Page 66 of Falling Offsides

“Oh, well… actually I already have a job lined up in New Orleans.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s still weird working with my dad.”

“Eh, you’re doing better than I would in your shoes. I’d probably have already gotten myself fired just to avoid the awkward run-ins.”

I chuckle at his remark because as weird as it is working with Dad, it’s been great so far.

We reach the set up room, and Jordan sets the gear down on the long table by the far wall. He steps back with a satisfied grin. “Boom. Flawless delivery.”

I’m about to thank him again when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

In the hallway, just beyond the open doorway?—

Auguste.

Standing near the water machine, one hand braced against the wall like he’s mid-conversation with someone.

But he’s not talking.

Not even moving.

He’s just…watching.

Not glaring or frowning. But the tension in his shoulders is a dead giveaway. So is the way his jaw ticks when Jordan glances back at me with a lingering smile.

My breath hitches. Because I know that look.

I’ve seen it before—when someone’s trying too hard not to care. And suddenly, this hallway feels a whole lot smaller.

Later,I’m in the supply room, sorting through lens filters and scheduling shoot slots. This is my least favorite part of the job, except for today because hiding in here means I’m safe from ogling Auguste out on the ice—even if it is the part of my job I love the most. I can interact while keeping to myself because that’s the safest way to not be alone.

I’m almost done going through player schedules and assigning them a slot with the video guys when I feel the energy shift.

The air closes. Particles vibrating with an audible buzz.

Then I hear it—the soft shut of the door behind me.

My pulse stutters with a sudden thrill before my heart booms to life.

I glance up.

Holy freaking cow.The sight of Auguste Broussard never gets old. Never dulls. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips set in a line.

I’m in trouble, and I’m not sure why. I don’t ask either. Instead, I focus on the lenses. Taking them out of their compartments in the bag and then slotting them back. Until…

“Jordan seems to be everywhere you are lately,” Auguste says, coming up behind me.

Of course, my chest wrenches at the sound of his voice. Low and gravelly.

When he shuts the lid to the lenses bag, I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just an observation.”

“What observation?”

“Jordan. Always simpering around you.”

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