“It’s quiet.” He shrugs. “Nobody to perform for. Nobody deciding who you are while you do it.” He tips his head at the empty seats. “Kinda figured you’d get that. Seeing as you do your rounds before anybody’s awake to watch you do them.”
I open my mouth to say something professional, and nothing comes out, which never happens. He just watches me not have a comeback, and he doesn’t gloat about it, which is somehow worse.
“That’s not in the agreement,” I finally say.
“What isn’t?”
“You reading me.”
“Wasn’t reading you.” He pushes a puck back and forth with the toe of his blade. “Just noticing. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.”
“Actually, there’s a big one.” He looks up. “Reading you is me trying to get something. Noticing you is just seeing that you’re there, so I see you. I can’t help it. I notice everything.” He says it plain, like he’s telling me his shoe size. “Most people are really boring once you do. You’re not.”
His words make something in my stomach twirl, but my brain calls bullshit.
“That’s a line.”
“It’s six in the morning. I don’t run game before seven, ask anybody.”
I almost laugh, but I catch myself. You can’t give these damn players even an inch, or they’ll walk all over you.
“You should ice your knees if you’re skating this much. It’s in your own best interest. A healthy player is a playing player.”
“You worried about me, Dixon?”
He bites the corner of her lip, and why the hell does he do that? It only makes him look even hotter.
“I’m worried about your paperwork. It’s the only part of you that’s my problem.”
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“Not cold, just accurate.”
He grins like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking. Then he goes quiet for a second.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
“Three years.” He says it like it’s been bugging him for a while. “You’ve been in this building three years, and nobody on the team knew the coach had a kid. How do you pull that off?”
“Practice.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you get at this time of the morning.”
“How old are you?” he asks.
“That's a rude question.”
“I'm a rude guy. Humor me.”
I shouldn’t answer. It’s none of his business, and it’s not in the agreement.
“Twenty-three,” I say. “How old are you?” I ask as if I already don’t know, but it seems like the appropriate response.
