Page 63 of My Pucked Up Enemy

"I knew she was judging my snack habits," I admit jokingly.

"Only the peanut M&M addiction," Nina teases.

I tap my glass. "Guilty as charged. But you like me anyway."

She meets my gaze. "We’ll see. Jury’s still out."

And just like that, dinner rolls on—laughs, digs, and that sharp current of chemistry threading under every word. It’s not just banter anymore. It’s something alive.

I shift in my seat and tap her foot under the table with mine. She startles slightly, then shoots me a look like she’s debating whether to laugh or stab me with her salad fork.

“Footsie, Chadwick?” she whispers.

“Just keeping your nerves sharp,” I say with a wink. “Occupational hazard.”

She smirks, takes another sip of her wine, and crosses her legs, very deliberately brushing against mine. Payback.

James leans over the table. “Hey Doc, be honest. Who on the team’s most likely to cry during therapy?”

Nina doesn’t even blink. “Depends. Physical tears or emotional unraveling?”

“Physical,” James grins.

“Connor. He’d cry out of boredom if I made him sit still long enough.”

Connor gasps, mock-offended. “Wow. Betrayed by the mental coach.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” she says. “But Mikey might cry if I banned symmetry.”

Mikey clutches his chest. “I’m delicate!”

Coach chuckles from across the table. “Y’all better toughen up. Playoffs are coming.”

“And so is the postseason therapy audit,” Nina says smoothly.

I lean toward her, voice low. “You know you’re going to have to back all this up, right?”

She turns to me, eyes gleaming. “I always back it up, Chadwick. Just not always on command.”

I groan under my breath. “Damn, Doc. You can’t just say things like that in public.”

“Sure I can. It’s called psychological warfare.”

“And you’re armed to the teeth,” I mutter, then nudge her again beneath the table. She doesn’t pull away.

James notices something and raises a brow. “You two look awfully cozy for a work dinner.”

I smirk, leaning back just a little. “Don’t worry, Henderson. HR’s not here to file the paperwork.”

Nina shakes her head, biting back a smile. “Careful, Chadwick. Keep pushing and you might find yourself in the penalty box.”

“Only if you’re there with me,” I shoot back.

She leans in slightly, playful but firm. “Sorry, I don’t play shorthanded. Especially not with smartasses.”

James leans back in his chair, pointing a lazy finger. “Okay, what is happening right now? Because that looked like flirting, and I need to know if I should be grossed out or taking notes.”

Ethan elbows him. “Definitely grossed out. Chadwick’s got that look like he’s one well-timed compliment away from writing poetry.”

---