“Do they feed you on the plane?”
“Sometimes, but it was a short flight from LA, so nothing tonight.”
“Good game this afternoon,” she says, then sits up straighter, smoothing a hand down her jeans. “I mean, I didn’t watch it. I didn’t realize you were playing. I looked it up once we were talking.”
Even on an inky blue night, I can see the flush crawling up her neck, as if she’s embarrassed to have admitted all that. Or to have admitted somethingin particular.
“So you looked me up,” I say, unable to resist teasing her.
“I just wanted to see how you did,” she says, trying to make light of it.
“Of course. That’s all.”
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“Admit it. You watched the highlights.” I goad her, nudging her with my shoulder.
And that was a rookie mistake. Even her shoulder bumping mine feels good. I pull away. Don’t want to tempt myself more.
She glances down the street as if the row of townhomes is the height of interest. “Just…I was curious,” she says, then looks straight ahead.
Oh, hell. She’s so damn cute now when she’s…caught in the act of, well, looking me up. And since I lookedherup too—well, her dog, but then her—I like that she did the same. But I like it more than I should.
Which means I should call it a night soon. I fold the napkin and set it on the bench with the fork on top of it. “I have to see my personal conditioning coach tomorrow.”
“Cool. I should go.” She moves to stand, but her wineglass isn’t empty.
Without thinking, I set a hand on her thigh. “Stay. Till the picnic is over.”
She swallows and nods in the dark. “Okay. I will.”
With some reluctance, I remove my hand from her thigh, then sip more of the wine. For a beat, there’s just the sound of cars cruising by a few blocks over and laughter carrying from down the street. I imagine the ocean crashing somewhere in the far distance.
“So, you have your own conditioning coach?” she asks.
“I want to play great this year—it’s my last year—so I hired someone to make sure I’m operating at peak performance. Leah’s one of the best. My agent, Shanita, found her for me.”
Skylar tilts her head, her lips curving up. “Your agent is a woman, and so is your conditioning coach?” It’s asked with a certain amount of delight.
“Yeah,” I say, answering matter-of-factly. “So is my publicist. She gave me this tie—a lucky tie for the season.”
“You have an all-female management team,” she says, sitting up straighter, a pleased smile twisting her lips.
“I do,” I say with an easy shrug, since hiring them was an easy choice.
“Was it intentional?”
“It happened organically. I wanted the best, and that’s how I found them. Men dominate this business. It’s eye-opening and, honestly, refreshing to have the support of people who see things differently.”
Skylar brings her glass to her lips but doesn’t take a drink. Instead, she just kind of smiles around it.
“What?” I ask, curious what’s on her mind.
“I just…I kind of love that,” she says, lowering the glass.
I’m glad, but I don’t want the spotlight on me too long. “What about you? Do you work alone? Have partners? Have you always wanted to design?”
“I studied interactive design in college,” she says. “I thought maybe I’d want to work with user interfaces and tech, but when I realized how much stuff they use—tech and the creation of it—I was overwhelmed with…guilt.”
