Page 42 of Falling Offsides

There’s a softness in her next breath. “Then don’t. I like this girl already.”

“That’s the thing—I don’t know how not to.”

“Then learn,” she says firmly. “You find a way. You show her who you are. Not the hockey player. Not the guy Coach Nilsson sees on the ice.You.”

My throat tightens at her remark. I have to go through everything I told her in a nanosecond to make sure I didn’t mention who Courtney is and that her mentioning Coach is coincidence.

I’m losing it with myself when Mom adds, “When I was trying to win over your father, I used to make him your granny’s Bajan pound cake.”

I snort. “You bribed him with dessert?”

“Absolutely, and look where it got me. Husband. Three beautiful children. A life I don’t regret for one second.”

A ding comes through my phone.

When I check it, I shake my head down at the photo of the recipe she drops in our chat.

“I don’t bake, Mom.”

“Then start. It’s a cake, not a spaceship. Besides, love makes you do stupid things.”

“I just got a puppy.”

“Exactly.”

“My girl can’t have dairy.”

“I’ll send you the dairy-free substitutions.” She pauses, doing as she said before we hang up.

The ingredients ping through one at a time. Even though I have no idea how to bake, I start checking my larder and make a mental list of what I need to make the pound cake.

Thinking about making it for Courtney has a smile tugging on my lips, a thrill vibrating in my chest for the moment she opens her door tomorrow morning to me, the pup, and my granny’s pound cake.

EIGHT

COURTNEY

The sun is still clingingto the edge of the sky when I reach my floor, towel slung over my shoulder, hair damp from my morning swim. My flip-flops slap against the concrete stair, echoing through the quiet stairwell as I devour one last page of my book before I open the door to my floor.

A dark blur moves ahead of me and I stop dead in my tracks. Thankfully the tightness in my throat muffles my yip.

Because Auguste Broussard is parked in front of my apartment.Again.

Same plain black hoodie, different day. Except… this time, his arms are full.

One hand cradles a coffee cup with a ceramic plate perched on top—what looks suspiciously like an entire pound cake. Balanced in his other arm, nestled against his chest like a sleepy child?

A puppy.

Not just any puppy, aboxer. They’re my favorite breed. I don’t even know why, just that I love them.

Only yesterday I was talking to Jordan one of the PTs about how much I love the breed and how I’ve always wanted one but?—

I raise a brow, instantly suspicious at how Auguste Broussard is standing outside my door… with the cutest boxer puppy ever. “Are you stalking me?”

Auguste doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just cocks a brow like he’s waiting for me to say something he can use against me later.

My good Lord, something about that look—stoic, unreadable, stubborn as sin—makes heat lick up my spine.

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