Grey rests his forearms on the table and clasps his hands. “First, I’d tell the commish that he made the wrong decision to send us here.”
My eyebrows lift. “I was thinking more along the lines of starting with a neutral topic like the weather.”
“Then I’d remind the officials that they’re paying for this.” He points his finger in the air and gives it a little spin to indicate Blancbourg.
“Asking about their families is a more appropriate topic of conversation,” I suggest.
“I’d apologize to Elyse, but I’m well aware of what she did in the locker room three seasons ago.”
“I was going to say now we’re getting somewhere, but we all make mistakes and that sounds more like something to bring up privately.”
“Brandon would get an earful because he should not have snapped the photo. If he’s the one who leaked it to the press, I’d consider snapping one of his fingers.”
I wince.
“I’m kidding. I want him to be at his best for the season, but putting a little fear into him will keep him on his toes.”
“Does that really work?”
“It really does. But I also plan to take time with him during preseason so he’s game-ready. I do that with all our new players, especially the younger ones.”
“Well, aren’t you the dangerous gentleman.”
Leaning back in his chair, Grey wears the faintest smirk, almost undetectable, beneath his beard. He laces his hands behind his head.
“And what about me? What would you say to me?” I ask.
Grey watches me eat for a long moment, then he says, “I’d tell you that you have the diet of an unsupervised child.”
I sputter and am at risk of needing an abdominal thrust, but thankfully, the ice cream washes the bite of waffle down. I contemplate what to say while I take careful and slow bites, chewing each one at least twenty times.
Unfortunately, an edge piece of waffle I had balanced on my fork because it had the perfect amount of ice cream, drops onto my dress. Right on the part I don’t want anyone to notice. I should’ve worn my mother’s scarf, but then it would’ve gotten syrup on it.
“Oops. Are you going to drink the rest of your water? I should probably spot-treat this.”
Grey looks at his glass like he’s been walking across a parched desert for a week, then slides it my way.
“Thank you.” I dab at what I hope doesn’t become a stain.
“Didn’t you wear that yesterday?” Grey asks.
“How nice of you to notice. Why yes, I did.” I plaster on a fake, fake, fake smile.
“You have the wardrobe of a teenager.”
I’m not obsessed with clothing or appearances, but have, throughout my life, looked relatively put together and stylish. Heidi’s hand-me-downs were a necessity and it’s hard not to feel the sting of Grey’s comment. But I remind myself I am here to correct his beastly ways. “Hmm. True, and you have a mouth your mother should wash out with soap.” I never said I was perfect and above slapping him back with some banter.
“Leave my mother out of this,” he grinds out.
“Stop insulting my food and clothing choices, meanie.” Admittedly, he’s not wrong about my breakfast selection, but the outfit situation was based on necessity and the stupid airline lost my stuff.
“Grow up,” he says.
I audibly gasp. “Okay, old man. I’ll do that just as soon as you do, he who showed the world his backside.”
“I’m not old. I’m in my late thirties.”
“I’m in my late twenties and am enjoying life, including this waffle with delicious melty ice cream.” I zig and zag my fork like an out-of-control airplane.
