“Had to make myself presentable,” I said, running a hand through damp hair. “You always complain when I smell like the locker room.”
“You still do,” she said, but her mouth twitched, betraying a smile. “But come on. We’ve got an hour before your next interview block.”
*
The coffee shop was tucked against the glass that overlooked the practice ice. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet, and the steam from the espresso machine ghosted the windows. She chose a corner table, of course. Strategic. Always aware of exits and sightlines.
I dropped into the seat across from her, still half in game mode, and stretched my legs out until they brushed against hers beneath the table. She shot me a look. Didn’t move them, though.
“Post-game media,” she said, sliding her tablet across. “You were controlled, concise, and even charming. I’m not sure what’s happening to you.”
“Maybe your good influence is finally corrupting me.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It does when I say so.”
Her lips curved slightly, but the almost-smile was there. And damn if that didn’t feel better than any compliment she’d given me.
She scrolled to a clip on her screen and hit play. My face filled the display, answering a reporter’s question about defense strategy. I looked calm. Confident. Not the guy who used to ramble himself into PR disasters.
“You see?” she said. “That’s how you build trust. Authority without arrogance.”
“Authority, huh?” I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So I’m finally passing the Holly Griswold exam?”
“Mid-terms,” she said, voice even. “Don’t get cocky.”
Her tone was professional, but her eyes flicked up, locking with mine for a second too long. There it was again—that quiet shift in the air, the thing I couldn’t name yet.
I cleared my throat, leaning back. “You’re good at this.”
“At what? Managing impossible hockey players?”
“Making people want to be better at what they do.”
That startled her. Enough to make her fingers hesitate on the screen before she set the tablet down. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And I’m saying you’re good at it.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached for her coffee, took a sip, and studied me over the cup. There was a small crease between her brows. Something thoughtful, maybe wary.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You’re just… different lately.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’m finally getting used to you breathing down my neck.”
Her laugh came low and quick, catching both of us off guard. She looked away, fiddling with her sleeve like she regretted letting it slip out in the first place.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I started behaving perfectly.”
“Flattery gets you nowhere, Callahan.”
But she said it softer than usual, almost affectionately.
For a moment, the rest of the place blurred until just the hiss of the espresso machine, and the quiet clatter of mugs took over. Her phone buzzed against the table. She ignored it. The space between us shrank until it felt like even breathing too hard might tip something over.
I didn’t break it. Neither did she.
