Page 45 of Dirty Fighter

I place my tiles one at a time, checking his reaction and then soaking in the satisfaction when he rocks back with a laugh.

“Nice.”

We’re quiet as we study the board and our options. I’m thinking about asking who sharpened the pencils… but when I start to speak, that’s not what I say.

Jason

“So… umm… no girlfriend either? You know… desperately trying to get through.”

I freeze, my index finger hovering over the blank tile in my lineup.

It’s not so much that the question itself catches me off guard. I mean, hell, I’ve got reporters, staff from the Slayers organization, and Boomer asking me about my love life every other week. But to the best of my recollection, only once has Rowan asked me whether I had a girl and that was the week I met her, ten years ago.

The question doesn’t mean anything.

Sure, women asking about relationship status can signal interest. But it can also signal a need to fill some lull in the conversation with basic pleasantries. With Rowan…

I stare at her as she stares at her tiles like all of humanity’s survival depends on the points she scores this round. She’s competitive, not trying to play it cool or something.

When she finally looks up, it’s with a passive smile that all but screams BASIC PLEASANTRIES, DICK.

Of course. Obviously.

Thankfully.

“No girlfriend.” I keep my voice level, my eyes fixed on the lines of her face as I wait for some tell that doesn’t come and I shouldn’t be waiting on anyway. Because I’m never cool around this woman. But I need to be.

“Still leaving a string of broken hearts in your wake?”

I cough out a laugh. “Hardly.”

“Hmm.” That noncommittal sound might as well have been a hard eye roll. She is not convinced.

It shouldn’t matter if she believes me or not.

I don’t care one way or another… and I know I’ve got tiles for a score that’ll make her weep. Only… “For real.”

See: Not. Cool.

She peers up at me, and Christ, when she really looks at me, I hardly know what to do with myself. Which is crazy considering my chosen career puts me in front of an average of 450,000 television and 18,000 live viewers per game.

But Rowan gives me her full attention, and suddenly I don’t know where my arms go. Feels like I’m too big for my chair, like my legs take up three-quarters of the fucking cabin, hell, the island.

She folds her arms over the edge of the table, leaning in. “Okay, since we’re here for a while and you’re so desperate to correct this misconception about your status as an international Hockey God Heartbreaker…”

My jaw drops, but then I see it. That flicker at the corner of her mouth, the first spark of a smile about to ignite in her eyes. And yeah, she can tease all she likes. In fact, I sit back in my chair, suddenly comfortable in my own skin again. I wave her on with a patient grin.

She goes on. “So let’s hear it. Tell me about your epic romantic exploits.”

Or lack thereof?

“Honestly, it’s not much different from high school.” I’m getting attached to the way that pretty brow wings up, challenging me with nothing more than a look. “I’m serious. Couple of girlfriends over the years, but nothing really stuck.”

“Right. More of a casual guy.”

I frown. “What makes you say that?”

But then I remember. It was early on after the wedding. The weird comments Marsha would drop at the dinner table. Little bits of misinformation that hardly merited correction. Some semi-unflattering reference, offered with a warm laugh and a “boys will be boys” smile.