“This is who they are,” Sofie says, leaning over to reach a napkin. “Claudia, this is the team I’ve watched grow since Costello bought it. The team they want to be. The team feels they are when they are not babysitting a man who sabotages their goals. Champions.”
Paul takes another slice of pizza. “And look at the Italian. First game back and he looks like he could go two full games without blinking.”
He lowers his plate and looks at me.
“You know what they call that in hockey?” he asks.
“No,” I say softly.
“A man with his head on straight. A man who knows exactly who he is.”
And that line lands too hard in my chest. Because I know exactly who he is, too. Even when I am mad at him. Even when everything in our world feels complicated. And watching him on the ice like this. Settled. Explosive. Focused. Yes. My heart is absolutely doing the thing it should not be doing, exposing itself to a devastating break.
“You good over there?” Paul mutters around a mouthful of crust.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He gives a little shrug. “You are staring like you are trying to memorize him for a test.”
“I am not,” I lie.
He snorts. “Kid, I’m old but not blind.”
Sofie leans in. “We all know that look, I’ve watched him for ten years. Deacon Moretti could stand still and breathe, and every woman within a five-mile radius would suddenly drop things, like panties,” she giggles, and Savannah does too. “The man is a walking highlight reel, right, and has been since before he was named sexiest man alive.”
The game ends, Bears 2, Philly 1.
“Are you staying here tonight?”Sofie asks as we clean up.
“I think I’ll go back, let them have the house to themselves.” I look at Savannah, who is sleeping soundly in the crazy-expensive swing Koa bought, and back at her, noticing her frown. “You want to come with?”
As soon as I say it, I realize what I’ve just done. Yes, all the packages have been moved, but none of our things have quite made it back to ‘our space’.
“Sleepover sounds good, actually.”
“Perfect,” I say, grabbing the garbage that doesn’t need to go out, but… shit, shit, shit.
Once outside, I call the hotel and ask for Robert, and feel my face burning when I ask him to do me… a favor.
“I will personally see that it’s done.”
“Thank you, Robert, and can you please use discretion?”
“Always, Ms. Holloway.”
Paul is far tooamused because he clearly senses the panic I am trying to mask while we take him back to the Puck Pad.
“You ladies have a good night,” he chuckles as James opens the door and attempts to help him out. “Do I look like I need help?” he sputters.
“Of course not, Mr. Bronski.” He says as he shuts the door.
She looks at me, “Can we order room service and talk in British accents?”
I nod, “We can, but only if it sounds totally fake.”
“Love you,” she yawns.
“You, too.” And I do.
