“At least you’re honest.”
Our drinks arrived and I opted to change the conversation. “So, what kind of doctor are you?”
“Internal Medicine,” she said. “I work in oncology. It’s a?—”
“Subspecialty which involves the management and diagnosis of benign and malignant neoplasm,” I completed her sentence.
She looked shocked. “How did you know that?”
I shrugged. “My old college roommate went on to work in oncology.”
“If your old college roommate became a doctor, why did you say you hated doctors earlier?”
“I run my mouth sometimes. Well, lots of times. I’ve got no filter. It’s not the first time it’s gotten me into trouble.”
“I find it hard to believe this is the first time. According to the stories I’ve read, you’re on pace for the most thuggish hockey player of the year.”
“That,” I raised a finger, “is a long story.”
“We’ve got time.”
“I’m not that interesting, trust me. And there’s something else I want to know.”
“Oh yeah?”
I nodded. “Why are you sitting here, staring at your drink at three A.M.? I know that look. I’ve seen that look before.”
Her eyes flickered up and caught the reflection of the lights. “Have you really? Where?”
My mouth went dry and I flashed back to the time when I was a little kid and I’d gotten up to get a drink of water in the flat I shared with my grandmother. In one hand she’d had her honey Jack Daniels and in the other, a stack of bills she went through with teary eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what you were thinking about when I walked up here.”
She shook her head. “It’s silly, trust me.”
I studied her face. “Fine. I’ll just assume you were waiting to be picked up.”
She shook her head and her gaze wandered around the room. I made a mental note that her neck was incredibly kissable. “It’s an uncomfortable topic,” she said, stretching her arms up.
“As uncomfortable as you are in the chair right now?”
She giggled. “Even more. I’m not used to sitting. Sorry. What about you, do you have any worries?” she asked, deflecting the question.
“Besides that I’ll disappoint you in bed?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not happening.”
“You’re right. Who are we kidding? I would blow your mind in bed. My motto is ‘underpromise, overdeliver,’ though.”
She smiled. “I can’t tell if you are being serious. But I guess a player like youwouldn’thave a care in the world, would you?”
“Sure, I’ve got worries.” I told her about the power-mongering owner of the Chicago Tigers who was going to trade me to the worst team in the league to assuage his own ego.
She mindlessly played with her hair. “That’s pretty bad,” she agreed.
“Prettybad?! I think it’s the worst thing in the world that could happen to me. In fact, aside from a good friend or family member dying, I can’t think of a thing worse.”
She laughed, almost evil sounding. “Don’t you get paid millions of dollars?”
