Something gleams in her eyes that makes me think I’m about to regret my words.
“Okay, then. This is a sport where players marry young. Why are you still single?”
Chapter 18
Freddie
Falkenberg’s expression is priceless. I resist the urge to laugh. Maybe he’s not used to personal questions where he comes from, but I have no issue scrapping the small talk. He’s suspiciously missing from social media feeds and I can’t find any candid photos of him at all.
“That’s a personal question.”
“So?”
“How do you know I’m single?”
“I had my father’s P.I. follow you.”
He looks completely incensed.
“I’m joking! Jesus. My dad had his P.I. follow me one time and it was the most disturbing week of my life.” I plop the rest of the cinnamon roll into my mouth. “It was just a guess. A lot of the players your age are wifed up with kids by now. Kinda weird, honestly, but if your career’s over at thirty, I guess it makes sense.”
“How do you know how old I am?” His expression turns even more vexed.
I roll my eyes. “You have a wiki page. Over the hill for a hockey player, sounds like. Not like me. I’m twenty-four. Still in my prime.”
“That explains it,” he says, like he’s just found some missing piece to a puzzle.
“Explains what?”
“The way you are. It must be the underdeveloped frontal lobe.”
I balk at him. “At least I still have a frontal lobe. Yours is probably concussed into oblivion. That would explain the terrible personality.”
To my surprise, he grimaces. Have I managed to hurt his feelings? He looks out the window.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I think you said I had a terribly mysterious personality, but I’m not sure,” he interrupts me, his eyes sliding back to mine. “English isn’t my first language.”
It’s an attempt at levity, and the way his pale eyes pin me makes my breath hitch. My eyes track over his face, almost boyishly handsome, but the coldness of him, the curve of his jaw and his almost aristocratically straight nose lend a sharp edge. Something about being the sole focus of his attention makes me flush, so I look down at the table where he’s holding his coffee cup—only to find myself thinking about those broad, long-fingered hands again.
I swallow. “So, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you single? You know enough about me. Tell me something about you. That’s how friendship works.” I frame it like an exchange of trust, but the truth is, I’m actually dying to know.
As if he’s read my mind he says, “Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy?”
Normally I’d be annoyed by his rudeness, but for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s his accent.
“Answer the question. You said I could ask whatever I want to know.”
He regards me coolly. “I did not say that, but the answer is obvious, anyway.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because I can’t afford distractions, Hearst.” His thin mouth presses into a line, his accent stiff and stilted.
