Page 18 of The Big Puck

I nod because I have no idea what else to say except you’re right, and for some reason, I’m reluctant to make that admission to her. Afraid it’ll unravel the knot of restraint I’m holding onto, and who knows what else I’ll admit she’s right about. I pick up my fork and shovel in another mouthful of orecchiette pasta and half a meatball. I know my pasta, and this is fucking top notch.

Her mouth widens, and her perfect pearly teeth practically sparkle at me, trying to blind me, so I look away and concentrate on the food.

“I’m so terrible—I didn’t even give you a chance to tell me about your day. What did you do? Did you see Jason? Any meetings?”

I almost choke but manage a nod before I finish chewing,

She laughs and rolls her hand, prompting me to go on.

“Jason skated. We worked together. A couple of the other players showed up. My assistant coach.” She stares at me like I’m delivering the Gettysburg address. I stab another forkful of pasta because my speech is over.

“Wait, tell me more. Tell me about your meeting.”

“More?” What the fuck? It’s not like I’m going to tell her about my meeting with the team owner.

Except, hell, maybe she already knows. Maybe Jason knows and said something. He’s been getting a lot of attention from Gavonza. Fuck. I put down my fork, and empty-mouthed, I study her. “What do you know?”

“Know? What are you talking about? Why would I know anything unless you tell me?”

“Jason.”

She stares at me, and I wait. Several beats go by, and I look at the big round kitchen clock, watching the second hand sweep around.

Until she finally gives in with a big sigh.

“Jason hasn’t said a thing to me about you. We have an agreement if you want to know. You are a forbidden topic of conversation. Happy?”

I nod and pick up my fork, but she darts a hand out and stops me.

“No, you don’t. You didn’t answer my question. I saw on your calendar that you had a meeting with Gavonza today. Tell me about it.”

“None of your business.”

“Yes, it is.”

“How the hell do you figure that?”

“It’s affecting me because it’s affecting your mood.”

“My mood is none of your business.”

“Yes, it is. Your mood affects Krissy, too.”

Raking a hand through my hair, my muscles clench across my shoulders and all the way down my back. Shit. She’s not right about this.

“I know how to keep work at work. Krissy will never get anything from me but my best.”

She nods. “That’s all I can ask for.” She quiets, and I finally shove the forkful of pasta in my mouth and chew. It’s delicious. And she made it. I ignore my flaring conscience.

She watches me, then turns to her plate and mutters, “Though it would be nice if you were in a better mood around me, too.”

Why do I feel like I’m stuck in a scene from a family sitcom where she’s playing the role of a wronged housewife?

“Look, the meeting went exactly as expected. Nothing new. I have a one-year contract. Period.” Shit. No need to tell her about the extension clause. It’s not because of the NDA because I have nothing to lose there. But that foolish pie-in-the-sky clause is my own private folly.

“You’re lying.”

“You’ll have to live with that.”