Page 3 of Waiting Game

“I’m really sorry I was late,” she mutters, ignoring my statement that she doesn’t have to apologize as she swipes at her cheeks again.

Her head bows, allowing me a glimpse of a tattoo she has behind her ear—the outline of a small cat, complete with whiskers and pointy ears. Where the tail should be, right at the end, there’s a fletched arrow.

Odd.

“It’s okay. I was reading,” I admit.

“Y-You were?”

Accustomed to the disbelief, I grin. “Andwatching the playoffs at the same time.”

“What playoffs?”

“Theplayoffs.”

“Hockey ones?”

HOCKEY ONES?

Is she for real?

“Yes, hockey ones.” I sound as if I’m being strangled. “It’s an afternoon game.”

“When I Googled you, you seemed to be a pretty big deal. How come you aren’t in them?”

I scrunch my nose. “Are you prepared for my answer?”

She hitches a shoulder, but her bottom lip quivers so I know she’s trying to distract herself.

She’s come to the right place for a distraction.

“My coach refuses to listen to reason, the defense for the Blue Demons has more holes in it than a sieve, and the GM needs to get laid because if he cleared out his pipes, I’m sure his brain would reboot and he’d use the trade deadline to get decent players on our side while offloading the shitty ones. And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Her eyes widen but those quivering lips twitch into a small smile. “Is that a fancy way of saying that your team sucks?”

I try not to stare at her mouth because that would be weird. “I’mgood at what I do. The rest, not so much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to improve. Which is why I’m here.”

Cheeks pink, she nods. “Do you want to get started?”

“That wasn’t a prompt,” I dismiss even as I’m wondering why she's blushing. Clearly, she's trying to make my overactive imagination combust. “I was demonstrating that I’m not an arrogant asshole who can’t accept there’s always room for self-improvement.”

“That’s actually…” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “…refreshing.”

“Consider me a cool glass of pop at a 1st July barbecue.”

Her brow furrows. “1st July?”

“You Americans. I swear it’s like you think you don’t share a continent with anyone else?—”

“Ohh, you’re Canadian.”

“How deep was your Google search?” I complain.

“Apparently not deep enough.”

“I’m from Saskatchewan.”

“Bless you.”

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