I fold an arm under my head to see her better. “Rebecca went for it?”
“Yeah, as long as we don’t objectify the players, so I’m doing preliminary interviews with each player who wants to participate, so we can control the narrative.”
“Sounds good. Shoot.”
Bree tugs her laptop out and attempts to balance it on her lap, which doesn’t work well. I shift on the table so she can use the corner by my foot like a desk.
After she taps on her keyboard, she lifts her face toward me. “Basics first. I assume your favorite color is still green?”
“Yes.”
“Favorite movie or TV show.” She readies her fingers to type.
“Ted Lasso.”
She snorts. “Of course it is.”
I push up on my elbows to stare her down. “Have you even watched it? The show is brilliant.”
Her smile turns mischievous. “Oh, I agree. I just wanted you to prove yourself worthy of the biscuits.”
A deep laugh rumbles up as I realize her double entendres—how she connected ‘biscuits with the boss’ from Ted Lasso to how hockey players refer to the puck as ‘the biscuit.’
“Very clever.” I’ve missed laughing with her more than I can say.
She giggles, but it hits in my chest like a magnet drawn to its opposite. “Okay, next question, but I’m afraid of your answer. Favorite food.”
The cringe on her face is priceless. She probably thinks I’m going to say salad or roasted vegetables.
My turn to blow her mind. “Nachos.”
Her brows dart up, and her eyes widen, emphasizing every detail of her gorgeous blue irises. I could drown in those depths like a man lost at sea.
“Seriously? What, are they loaded with vegetables, which is totally gross, you know?”
I agree, but I’m going to let her think the worst. “Not the way I do them.”
She makes a barfing sound. “There is no way vegetables work on nachos.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ll make them sometime so you can see for yourself.”
“Hard pass, bro.” She waves her hand in a no-go motion between us.
I know it’s just a colloquialism, but I’ve had enough of her thinking of me like a brother. “Is that how you treat your best friend after a grueling therapy sesh?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Let’s move on.”
At first, I wasn’t thrilled about doing this date with a hockey player idea, but I’m enjoying spending time with her and the comfortable banter between us—like things used to be.
But then she hits me with an unexpected question. “What’s your favorite childhood memory?”
My thoughts flip through a plethora of scenes from the past like the old-fashioned Rolodexes Nana uses to organize her recipes. She also keeps it in a safe, if that tells you anything about how seriously she takes her cooking.
This journey down memory lane lands on a particular one I’ve held close for years. “That day you got caught on the barbed wire.”
Her eyes go wide with surprise. “Seriously? I still have a scar.” She leans to the left, pointing to the spot on the back of her leg, right below her rear.
Even though her pants more than cover the area, heat crawls up the back of my neck. Should I tell her that catching a glimpse of her pink panties was the highlight of my sixteenth summer?
