“Not retiring.”
“Oo-kay.”
He gives me half a glare that causes half a hot flash in my chest.
And that means it’s either time to go or to ask what I’m still debating if I want to ask.
I’ve verified he’s alive.
I’ve verified he’s not a danger to himself or to his dog.
“You ever want to talk about what happens to your life when your body gives out and robs you of the sport you love, I’m your girl. Got some experience there.” I take three more pieces of cheese while I silently tell myself this isn’t afavor. It’s an opportunity. “Random question that means absolutely nothing—how much longer are you planning on hiding in here?”
He strokes his freshly shaved upper lip, his eyes tracking me as I slide a piece of cheese into my mouth like he’s been suspicious that I had ulterior motives for coming here and has been vindicated. “Should be grown back enough when the preseason starts next week.”
I lift a brow. “Past the pencil and world dictator ’stache point?”
“Might do the full beard. Sell more tickets.”
Now I’m stifling a smile.
Fletcher’s annoying. His ego is also weirdly charming in its own way.
Which I willnotbe telling him.
Although he’ll probably guess it anyway when I blurt out what’s coming next. “You know the best way to tap into the sports market here is to make friends with the other athletes around town?”
“My PR guru is still teaching me not to grunt my name when I introduce myself at parties.”
“I’m going to a party on Saturday that’ll have a lot of professional sportsers at it.”
He licks another scoop of hummus off his finger, then folds his thick tatted arms over his thicker chest and stares at me.
I resist the urge to tug my shirt away from my chest and fan myself with it.
Freaking attractive face.
“You could possibly come with me and meet them. Maybe. I technically already have a date, but she might have to cancel.”
“You mean you might ask one of your ancient friends to not go with you so that you can take me to a party that’s not actually apartyfor some reason you’re not telling me? Will your brother be there?”
“Mylife-seasonedfriend who was going to go with me to the Scorned’s head coach’s daughter’s wedding reception sprained her knee and should stay off of it.”
“There are these things called wheelchairs…”
“You clearly haven’t fully met Odette. There aren’t enough straps in the world to keep her in a wheelchair when ‘YMCA’ and anything by Beyoncé comes on over the speakers at a wedding reception. And don’t ask what would happen if they decided to do the hokey pokey.”
Points to Fletcher. He isonce againstifling a smile.
“She and Evelyn and Sheila will still be here when I leave for Europe,” I add. “I’ll bet they’d adopt you. You’d love them. They write fake obituaries that are totallyNational Enquirer-worthy for their ex-boyfriends.”
“You’re friends with the women’s soccer coach?” he says.
I strangely love our conversations. Neither of us ever answers the other, and that saysso muchabout us.
But it’s time to level with him. “She was a massive supporter in helping me find my path when it became clear that soccer wasn’t in my future. We’ve kept in touch. I call her sometimes when I hear about school-age teams in the area who could use a morale boost and visit from the pro team, and she calls me when one of her players or staff could use a little support with big life or career decisions.”
“So this is a big wedding reception.”
