Page 116 of Near Miss

The tip of Rav’s pen hits the corner of his clipboard.

Still oak.

Still pretentious.

“So.” One brow rises on his forehead.

“So,” I repeat.

He rolls his eyes, but I think the corners of his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I saw something interesting on my way here.”

I wave a hand. “You take the TTC. I’m sure you see lots of things.”

He exhales a laugh, reaching to the end table beside his cracked leather couch and tossing a magazine onto the coffee table between us. “The latest issue ofMen’s Health. Riveting stuff—how Beckett Davis made kicking sexy.”

The magazine slides across the smooth surface of the wood, practically skidding to a stop before me. My eyes cut down to it, but I look back up at Rav.

I’ve seen the photo a million times. It really is beautiful—Beckett in black and white, left corner of his mouth lifted so the dimple pops in his check, uneven stubble dusting his jaw that somehow elevates the whole thing.

Nothing covering him except a strategically placed football held between his hands.

All those ridges and lines of muscle carving up his legs.

The best legs in the league.

Hall-of-fame legs, if the analysts are to be believed.

I raise my chin. “I picked that photo, you know.”

Rav smiles, brown eyes alight while the corners wrinkle. “I’m sure people across North America are thanking you for it.” He points to the magazine. “He says some very complimentary things about you in that article.”

“What’s there not to like?” I shrug.

He laughs this time, tipping his head back, the shoulders of his plaid button-down pulling tight. “Touché, Dr. Roberts.”

Sitting forward, he drops his elbows to his thighs. “How’s he doing? I was just as disappointed as everyone else to see the loss in the conference finals. But he played well. Great tackle in the third—a whole new world for a whole new type of kicker. Don’t quote me, but I think they referred to it as ‘changing the game’ on SportsCentre.”

They did.

And he did play well.

It didn’t change the outcome, and I think for the first time, he was okay with that. Content with what he had to offer and what he brought to the table.

“There’s always next year,” I whispered, tucking errant waves behind his ears when we sat in the bath afterwards.

“There is.” He nodded, and his shoulders didn’t slump at all.

I smile at Rav. “He’s good. We’re going to Tahiti in two weeks. You should see his suitcase. It’s full of books. My fatherintroduced him to the world of high fantasy, and this might be worse than the Napoleon fixation. So, be prepared to hear a lot about dragons when I get back.”

“A vacation?” Rav pulls his head back. “When was the last time you took one of those?”

I roll my eyes. “Rav. There’s nothing to psychoanalyze here. Name a single resident or fellow you know who takes a lot of vacation.”

He grins, holding his hands up in concession. “You’re right. I got ahead of myself. How’s he doing with his family? How are you doing with them?”

Shrugging, I say, “We see his parents for dinner once a month. That’s his line, his idea.”

He cocks his head, eyebrows coming together and eyes widening like he’s waiting for more.

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