“Wait, wait, wait,” Brody manages. “Our captain, the guy who makes rookies cry just by existing, faked a limp to get a massage?”
“The wrong limp!” Luca adds, delighted.
“Forty-seven minutes in an ice bath,” Anderson marvels. “That’s commitment.”
“Why did Uncle Ro want Dr. Marnie to touch his butt?” Blythe asks loudly, with the perfect timing only a nine-year-old can manage.
The table goes silent for exactly one second before Dex completely loses it, wheezing with laughter.
“Ooookay,” Goldie says quickly, standing up with the experience of someone who’s managed way too many inappropriate dinner conversations. “Bedtime. Right now.”
“But I want to know about the butt touching!” Blythe protests as Goldie herds her toward the door.
After they leave, the laughter continues.
Roman’s arm is around my shoulders now, no longer hiding, no longer careful about who sees.
“For the record,” he says, looking down at me, “it wasn’t just about getting you to touch me. Though that was definitely a motivating factor.”
“Then what was it about?”
“Getting you to touch me without you immediately analyzingwhether it was appropriate or professional.” His thumb traces patterns on my shoulder. “You were so careful. I wanted to see what you’d be like if you stopped thinking so much.”
“That’s possibly the worst strategy I’ve ever heard.”
“It worked though. Eventually.”
“After you nearly got frostbite.”
“Worth it.”
The conversation shifts, the energy still high.
Rodriguez is shaking his head, grinning. “Cap faked an injury for a woman. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“At least Doc said yes to him eventually,” Brody points out. “Unlike your ice queen situation.”
Rodriguez’s face falls. “Don’t.”
“Oh, this should be good,” Dex says, leaning forward. “What happened this time?”
“Nothing happened?—”
“He tried talking to her again yesterday,” Anderson supplies helpfully. “Outside the rink. She told him to stop following her.”
“I wasn’t following her?—”
“You drove to the rink on your day off,” Brody says. “That’s following.”
“I was checking on my recovery timeline?—”
“The rink you’re rehabbing at is here, not downtown,” I point out gently.
Rodriguez slumps in his chair. “Fine. I drove to the coffee shop. Maybe I walked to the rink after. Maybe I saw her leaving.”
“And maybe she told you to leave her alone?” Roman asks, voice flat.
“She said she wasn’t interested in being bothered while she was working,” Rodriguez mumbles.
