cash spreads the menu out, but I don’t even look at it.
I’m too busy looking at him.
The way his shoulders take up too much space in the booth. The way he looks rugged and tired and entirely too attractive. The stubble on his jawline is a little darker, a little rougher, and my fingers ache with the urge to trace it.
“Loretta!” I call out, waving a hand. “What’s the most caloric thing on the menu? And can I get it with extra cheese?”
Cash snorts, leaning back against the cracked vinyl. “My agent, ladies and gentlemen. The pinnacle of professional discipline. What happened to the woman who lectured me about the glycemic index last month?”
“That woman is back home,” I say, tapping my nails against the scarred laminate table. “This woman is on a road trip and she wants to feel something. Besides, I’m carbo-loading for your training session tomorrow.”
I lean forward, poking the table for emphasis. “Speaking of, I talked to the rink manager. We have the ice at 5:00 AM. It’s private, no cameras, no scouts. Just you, me, and a shooter I hired from the local college team.”
Cash’s smile falters just a fraction. He starts shredding a paper napkin into tiny, snowy piles. “A college kid? You really want to humiliate me on day one? I’m an All-Star, Scottie. I don’t need to be lit up by some kid who still has a meal plan.”
“It’s not about humiliation. It’s about volume. I need you taking five hundred pucks before the sun is up. We’re working on your low-block. You’ve been cheating toward your glove side since the playoffs, and Ivy noticed it too.”
“Ivy noticed?”
“She sees everything. Said you were dropping your shoulder. We fix that tomorrow, or we don’t move on to Washington. You’re going to hate me by 6:00 AM.”
“I already hate you a little bit for making me eat in a place that serves ‘Gravy Fingers’ as an appetizer,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling now, that slow, easy smile that hits me right in the sternum.
Loretta arrives with two chipped mugs of coffee. “You two look like you’re in a hurry to get a stomach ache,” she says, dropping a basket of greasy, golden biscuits.
“She’ll have the ‘Garbage Plate’ with extra meat sauce,” Cash says, pointing at me without glancing at the menu. “And I’ll have the ‘Heart-Stopper’ omelet. And a side of bacon. Thanks.”
“And the deep-fried cheesecake, please!” I shout after her as she turns. “Two of them! Don’t skimp on the chocolate.”
Cash leans his chin on his hand, watching me. “You’re a maniac. You know that? You spend all day talking about brand management and career longevity, and then you order enough sugar to kill a horse.”
“Life is all about balance, Finnian. I manage the brand during the day, and I manage the cravings at night. It’s a system.
It works.” I grab a biscuit and tear it open, the steam rising.
“So, tell me. How’s the shoulder actually feeling?
Don’t give me the PR answer. Don’t give me the ‘I’m a machine’ routine. Give me the truth.”
He sighs, his posture dropping. “It’s tight. Every time I drop into a butterfly, I can feel the pull. It’s like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far.”
“And that’s why we’re doing this,” I say, my voice softening, the banter falling away. “I’ve got the best physical therapist meeting us in Memphis later. We’re going to be fine.”
“We?” he asks, his eyebrows arching, his gaze intensifying.
“We,” I repeat firmly. “I’m the agent. If you fail, I look bad. And I hate looking bad.”
“Right. The brand.” He reaches across the table, his hand hovering over mine. He doesn’t touch me yet, but I can feel the heat radiating off him, a tangible, magnetic pull. “Is that all this is? A brand exercise?”
“Cash,” I huff, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I’m trying to be professional here.”
“You’re doing a terrible job,” he says, his fingers closing over mine.
Loretta returns with the Garbage Plate—a mountain of home fries, macaroni salad, meat sauce, and onions—and an omelet for Cash. The food is magnificent. It’s an insult to health, and it’s exactly what I need.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, taking the first bite. “This is it. This is the peak of my life. Everything after this is a decline.”
“Better than the wedding catering?” Cash asks, stabbing a piece of bacon.
“Don’t tell Ivy, but yes. This meat sauce has a soul.”
We eat like people who haven’t seen food in a month.
We talk about Cal and Ivy. We talk about the old days, back when Cash was a rookie and I was just an assistant trying to make a name for myself. The diner feels like a bubble, isolated from the rest of the world.
Later, Loretta drops the dessert. It’s a massive wedge of cheesecake, battered and fried, drizzled with chocolate and caramel. I dive in before she even sets the fork down.
