Page 21 of Her Coach

After all, I enjoyed conversation with him way too much.

Yet, all too soon…

“Yep,” Colton said with a grunt as he eased himself back down into his seat directly in front of me at the bar, “let’s go ahead and cash these boys out before I have to roll them all home. Just tally it all up onto one bill.”

I giggled as I walked over to the cash register, but the more I tallied, the more I peered over my shoulder. While Colton inched his hip up to get at his wallet, I wondered if he was going to be able to pay this kind of tab. I mean, sure, I enjoyed hockey, but it wasn’t like I knew what coaches made for a living or anything like that.

I printed out the receipt, slipping it into a little cushioned black folder, and walked it back to him.

“There you go,” I said as I slid him the tab for just over eight hundred big ones, “we take cash, credit, and debit. Just no⁠—”

He slipped out a card and handed it to me. “There you go. Tip whatever you need on the card.”

I took the credit card from him and forced myself to scoop the check back up. The man didn’t even open the top of the cushioned folder to see how much it was. Finally, someone who wouldn’t use my mother for her money. Not that my mother did a hell of a lot of dating or anything like that. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her take an interest in the idea since we buried Dad. But my mother was loaded. And that was an easy thing to take advantage of, if someone wasn’t careful.

“So, English lit,” Colton said, pulling me out of my trance. “Community relations for a hockey team. How’s that square with the degree?”

But all I did was stare at the screen as I rang him out. I swiped his card, but when I was met with the tip screen, I thought back on his words.

Tip whatever you need.

Did he mean that? No, surely, he couldn’t have meant that. Why would he have said it if he didn’t mean it? My fingers grew itchy. Despite the fact that Mom was loaded down, I never took a shred of her money. So why was it so tempting to test this theory with Colton?

I typed in a regular 18% tip. It was still a hell of a lot of money on an $812.32 bill, but when I cashed him out, I let out a breath I’d been holding since he walked in.

Why did I get the feeling he tested me?

“Here you go,” I said as I slipped the new receipt into the black cushioned folder with the bar’s logo on the front of it in various shades of blue.

“Thanks,” he muttered as he flipped the notepad open and glanced at the total for exactly half a second before he signed it. I watched him slide his card back into his wallet without checking the receipt I left in the folder. Most people at least looked. He didn’t even reach for it.

“There we go,” I said as I took it back from him. “You guys are all set. Though, feel free to stick around and play some more pool.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Huh?”

He pinned me with a look. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from his. “I wrote a novel.”

He blinked. “You want to be a writer.”

I shrugged. “I’ve been working on it for six years. I’m not sure want is the right word anymore. It’s more like something I can’t put down even when I try.”

“You speak as if it’s complicated.”

I lowered my gaze to the bar and cleaned things up a bit during the lull of patrons. “Life chooses differently for us sometimes.”

“You can’t be more than twenty-six or so,” he said without hesitation, “you’ve got plenty of time to do what you want with your life.”

I topped off a patron’s drink before turning back. “I like what I do for the team, and I enjoy being home for Mom.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Doesn’t shock me, seeing as you just spent eight hundred dollars on a tab.”

He looked at me for a second. "Your mother owns a professional hockey franchise."