Once I’d faked an errand and then returned to my office, I told my assistant Zaila would be coming for a working lunch, which was true if you counted watching hockey film as work. Then I focused on reports from the Wildcatters as well as my oil business for a solid two hours before I started counting the minutes until I could see Zaila again.
I haven’t been this into a girl since I was fifteen, I thought to myself. Actually, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been this interested in a woman. Zaila made me fumble for my usual collectedness. And somehow, I appreciated that I wasn’t able to keep my cool with her.
I continued to contemplate this loss of control until my fantasies took a not-suitable-for-work turn, and I forced myself to rein them in. By the time twelve thirty rolled around, I’d managed one additional hour of focus, for which I should have received a gold star.
At precisely 12:30, Zaila knocked before sticking her head through my double doors. “Is now a good time for our lunch meeting?”
Any time is the right time for you. I smiled. I enjoy spending time with Zaila. Even the little things were a revelation sometimes. “Perfect,” I told her. “Leon’s getting our lunch. Why don’t we sit over here at the table, and that way we can go through the footage while we eat.” I nodded toward the large, flat screen on the wall nearby.
She nodded. Once she’d taken her seat and pulled out a pad and pen, Leon knocked on the door. He brought in the food, setting a stuffed paper bag between us. Leon had worked for me for nearly five years, and I could see the interest in his gaze. I never had working lunches with Wildcatters staff. Coaches or players, sure, but not the employees. I’d tended to steer clear of them, until Zaila.
My gorgeous intern had changed everything, and she didn’t even know it. I gave Leon a curt nod, and he exited the office, shutting the door behind him.
“Let’s eat first, and then we can dig into the details,” I suggested.
I’d ordered from a place I’d seen on her social media feed, betting she’d enjoy the dish she’d posted there.
She opened the container of chicken masala and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm… Cyberstalk much?”
I shrugged. “I consider this research.”
Her eyes lit up. “Lucky for you, this is my favorite, so I’m not going to complain.”
“Good, on both accounts.”
We ate, and the conversation was easy—like we’d known each other for decades, not mere weeks. Zaila told me about her mother’s illness, and I reciprocated with details about my parents’ deaths and Karl raising me through high school. I didn’t even hesitate to mention my brother, which was atypical for me. The words were out before I had time to consider them.
“We had to move twice because of his hockey commitments, but I didn’t mind.”
“Your brother plays?” she asked, clearly surprised.
I shook my head, setting aside my meal. This was why I never talked about Karl. I hated remembering how he’d been taken from me. “Not anymore,” I murmured. Steeling myself, I met Zaila’s concerned gaze. “He was murdered.”
Zaila’s fork clattered into her to-go packaging. She leaned forward, her eyes filled with so much compassion that my nose stung with answering grief. “I’m so sorry, Gunnar. I can’t even imagine how much you must miss him.”
I reached over and intertwined our fingers. “I do. I always will.” I paused a moment. “I don’t like to talk about it. I usually don’t talk about him. But somehow…” I looked up at her and cleared my throat against the emotion crammed there. “He was beaten too badly to survive. His teammates found him outside a gay bar with his partner.” Because Leon had told them where Karl would be.
I shoved down those thoughts, those memories, with the ruthless precision I’d mastered over the decades.
Zaila closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “That’s such a tragedy. I can’t believe people could be so cruel…” She opened her eyes and met mine. “That’s why the Wildcatters have the CATS,” she said. “Comrades, allies, teammates, spouses. Inclusive.”
I nodded. “That’s why.”
“And that’s why the organization is involved with domestic abuse shelters and does so much work to bring attention to hate crimes.”
“Yes.”
“That’s inspiring—not losing your brother to violence,” she hastened to add. “But the way you’ve chosen to channel your grief into improving others’ lives. I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”
That squeezed my throat nearly closed. Noting my response, Zaila withdrew her fingers from mine and patted my hand. “I’m grateful you shared that with me. Thank you. I’ll keep it close.” She touched her chest.
I’d been ruthless for so many years now that these softer emotions startled me. Still, I soaked up the feelings Zaila evoked in me. It was as if she gave me better access my own emotions. She cleaned up her space, tucking the trash away in a paper bag. I took the cue and followed suit so we could get to work.
Once I’d disposed of the mess, I pulled up clips from our last few preseason games.
“So,” she asked after watching an impressive goal replay, “what are our chances this year?”
“With or without Jeff?” I asked.
