Hoped if I kept ignoring it, kept a careful distance betweenus…it would just go away.
Because that worked so well between Damon and me?
I resist the urge to rub at the throb in my temple and stand still, waiting for him to finish.
Bracingfor him to finish.
“Well,” he says, fidgeting with the tie on his hockey pants. “I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re good.”
My fingers clench on the table’s edge, hard enough to cramp, and I try to be gentle when I say, “I appreciate the sentiment, Storm, but it’s not your job to check on me.”
His brows pull together, hurt rippling across his face. “We’re supposed to be a family, aren’t we?”
A dysfunctional, incestual one clearly—no matter how hard I’ve been trying to fix it.
“Yes,” I agree. “And like I said, I appreciate the check in, but you should be focusing on yourself and the rest of the team, not worrying about me.”
His throat works, gaze coming to mine before sliding away. “It’s just…Mitch”—the ref whose shenanigans were the worst tonight—“was a dick and I’ve never seen you that upset?—”
I go for light, pointing at my hair. “Iama redhead.” My lips twitch. “I do have a temper.”
He grins. “Well, while it was the first time I’ve seen it, I’m seriously impressed by your use of the f word.”
“Considering some of the stuff I’ve heard out of your guys’ mouths, that’s a serious compliment.”
He chuckles.
I smile.
And then silence falls between us again.
I’m scrambling for a way to bring this conversation to an end, one that won’t make things between us uncomfortable and awkward for the foreseeable future, while at the same timeracking my brain to start erecting some professional barriers, but?—
I don’t get that far.
Because he steps a little closer, eyes sliding to mine and away again. “Coach…” A shake of his head. “I mean, Joey?—”
Shit.
“I know this is unconventional and probably crosses more than a few lines, but—” He moves closer, takes his hand in mine, squeezing lightly. “I was wondering if you might like to go out to dinner sometime.”
Fuck.
I pull my hand free, slip free, and step to the side?—
His face.
Fucking hell. His beautiful, innocentface.
“Storm,” I say quietly. “I can’t. I…” I take a breath because again, I don’t want to hurt him and I need to be measured and controlled in my response. But…this cannot be.
Not ever.
“Look,” I tell him. “You’re a good kid?—”
He flinches.
“A good man,” I correct, trying to go gently, but knowing there’s no way to actually make this better. “But even putting aside the fact that I’m your coach and you’re my player, I…I don’t feel the same way about you as I think you do about me.”
