She snorts. “Did you just quote a hockey cliché to me?”
“Would I do that?” I grin and pull away from the curb, heading toward the industrial part of Phoenix, just south of downtown.
“The way you risked everything by sending me a gift at work and then stopped by my office earlier, I wouldn’t put it past you to take me to some sports bar where half the team hangs out.”
“Someday? Definitely. But not tonight.”
She purses her lips, but I’m not kidding. I want to be able to take her anywhere without having to hide. But not yet. Not until I figure out how this—how we—can be together without getting her fired, and me benched.
I glance over. “How was the rest of your day? After our conversation.”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking out the window. “Not great. I was half-expecting Linda to call me into her office.”
“Linda’s human resources, not a mind reader. Plus, she loves you. Everyone does.”
“You asked her for a copy of the team handbook!”
“I told her I wanted to brush up on team policies, being captain and all.”
“With six games left in the season? There’s no way she bought that as was your real reason.”
I wince. McKenna’s right. When I stopped into HR, Linda’s questioning gaze seemed to pierce right through me. And she did seem more than a little suspicious after I gave her my lame reason for needing a copy. “I can be pretty convincing.”
“Emmitt.” McKenna’s voice carries the edge of panic I heard in her office, earlier. “If she starts asking questions—”
“She won’t. And if she does, I’ll handle it.” I reach over and cover McKenna’s hand with mine, squeezing gently. “I told you I’d figure this out.”
She doesn’t pull away, which feels like a victory. Her skin is soft, and I feel her pulse jumping under my thumb.
“This is crazy,” she murmurs, but she looks at our joined hands as if she’s memorizing the sight.
“Having second thoughts?”
“About fifty per minute.” But she squeezes my hand back. “What about you? Any regrets about asking out the team nutritionist?”
“Just one.”
Her face falls slightly. “What?”
“That I waited two years to do it.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile that spreads across her face could power the entire city grid. “Smooth talker.”
“I have my moments.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of a rink just south of downtown that’s been here since I was a kid. I’ve donated enough to keep it open, but the building’s old, and I see the paint’s peeling in a few spots. I should do more for the place, after all it did for me. And I will. But for tonight, it’s perfect.
McKenna stares at the building before her gaze swings back to me. “A skating rink?”
“Not just any skating rink.” I park and kill the engine. “Come on.”
The night air is warm as I grab a pair of my old skates from the back. A pair I’ve had since junior league that seemed like the right choice for tonight. They’re broken in perfectly, comfortable in a way my game skates never are.
I realize now I should have asked if she had skates to bring, but she looks at mine and says, “I should probably mention I haven’t been on skates since I was ten. And even then, I was terrible.”
So no skates of her own. I make a mental note to get some for her. “Good thing you’ve got an excellent teacher.”
I rap twice on the metal front door, and, sure enough, a minute later, the deadbolt slides open. Frank Torres tugs open the door with a grin that splits his weathered face. He’s been running this place since before I hit puberty, and he’s the guy who taught me everything I know about reading ice conditions and finding the perfect edge.
