Page 40 of Taking It To Overtime
“Tristan,” even the way he says her name makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end, “is the team’s social media coordinator.”
That is not a good enough answer and his half smile tells me he knows it. I purse my lips, blinking as my gaze darts away. I square my shoulders and tip up my chin. I don’t care. I don’t. I donot.
“She’s Vic’s wife.”
Vic’s.
Wife?
Now that he mentions it, I’m pretty sure I saw something online a while back. Something about a Vegas wedding chapel and an Elvis impersonator. Something that had not one mention of Robbie Oakes. I’m pretty sure Tandy showed me the article because she thought it was hopelessly romantic, getting married in Sin City on a whim. I thought they must have been drunk. My jealousy fizzles out like a candle with no wick and I take a sip of battery acid in a cup, praying my face doesn’t give away my thoughts.
“She have anything to say to you about getting papped too?”
“Nope.” He shrugs, big shoulders shifting under his dark blue t-shirt.
Robbie’s throat bobs as he swallows his own coffee, and I try not to notice the stubble lining his throat or the width of his neck. I shift my gaze away to regain my sanity and get stuck on the bulge of his quads pushing against the nylon of his track pants. It’s not my fault. He’s perched his ass on the dark wood dresser, practically serving his legs up on a silver platter. Those thighs felt solid under me last night, cushioning the weight of my body as I held his face to mine.
I don’t remember him being this size in high school, or at least not this wide. He was rangy before. Tall and lean with speed and agility on his side. He bulked up a bit more freshman year when he started joining the varsity boys in the weight room, but he was nothing like this. I’m a tall girl—kind of a requirement to be in my line of work—and he makes me feel small.
I never feel petite. Slim, yes. I know I’m skinny. It’s a genetic trait that has been very helpful in the modeling world, but I’m not small. My best friend is five foot two inches of almost nothing. Most of her size is her blonde hair. Compared to her, I’m a giant. The Taylor to her Selena—her words—and that thin thing? It’s never quite enough, although my name certainly helps now. It’s been years since a casting agent or designer asked me to drop inches off my waist and hips.
I guess it makes sense that he’s grown. I know guys hit their full height later than women, and a pro-hockey playershouldbe bigger than a triple A high schooler, but I guess I didn’t realize how much the man would differ from the boy. We both grew up, and it’s a good thing we did. I loved high school Robbie with every atom of my heart, but we were kids. And man-Robbie? Well, I think it’s clear that man-Robbie really does it for me. Last night was all the proof anyone needed.
I raise my eyes back to my ex to find him smirking at me, arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves pull over his biceps andI feel my tongue snake out to wet my lips. His brows lift, and he’s looking at me the same way that the director on that sitcom did when I forgot my cue during a guest appearance. Apparently, I’ve missed part of this conversation, too.
“Sorry, what?”
I can feel my face heat and Robbie smiles wider.
“I asked if your team reached out?”
Reached out? About what?
I take a moment to place the question in our conversation.
“Right, about the photos. No, but they won’t.” It’s just another day in the life of Vera Novak. Not that I think his PR team will care, either. I thought Tristan would get a chuckle out of Robbie getting spotted the same way she and Vic did. Tandy’s called twice, but we can’t quite figure out the time zones. I meant to call her back last night, but bringing Robbie back to my hotel room kind of ruined that plan. I’ll try again once it’s at least ten her time.
“Do you need me to drop you off anywhere on my way to the rink?”
I still need to get up, shower, hit the gym—if they have one—and get ready for the day. I shake my head.
“I’m good. Just going to have a lazy morning. Go for a run, wash my hair, maybe read a book, go see my dad.” I smile at him. “Isn’t that what people do on vacation?”
“Besides faking a relationship?” He nods. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve only heard stories, though. You’ll have to let me know.”
“I’ll be sure to give you an update on my findings.”
We both chuckle, the sound trailing off to leave us smiling at each other, eyes locked as memories swirl all around the room.
“Lunch?” He asks and I’m lost again as the blush climbs his cheeks this time. “We have a two-hour break around noon to let the kids eat and cool down. Would you like to have lunch?” He clears his throat. “With me?”
“Yes,” I say, and then wince. “I mean no.”
His face shutters, wiping clean like a blank slate.
“Right. My mistake.” He stands up straight, not meeting my eyes. “I uh… I’ll see you tonight.”
He tosses his Styrofoam cup in the trash and grabs his hat from the dresser, turning it back and forth in his hands. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I didn’t mean itthatway. I fight with the blankets and sheets. Both are tangled around my legs and I can’t move, can’t get free.
