Page 49 of Game Changer

I enjoy being around him, but only if I can stay on even ground. I won’t let myself be drawn in, be weak and gullible.

But the second Clay sees the drawing of him, he’ll know how fascinated I am by him.

It’s nearly dinnertime, and my stomach growls. The lights are on in the kitchen, and I head in there. The chef is probably nearly done.

But it’s Mari who lifts her head from the oven.

We’ve barely spoken two words since the day of the dress fitting. She’s been busy with work before taking time off for the wedding, but it’s still been cold.

Spending time at the court gave me the courage to try and put things right.

“Smells good in here,” I venture, leaning against the granite island. “Did the chef go on strike?”

Mari sets the oven mitts on the counter and turns to face me. She swipes a piece of hair from her face.

“When Harlan and I started dating, we’d both come home after a long day and cook together with a bottle of wine.” She smiles. “He wasn’t a GM then. He was still trying for his big break.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“This is his first NBA GM job. He needs to do well.”

“I couldn’t find the merlot” —Harlan’s voice comes from the other doorway that heads downstairs—“but I’ve got a cab that will make you—"

Mari clears her throat.

“Oh. Hi, Nova.” He looks between us, sizing up the situation. “Let me give you ladies a moment.”

He opens the wine and pours two glasses, handing them to us before grabbing a third for himself.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” I comment.

“Not much since taking over the team. I spend most of my day getting grown men to agree on how to win basketball games.”

I think about the tension between him and Clay that he alluded to the day I arrived. It’s probably a misunderstanding, just a matter of people who want the same thing going about it in different ways.

“Do they get to see you like this? At home, relaxed?” I prompt. “I bet they’d love to be included.”

He looks at Mari and something passes between them.

“That’s an excellent idea.” Harlan takes his glass out the door to the living room.

“He’s pretty great,” I murmur.

“The best. I knew he was the one the first time I tried to cook for him and he said only if he could help.”

She turns toward the stove, and I round the island to peek at what’s in the oven.

“Lasagna. Yum.”

“It’s vegan with zucchini noodles. Dairy messes me up. I’d be out of commission all night from the cheese.”

“Since when?”

“Since I moved to Colorado.”

I turn that over.

“About the other day. I didn’t mean to spring that on you,” I say.

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