I roll my eyes. “The team put a bunch of clips of you scoring goals in that PowerPoint.”
Tate laughs. “I’m well aware.”
“God.” I put my face in my hands. Tate knows the team was trying to set us up? “I’m so embarrassed.”
“You’reembarrassed? Jordan, they included pictures of the back of my head to show how I still have all my hair.”
I burst out laughing. “I didn’t get that far. Wow, thatisembarrassing.”
“Meddlesome brats,” he says, shaking his head, eyes twinkling. God, he’s good looking. “All of them.”
“We should just trade them,” I say with a shrug.
“That’s a great idea, but unfortunately, I think we’re stuck with them.”
I narrow my eyes, but my heart jumps into my throat and a warm, tight, fizzy feeling moves through me.
He watches me. “Hockey isn’t my entire life.”
“No, it isn’t. Bea is. But you still love it. I know you do.” I fall silent because I think I’ve said too much, and focus on playing with the edge of my napkin instead. “And you don’t really have any peers anymore. The guys, they all have each other. It’s a powerful thing, you know, to have a family like that. The team is a family.” I swallow hard.
“I have Ross,” he says. “And you.”
“Ross is your employer. And I’m your employee.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.Are you lonely, Tate?
“Yes.” He takes a deep breath, holding my eyes. “I miss having a group of guys to mess around with. And I miss playing hockey.”
“Would you ever play with Rory and Hayden’s beer league?” Hazel’s mentioned it before, a recreational league with regular guys who just want to have fun.
He runs a hand through his thick hair with a sigh. “I don’t think so. It’s not really the same, if I’m holding back. Sorry, I’m not sure how to say that without being an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole.” Just the opposite. “You’re one of the best players in history. It’s understandable.”
His eyebrows flick up. “Best players in history, huh?”
Oh my god. My crush is squeezing through the cracks. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Tate?”
He laughs. “No, and if I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t come to you.”
“Hey.” I act affronted. “I compliment people.”
“Rarely.” The way his mouth curves is very, very distracting. “It’s okay. It just means that much more when you do.” He leans back with a contented sigh. “Best player in history.”
“I saidoneof the best.”
He grins, and a comfortable silence falls between us once again. My mind strays back to what he said though, about missing hockey. I bet Alexei does, too. Coaching just isn’t the same.
I get an idea. It’s a tiny kernel, a minuscule spark of brain cells talking to each other, but it spreads like a spiderweb through my brain.
“What’s that look?” he asks with a smile.
“You never really do anything for yourself, do you?”
He holds my eyes, swallowing, like he’s taken aback by my question. “Sure, I do. I eat pizza on the weekends with Bea.”
“You sick fucking pervert.”
