“You’re in my chair.”
“Feels like our chair now.”
“That’s my chair,” I say.
“They’re the same chair.”
“My notes are under you.”
“I don’t feel any notes.”
“You’re sitting on them.”
I reach across him for my notes. Tactical error. His knees spread automatically to let me through, and suddenly I’m half between his legs, one hand braced on the table beside his hip while the players lurking behind the glass watch me attempt to retrieve a clipboard like it’s a live explosive.
Max goes very still. “You good there, coach?” Anthony gives us a thumbs-up and a wink.
He lifts one side and extracts the notepad with two fingers, hands it to me, and resettles. I snatch the clipboard so fast that half the papers slide onto the floor. He picks them up and continues to sit there with long limbs loose, completely comfortable taking up space in rooms that don’t technically belong to him. “Problem solved.”
“You’re late.”
He checks an invisible watch. “I’m three minutes early.”
“You’re still late spiritually.” A laugh breaks loose from the doorway. Lucas McKenna leans against the frame, holding a protein shake.
“Can I stay? This is better than Netflix.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Max says.
Lucas grins. “Conflict already. Love that for you.”
I point down the hall. “Out.” He leaves laughing.
Max sets one coffee beside me on the desk. “I remembered your order.”
“I never gave you my order.”
“Exactly.” I glare at the cup like it insulted my mother.
“How do you know what I drink?”
He shrugs. “You're efficient and you don't trust anything sweet. Oat milk latte. No sugar.”
I hate how accurate that is. “I’m not drinking anything you brought me.”
“Suit yourself.” He picks it up and takes a sip from the same lid. “Delicious.”
Insufferable. I straighten. “Phone in the locker.” He pulls it from his pocket and drops it into my palm. Compliant. Suspicious.
“Watch,” he says.
“What?”
“Me trying.” My stomach flips. He hands me the coffee. I don’t take it. “Drink it.”
“No.”
