“Usually pretty quiet. I do some traveling, visit family—maybe work on endorsements,” I explain, watching her reaction carefully. “Why? Planning to pencil me in your calendar?”
I like the direction this is going.
Lucy gives her head a tiny shake. “Just curious what your world looks like beyond football.”
Oddly enough, I’m disappointed in that answer. It would have been cooler if she’d been likeI totally want to spend time with you in Arizona!Or wherever.
I’m not picky—I could chill with her in town a weekend or two.
“My life outside of football ...” My voice trails off as I consider this. “Uh. Staying in shape. I like keeping my hands busy. Woodworking, sketching, trying new recipes in the kitchen.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You actually enjoy cooking?”
“Yeah. But it’s not like I’m a pro.” Not even close. “I like experimenting. My specialty right now is homemade pizza dough. I’ve mastered the crust—crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside.”
“Okay, now I’m impressed.”
“I’ll make you some,” I offer, the words slipping out before I realize I’m making future plans. “If I survive this lumberjack thing.”
Lucy’s smile softens, and I feel something shift again. More than the easy conversation—this is comfort. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can protect yourself from it.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she says.
Interesting. “Is this you admitting you like having me around?”
A slow nod. “Maybe.”
Hermaybehangs between us, soft but heavy enough to knock me off balance. I grip my fork, leaning toward her as I watch her, trying to read the layers beneath that answer.
“Careful, Lucy,” I say, my voice low, teasing. “Keep saying shit like that, and I might show up uninvited.”
She arches a brow. “Uninvited, huh? Just make sure you’re not climbing up the lattice and knocking on my window in the middle of the night.”
I make a mental note of that for future reference.
Lucy sets her mug down and rests her elbows on the table. “So, if you weren’t doing the lumberjack thing, what would you want to do instead?”
Easy. “I’d take you somewhere,” I answer without hesitating.
“Where?”
“Someplace chill,” I continue. “We’d hit a local farmers’ market in the morning, grab coffee, and then drive with the windows down. No plans.”
“Well, dang,” Lucy says. “That sounds kind of perfect.”
For a second, I wonder if I’m imagining the shift in her expression. It’s like we’ve skipped past the “what if” and fallen straight into “when.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad I’ll be swinging an axe.”And trying not to kill myself.
Lucy laughs softly, the sound warming the space between us. “You’ve got this. Think of it as a workout. You love those, right?”
Not necessarily. But it comes with the territory and is a necessary evil.
I run a hand through my hair. “There’s a difference between lifting weights and pulling a Paul Bunyan.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” She rests her chin on her hand, meeting my eyes. “You’re built for this.”
The way she says it makes my pulse hitch for a second. Compliments from Lucy hit different. She’s not trying to inflate my ego—she’s not full of shit.
