There’s that smear of her lip balm again on the rim. I wonder if it tastes like anything. If it makes her lips taste like anything.
“My pleasure. You look nice today.” I catch myself. “Professional. You look professional.”
She gives me an odd look because I’m flustered like a fucking teenager, before she gestures at the drink, eyes bright.
“Well, go on.”
I bring the cup to my lips, holding her eyes. What’s it today, huh? Milk with little bits of spinach floating in it? Wheatgrass and strawberry? Motor oil?
The delicious taste of marshmallow and caramel hits my tongue and my eyes close at how good it is. How sweet. How it races to some area of my brain that loves sugar. Some caveman part of me that saysmore.
If we kissed, this is how she’d taste. This is how I’d feel.
I clear my throat, looking down at it. “It’s the same drink as Friday.”
She looks pleased. “So you do like it.”
Too much. I could drink ten of these, one after the other. I take a deep, calming breath, acknowledge the urge, and wait for it to pass. The same thing I do when I want to drink liquor.
“Thank you.” I slide the drink away before rubbing the back of my neck. “Very thoughtful of you.”
She narrows her eyes. “Have the rest.”
“No,” I say quickly before checking my tone into something less urgent. “No, thank you.”
She studies me. It doesn’t feel good, to be on the receiving end of this look. “Why not?”
Because I’ve had enough indulgence. I spent two years getting drunk most nights.
When I get out of control, when I let myself have things I want, bad things happen. I have a daughter now. I’m a role model for my players. I can’t let myself slip, not even for a second.
“I’m full from the protein smoothie I had after the gym.” I run a hand through my hair and change the subject. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
She takes a seat, listening.
“You were right about Hutton. Who do you thinkwouldbe a good fit for our team?”
“Brooks Yang-Hanson,” she says without missing a beat.
“With Seattle?”
She nods. “He’d be a good second-line centerman and a backup for Rory.”
“You don’t like Berg?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him.” She leans back in the chair, frowning as she chooses her words, and it does something to me, seeing her at ease and focused like this. Maybe it’s how she looks in this outfit, how professional and confident, or maybe it’s something different about her.
She looks like she belongs here, strategizing with me.
“He’s a good player but he’s on the tail end of his career,” she says. “You know how Volkov loves the game so much, he wanted to win another cup even until the last second of his last game? Berg’s not like that.”
She’s right. I blow out a heavy breath. “I hate giving up on people.”
I don’t know why I admitted that. This is my problem, Ross has gently pointed out. I see the potential in people and have a hard time letting go. Sometimes I hang on way, way too long.
“You aren’t giving up on him. His career isn’t over, he’d just be going to another team, a team he might be a better fit for.”
“I know it’s part of the deal, that guys get traded, but I can’t help but think about what could be.” I fold my arms. “Remember Connor McKinnon?”
