Page 43 of Playmaker

After last night? What was—

Oh. Right.

That.

I picked up my glass—just water now—and took a sip. “I’m good, honestly.”

Her brow pinched. “Did your dad say anything to you?”

Rolling my eyes, I nodded. “Yeah. He called after the game, but…” I waved a hand. “To tell you the truth, I’m so used to his bullshit, I was pretty much over it by this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Not entirely true, but my anger had cooled to a simmer of annoyance, so… close enough.

“Wow.” She absently swirled what remained of her cocktail. “You’re tougher than me. I’d be a mess if my dad pulled something like that.”

I half-shrugged. “I think I’m just used to it.”

Lila wrinkled her nose. “That’s a shitty thing to have to get used to.”

“So are old injuries, but…”

That made her laugh softly. “Isn’t that the truth?”

“Right? But I mean, I think years of putting up with his bullshit has—okay, it hasn’t quite given me the ability to let things roll off like water on a duck’s back. It’s more like…” I thought about it. “I guess it’s more like when a dog wallows in the mud, but then the mud dries and falls off, and before you know it, you forget he was ever in the mud at all.” I paused, then laughed. “Okay, that’s probably not the best analogy.”

“Well, given what your dad does, I’d have said it’s more like a dog rolling in shit, but…”

I snorted. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Why?” She gestured at herself. “I’m not.”

I just laughed, and the little grin told me that was the desired effect. It also scrambled my brain just like always. God, I was such a wreck over her.

It didn’t help that she looked smoking hot tonight. She was dressed casually since we weren’t subject to the League’s dress code right now, and the blue tank top she was wearing screwed with my concentration. It showed off her ink and her toned arms, not to mention the slightest peek at her cleavage.

And I was staring.

Shit!

I went for my drink again, and after I’d swallowed it, I cleared my throat. Time to change the subject.

“So.” I folded my arms on the edge of the table and met her gaze. “How did you get into hockey in the first place?”

Lila played with the straw in her cocktail. “All the kids in my neighborhood played street hockey. I used to watch them when I was really little, and when I was like five, I finally convinced them to let me play.”

“Aww, so does that mean there’s pictures somewhere of tiny Lila playing street hockey?”

Her shy laugh and that blush were mesmerizing. “My parents have videos, too. Tons of them.”

“Okay, that all sounds super adorable.”

She rolled her eyes, blushing even brighter. “There’s actually one my parents tried to send to one of those funny home video TV shows. One of the older boys kept getting pissy that the other kids would let me play, and he was ranting about it while my dad was trying to get a video of us playing. He was all about how I was too small and weak to even move the ball, never mind get it into the goal, and I could barely skate, and…” She rolled her hand. “Just bullshit, you know?”

I nodded. “One at every rink, isn’t there?”

“God, right?” She huffed. “Anyway, so right when Mom was about to tell the kid to go home,” Lila went on, “I hit the ball toward the net, but missed and hit him right in the butt.” She laughed quietly. “And like, he’s on roller blades, ranting and raving, and suddenly something clocks him from behind.”

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