“Oh, believe me, I already have.” He follows up his monster handshake with a lung-rattling thump on my back. “See you around!”
“Um.” Did Remy tell him I’d be back? Is this going to be mythingnow?
I mean. I guess it wouldn’t be terrible. Adults can be overwhelming, but the kids were alright.
Remy doesn’t speak to me directly until we’re in the car and headed back into the city. “See?” she asks in the privacy of the rear seat. “You survived.”
“Uh-huh.”
She brushes a few loose hairs out of her face. “You’re pretty good with kids. I was surprised.”
That wasn’t what she expected. I hear it in her tone like she’s recalculating something she thought she already had figured out.
“Because I’m a monster?”
She rolls her eyes. “Because youtalkedto them. You had quite the team huddle going at one point.”
“Mm. Yeah.” I don’t want to repeat our awkward ride from earlier, but if I don’t talk, she’ll assume I’m sulking again. “Kids, you know. Don’t judge.” I rub my nose with my thumb.
Remy’s only response is to stare at me, her head tilted to one side, wearing the same expression Shutout does when he wants something from me. Not that she’d appreciate the comparison.
She studies me for so long that I start to squirm. Earlier, she dismissed me. Now, she’s looking deeper. Her green eyes cut right through me.
I don’t like being looked at that way. Not because it’s hostile, but because it isn’t. Because it feels like she’s getting closer to something I haven’t decided whether I’m willing to give her.
Things were easier when we were squabbling. Now, with my defenses down, I let myself study her, too. Her freckles extend down her neck, into the collar of her jersey. Her lips are full and pouty. There’s a floral smell that accompanies her everywhere. Jasmine, maybe?
Whatever it is, I like it.
Which is a problem, considering she’s here to pick me apart.
Chapter Six
Remy
The rest of the Venom is on the road for the second and final away game of Owen’s suspension. Owen, however, is here with me, completing a checklist of tasks that I’ve lined up for him.
Structure helps. Give people a list, a sequence, a clear set of expectations, and most of them will fall in line. It’s when things get vague that they start to drift. Owen Rourke strikes me as someone who drifts when he’s left to his own devices.
“Sign these photos,” I command.
Owen dutifully takes the stack of headshots and uncaps the Sharpie I toss him. “Are these for anyone in particular?”
“The kids from the rink the other day.”
“Oh.” Owen’s face lights up. With a real, honest-to-Godsmile.I… was not expecting that. “Do you have a list of their names?”
That doesn’t match the version of him I walked in expecting. I catch myself staring a beat too long, like I’m waiting for it to disappear.
“Yes, actually.” I shift through my stack of papers. “One of the volunteers thought it would be nice to give one to each of the kids who met you. They’ll pick them up the next time they’re in for a free skate day.” I hold up the list, just to demonstrate that I have it.
To my surprise, Owen reaches over and takes the list from me. Without another word, he starts writing out a little note. I thought he’d dash off some incomprehensible squiggles, but he takes his time, including each kid’s name and a short message. I have no idea if he remembers the children specifically, or ifhe’s writing a personalized note that could apply to any of them. If I can’t tell, I bet the kids won’t be able to, either. And if they compare their photos, they’ll know that Owen Rourke took the time to write them a special message.
It’s a sweet gesture, and one that I did not expect. I didn’t know that Owen could be so… thoughtful.
Most clients would rush through this, treat it like a box to check so they can move on. He doesn’t. He leans into it.
I drag my eyes away from Owen’s face before I can decide how to feel about that. This is exactly how it starts—one unexpected moment, one deviation from the narrative you’ve already built in your head. I don’t have time to rewrite that narrative every time he surprises me.
