“What counts as a dirty favor?” I say, arching a brow.
She shrugs. “I dunno, you tell me.”
“We’ll come back to that,” I finally say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a fluffy black ball of fur prancing toward me, and I sigh.
I don’t understand his obsession with me.
I hate cats.
Which obviously includes him.
Sebastian hops up onto the couch and rubs against the sleeve of my jacket, purring like a goddamn engine.
“I think he’s got a complex. You know how people fall in love with their kidnappers? What’s that syndrome called?” Maisie mutters, and her lips twist together contemplatively.
“What the fuck, Maisie. I didn’t kidnap the cat.”
She giggles. “I know, but you openly hate him. I’m just saying there’s probably a name for the whole cling-to-the-person-who-despises-you thing.” Maisie moves to the spot on the other side of me and sinks down onto the couch. “C’mon… pet him. Just one time.”
I glance down at the cat, who’s still staring at me.
“One teeeeeeny, tiny little head scratch, Wilder. You can do it. I believe in you.”
For fuck’s sake.
Reaching over, I rub my palm over the top of his head for a few seconds before dropping my hand and pinning Maisie with a look.
“See? Was that so hard? You probably just made his life.” She’s beaming at me, her pink lips parted in a smile that makes something foreign tug in my gut.
Like me petting the damn cat really meant that much to her.
I clear my throat. “I’ve got to head to the arena in a few.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yeah. I’m working with one of the defense guys on some drills.” My gaze catches on the small drop of coffee that’s clinging to her lips. Unable to look away, I reach for it, sweeping it away with my thumb.
Her cheeks flush, and I flash her a smirk.
I fucking love that about her.
How responsive she is, no matter if I’m pressing my lips to her skin or brushing away something like a drop of coffee. Her body always responds to my touch.
Fuck me. I’m getting distracted.
Rein it in.
“I know you have a lot going on with the program and school, and that’s why I know this would be a favor, but…” I trail off, and she reaches out, grabbing my hand and offering me a small,reassuring smile that I had no clue I actually needed. I’m just not… I’ve never asked people for help with anything, and doing so is so goddamn hard. “There’s an event that someone asked me to attend as a former NHL player, coach, whatever. At a local group home for children who are part of the foster care system. My friend Camila asked, and it’s important to her. She’s like a sister to me.”
Tightness sits beneath my ribs, and as much as I want to tell her to forget that I ever brought it up, I keep going. “It’s not a place that I have… good memories of. It’s going to be hard for me. Really fucking hard.”
I probably sound pathetic, fucking weak, the same things my mother used to scream at me in the throes of her addiction. I was always the thing that ruined her life.
I swallow, pushing down the toxic memories when they’re threatening to choke me. Maisie’s hand squeezes mine tightly, and I fight the urge to pull away because it feels like she cares.
Isn’t that the most fucked-up thing you’ve ever heard?
