Page 237 of Pucking Around

“I’m…staying,” I say, my hand dropping to the door handle. This is unexpected, but who am I to judge? Maybe it has a $60 club sandwich with shaved turkey and applewood smoked bacon called ‘The Kevin Bacon.’

“Just call when you’re ready to go!” Carl says from the front seat.

“Thanks, Carl,” I say, slipping out the back, phone in hand. I dial Jake as I shut the door and cross the sidewalk into the hotel lobby.

“Hey, babe!” he says brightly.

“Hey, I’m at this weird hotel restaurant. Is this right?” I say, glancing around. “It’s a cloth napkin, fine china place and I’m in jeans. The waiters are wearing tails.”

“Yeah, we’re on the way. We’re running late. Blame Cay—”

“Donotblame Cay,” I hear Caleb say near the phone.

I smile, feeling better knowing they’re near. “How far out are you?”

“Maybe like ten minutes,” Jake replies. “We put in a rez. It’s under Compton. Just grab the table and we’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” I say, stepping through the double glass doors into the swanky restaurant.

The hostess smiles at me, her ebony skin dewy and perfect in the light streaming in through the windows. “Good afternoon,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Hey—babe,” Jake says in my ear, pulling my focus.

“Yeah?”

“We love you, Rachel.”

My heart flutters as I smile. “Yeah, I love you too, angel.”

“Great, be there in ten!” He hangs up.

I drop my phone down to my side.

“Miss, did you have a reservation?” the hostess says again.

“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Name is Compton.”

“Yes, of course. The other member of your party is already here. Right this way, Miss.”

I go still. “Other member?”

“Yes, he arrived just before you,” she replies. “I’ll show you to the table.”

“No—they’re not here yet.”

I just talked to Jake. We literally just hung up, and he’s not here. So…whoishere? Who am I meeting? The poor hostess looks just as confused as me. My curiosity gets the better of me.

“Show me to the table.”

“Of course,” she sings with a twirl of her finger. “Right this way.”

We move around the fancy glass dividing wall and enter the main dining area. It’s packed with late afternoon lunch-goers. I see small portions of fancy food on large plates. Yeah, no hockey player in the universe would pick this place.

She shows me to a corner table by the window where a man in a suit sits on his phone, glass of iced tea sweating on the white tablecloth in front of him. He’s an older man, salt and pepper hair, serious eyes under thick dark brows. He oozes wealth and sophistication. He picked this restaurant; I’d bet any money.

My heart drops from my chest as I clutch to my bag like it’s a life saver ring. I know this man well, though I’ve only met him a few times. He’s Mark Talbot, General Manager of the Jacksonville Rays.

He glances up as the hostess approaches, his gaze shifting from her to me. His expression is impossible to read as he stands, setting his phone down on a stack of files perched on the edge of the table. “Doctor Price, glad you found the place.” He holds out his hand and I robotically step forward and shake it.

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