“Where is this list?” I ask before he feeds me another bite.
“In my head.”
“Mine was there and then a tornado came through and displaced it all, so I’m back to the trusty notepad and highlighters.”
I take the fork from his hand, lean over, and twirl some noodles on it, load it up, and offer it to him.
“See, I knew you liked me,” he winks before taking a bite.
Then he scoops me up, moves to the couch, and places me on his lap. “Now feed me and tell me about this list.”
“Lydia and Maya are coming for a long weekend for Thanksgiving. So, at the top of my list is how to explain how much my daughter adores my neighbor. And if I do manage to explain it away, how do I hide it when they come for an entire week at Christmas?” I hold up the fork, and he takes another mouthful and snatches it from me.
He loads it up as he chews and then holds it out to me. “As soon as you figure that out, let me know because my parents are coming to the States and staying from ThanksgivingthroughChristmas.” I nearly choke on the pasta. “Or perhaps we just tell them that we’re dating, that way we can do Thanksgiving together, and your people can scrutinize me, while my people are trying to figure out how many babies we can have to make up for the fact that they only had one.”
“I am too tired to get properly freaked out by this.”
“Good, me too.”
“How did drills go?” I ask changing the subject.
“Have you met with him yet?” he asks.
I start to answer no when he shoves another forkful in my mouth.
I shield my mouth with my hand, “If you think I won’t talk with my mouth full, you are so wrong.”
He grins, showing me a whole new layer of Deacon Moretti. And I like it. I like it a lot.
But I push through the swoon and continue, grabbing the fork from him. “I can’t talk to you about your teammates, I took an oath.”
“I get that. And you get that I have their trust and don’t want to betray that either.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, concerned.
He gives me just a little bit of information. “He’s amazing. I just hope he doesn’t burn himself out.”
I sitat my desk rereading the email I sent at seven thirty this morning. The polite, carefully crafted one that I drafted twice before hitting send because I am, apparently, still trying to believe professionals will act professionally.
Good morning, Dr. Bennetti. I hope you are well. If you have a moment today, I was hoping to speak with you about a personal matter, at your convenience, of course.
Thank you, Claudia
She replied immediately that she would love to chat and was free at 2 PM, which was perfect because the players were leaving at that time to prepare for an early morning flight to Toronto for their game tomorrow.
I had meetings with Aleks Kilovak, who will be a challenge to get to open up. His profession is hockey, his hobby is hockey, and his outlet is fucking, his words, not mine. He hasn’t spoken to his family in years, and he doesn’t plan to. I hope to get him to open up one day.
My next meeting was Lenzin Faulker, who is highly intelligent, but plays defense off the ice as well as in my office. He managed to manipulate the conversation so well that it was always about the game.
What I wasn’t expecting today was a call from Dr. Marin Rathburn, who kept ringing my desk phone while I was in sessions.
And now it’s ringing again.
Incoming Call: Dr. Marin Rathburn
I inhale slowly, straighten my shoulders, and swipe to accept.
“Hello, this is Claudia.”
