Page 51 of Three Pucking Words
Is it awkward that I know those things about him? Maybe. But the words are out of my mouth before I have time to second guess them.
“You’ve done your research,” he notes, sounding pleased with the information I know about him. Probably because the last time we went over players, I asked him if there was a difference between player points and game points that added up to their overall score.
Remembering individual stats is a whole different ball game. Well, hockey game. And I can see my background data dump of him delights him more than it probably should.
“I don’t seem to recall going over award histories with you,” he muses knowingly.
He knows we haven’t touched on those topics, so I don’t bother feeding into it. “I’m sorry Gemma couldn’t come to the game.”
The subject change doesn’t bother him. “Me too. But I’ll pick her up tomorrow. Joe already told me she was passed out from the cold medicine she’s on, so I don’t want to risk waking her up. It’ll give us time to celebrate tonight.”
Right. Their win. “Did I say congratulations on the win yet?” I honestly can’t remember. I was so nervous about this date—fakedate—that there is a feasible chance I blacked out when he put his hand on my back and walked us out.
His cheek twitches. “You did. Twice, actually. But I appreciate it all the same. Did I tell you that you look great tonight?”
Something tells me he knows he did. “You did” is all I’m capable of saying.
“What color is that lipstick?”
His question throws me off. “Um…I’m not sure. I think it was called Something Wicked. Why?”
His fingertips tighten around the steering wheel before loosening. “Because I’m going to make sure Gemma never wears anything like that when she discovers makeup in the next ten years. The last thing I need is boys paying attention to her mouth the way I’m paying attention to yours.”
Goosebumps cover my arms that suddenly feel warm and tingly. “Oh.” Clearing my throat as I roll my shoulders, I say, “Something tells me buying out Mac’s entire red lip line isn’t going to stop boys from coming around. You’re a professional hockey player, after all. That’s bound to get their interest.”
He frowns as if he hadn’t thought of that before. “Damn. I need to quit before she’s sixteen and become a custodian or something.”
I chuckle. “That doesn’t change anything, but I like the initiative. Plus, you have time. Don’t start updating your resume just yet.”
The long-winded breath he releases tells me he feels otherwise. But I suppose time passes at a different speed when you’re a parent. Something I don’t want to think about from a personal standpoint before I start bawling in front of him for a second time and ruining my makeup. I don’t want to walk into the restaurant with mascara halfway down my face.
Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat. “Are you nervous to see Olive?”
His head shake comes with no hesitation. “It will be good to see her. To seethem. Her boyfriend will be with her. We played him tonight. O’Conner—left wing for Pittsburgh’s team.”
He says that like I’d know who he’s referring to. But it took me about two weeks to memorize our own twenty-three-man roster, so knowing offhand who anybody else is doesn’t seem likely.
“Good to see them together so you can move on?” I guess, because it seems like a reasonable assumption.
But the way Bodhi winces makes me question whether I’m right or not. “It’ll be good to get past this strange triple-date so everything can go back to normal again.”
I’m not sure what constitutes normal, and I don’t know if I want to ask. “Since this is a fake date, I’m paying for my dinner.”
His deadpan expression saysthe hell you arebefore he can say, “No.” The word is dry but firm, offering little room to argue.
I do anyway. “Yes. This isn’t real, and I can afford to pay for myself.”
His grip flexes around the wheel again, making his biceps bulge a little before loosening up. “This is a high-end steakhouse, Honor. I’m not going to let you pay for your own meal. The mashed potatoes alone are thirty dollars.”
For a potato and some butter?“So I’ll get the green beans.”
Although I can tell he’s amused by the quick retort, he doesn’t relent. “You’re not paying, whether you deem this “real” or not.”
Why does he say “real” that way? I don’t ask him that either. “I can afford it,” I repeat. “It isn’t like I pay a mortgage or car payment right now, and my father and Sylvia refuse to let me give them any rent money.”
Plus, there’s the sizeable amount of money I’d gotten in the divorce that’s burning a hole in my bank account thanks to Max’s game that went viral early in our marriage.
I try not to think about that, though.
