Page 73 of Playmaker

“Oh, me too. I am the worst at picking up clues.” Grinning, I added, “But the contrast between how we started and how it’s going—I mean, it does help, you know?”

Her laughter was seriously the cutest thing ever. I couldn’t get enough of the way her eyes danced when she laughed, or the way her whole face lit up when she smiled.

God. We’ve been doing this for three days, and I have it so bad for you already.

Some part of me tried to be alarmed by that, but I just ignored it. I hadn’t dated anyone in a while, and I liked these ridiculous fluttery feelings. If things fizzled in a couple of months or whatever—eh, I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Right now, I was completely stupid for Sabrina, and I didn’t fight it. I straight up basked in it, because why not?

“So.” Sabrina gestured with the menu. “Any thoughts on something to eat?”

Jesus, the innuendo wasrightthere.

I shook myself and cleared my throat. “Um. I…” I looked down at my own menu. “Right. Food.” I skimmed over the words. “The website said this place has amazing steak.”

She made a sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in bed. “Ooh, I could go for a steak. Especially after the tournament.”

“Oh, come on,” I teased as I brought up my glass for a drink. “Don’t tell me you’re tired. It was only three games of three-on-three.

She flipped me off, and I almost choked on my wine.

“You deserved that,” she muttered.

I just rolled my eyes.

Truthfully, I wasn’t surprised she was tired. In between the sex we’d been having at every opportunity, she’d had mediaavailability, meet-and-greets with fans, and the tournament. Our division had ultimately lost the tournament, but it was a close game right up until the end, and Sabrina had scored two beautiful goals. Shame about that unfortunate penalty Hartford’s player had taken in overtime, which had given the Western Conference the chance to win.

I was about to ask her what she thought about that penalty—if she thought the player was reckless or just made a bad decision on the fly—when a woman in a pantsuit approached our table.

“Hello, ladies.” She smiled in that over-the-top way we were trained to do in front of cameras. “You’re Sabrina McAvoy, right?”

Sabrina returned the smile, though hers was more friendly than phony. “I am.”

The woman turned to me. “And Lila Hamilton, correct?”

“Yes.” Media smile, right on cue.

She shook hands with each of us. “It’s lovely to meet both of you. Listen, I’m doing some interviews and stories with players who’ve come to the All-Stars. Especially those who’ve brought partners.” Her eyes flicked toward me, then back to Sabrina. “I don’t want to assume, but you two are teammates, and you also seem quite… friendly.” She smiled. “So is this a night out for a couple of teammates?” The reporter inclined her head. “Or a night out for a couple?”

Heat instantly rushed into my face. Jesus. Reporters could be intrusive, but they usually had alittlemore tact than that. Before I could even look to Sabrina to get a bead on what she thought we should say, she laughed and said, “Just a couple of friends.”

The reporter seemed vaguely skeptical, judging by the way she glanced back and forth between us, but she let the subject drop. Shifting gears, she asked us a few benign questions about the All-Stars and our season with the Bearcats. The whole time, my stomach wound itself in knots, but I kept my smile in place.

I understood that we were public people, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable with reporters asking us such intensely personal questions. Some of them did because they were shock jock types who liked to stir shit up. Others—like this one—just seemed to think our personal lives were easy breezy conversation. Even though women’s hockey was as accepting as they came about gay players, there was still nuance and caution about coming out.

Mostly, though, it was Sabrina’s answer that left me squirming in my seat. Even after the reporter had left and we continued through dinner, I still couldn’t relax.

“Hey.” Sabrina nudged my foot under the table. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m… I’m good.”

The upward flick of her eyebrow called bullshit on that.

“Not here.” I made a subtle gesture around us. “When we get back to the room. It’s… I just don’t like the way reporters pry, you know?”

Concern replaced the skepticism in her expression, but she nodded and let the subject go. I felt bad about that; no one liked the ominous feeling of “we need to talk about something in private,” and it was especially uncomfortable early in a relationship.

But we were public people and I didn’t want this conversation to be for public consumption. I just hoped Sabrina forgave me for the uneasiness.

I steered the conversation away from the subject until we’d left the restaurant. It was only a few blocks from our hotel, so we’d walked. I let her set the pace on the way back since she’d skated hard today, but she seemed comfortable with her usual brisk gait. Worked for me.

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