“You have chocolate on your nose,” Cash says, his eyes dancing.
“I don’t care.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches me with that lazy, half-amused look that always makes my pulse do something stupid.
“Hold on,” he murmurs.
He reaches out, his thumb brushing against the tip of my nose. His skin is warm, and his touch lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to, his thumb sliding down the bridge of my nose in a slow stroke.
My breath catches in my throat, the entire noisy diner fading into a dull hum.
He pulls his hand back, casually licking a speck of chocolate off his thumb while keeping his eyes locked right on mine. “There. Professional reputation saved.”
“Right,” I say, my voice sounding a little hollow as I frantically try to gather my composure and pick up my purse. “We’re leaving. Before I order a third one and we both die of a sugar stroke.”
We walk out into the cool evening air.
“I’m driving,” I announce, snatching the keys from his hand.
“You? In those shoes? You’re going to put us in a ditch.”
I follow his gaze to my flimsy strappy sandals and wiggle my toes. “These? Please. I can do anything in these shoes, O’Connell. Get in the passenger seat and try not to scream.”
I climb into the driver’s seat, the seat springs groaning in protest. I turn the key, and the air-cooled engine coughs to life with a distinctive, rhythmic thrumming sound that vibrates through the floorboards.
I put it in gear, the van lurching forward as I guide it out of the lot, the tires spitting gravel, the neon of the Rusty Spud fading into a blur behind us.
“You’re going sixty in a forty-five, Scottie!” Cash shouts over the wind, though he doesn’t sound entirely panicked.
“Then buckle up, Finny! It’s going to be a long night!”
***
I grip the steering wheel, my rings clicking against the worn plastic. I love the silence of a night drive, but tonight, there’s a strange, electric restlessness humming under my skin.
“Hey,” Cash says from the passenger seat. His head is turned toward me, resting back against the vinyl headrest. “What’s your favorite color? And don’t give me some weird answer like ‘slate gray’ or ‘navy blue.’ What is it really?”
I glance at him, surprised. “Green. Like a dark, mossy green. Why?”
“Just wondering,” he murmurs. He purses his lips and continues. “What about your favorite movie? The one you watch when you’re sick and feeling miserable and don’t want anyone to talk to you.”
“The Princess Bride,” I say without hesitation, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I know every line. If you tell anyone that, I will personally ruin your contract negotiations next season.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he says. “What’s the exact order of your ideal day? If you didn’t have to answer a single phone call or look at a spreadsheet.”
A strange warmth blooms in my chest, expanding until it feels almost tight.
Of course, I’ve always loved compliments. But compliments are just a reflection of how the world sees you.
Questions are different.
Questions mean someone wants to know how your mind works. They want to see the world through your eyes, to understand the tiny, insignificant mechanics of your soul.
To me, curiosity has always been the ultimate love language. It’s an admission that you aren’t just a finished product to be admired; you’re a territory they want to explore.
I desire to be questioned. I want to be dismantled by someone’s curiosity, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to hide.
I shake my head when I realize I’ve been sitting silently for too long.
“Wake up at eight,” I say softly, keeping my eyes on the road. “No alarm. Just coffee that someone else made, a massive breakfast, a long walk where I don’t have to think about the glycemic index of anything, and read a book I don’t have to review for a client.”
“Sounds perfect,” Cash says. He shifts in his seat, turning his whole body toward me, one leg bent onto the cushion. “What was your absolute worst subject in school? The one that made you want to cry.”
I let out a soft laugh, but then I stop.
“Why are you doing that?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave. “Why do you ask me so many questions?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches the profile of my face, his gaze steady and entirely devoid of the usual playful humor.
“Because everyone else just takes what you give them, Scottie,” he says, his voice incredibly quiet.
“They see the version of you that’s always in control, the one who fixes everything and has all the answers.
I don’t care about the agent. I want to know you.
I want to know the exact shape of your thoughts when you aren’t trying to protect anyone else. I want to know how your mind works.”
My throat feels dry. I keep my eyes locked on the white lines of the highway, because if I look at him right now, I might lose my footing entirely.
“It’s a dangerous neighborhood,” I whisper, trying to inject a bit of the old sarcasm into my tone, though it comes out breathless. “My mind. You might get lost.”
“Then let me get lost,” Cash says. “So. Which subject did you hate?”