Before I can do anything stupid, small hands tug at my pants.
“Let Miranda go!”
I look down. Ethan is glaring up at me with his little fists balled at his sides, positioning himself between Miranda and me like a bodyguard.
I release her immediately.
Miranda stumbles back, face flushed crimson, sputtering something incoherent. She can’t even look at me.
“Are you going to take the offer?” I ask, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“The money is...” She trails off. Swallows. Starts again. “Yes. I’m taking it.”
I move closer, and her hand shoots out, smacking mine away. “Don’t even think about touching me.”
Ethan wraps his arms around her legs, pressing his face into her thigh. “I’ll protect you, Miranda.” Then he turns to me with the fiercest expression a four-year-old can muster. “Daddy, don’t be naughty.”
I look at Miranda over my son’s head. She’s staring down at Ethan with something soft and unguarded on her face, and the warmth in her eyes does something to my chest I don’t want to examine.
“I can’t help it,” I say, holding her gaze. “She makes me want to be naughty.”
Miranda’s cheeks flame. Ethan, mercifully too young to understand, tugs at her hand. “No. Miranda is my friend now.” He looks up at her. “Right, Miranda?”
She nods gravely, her expression solemn. “Right.”
She scoops him up and starts walking. I trail after them, hands in my pockets.
“You finally saw me play,” I call out. “What did you think?”
She doesn’t turn around. “I was impressed all the way until you fell down.”
“I got hit.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“From where I was standing, you went from scoring goals to lying on the ice.” Her voice is dry. “Very inspiring.”
I catch up, falling into step beside her. “You should come see me play properly. Next week. We have a real game.”
“I have better things to do.”
We’re behind the stands now, the corridor empty and dim. Ethan has wriggled down from her arms and is chasing a wrapper that’s been caught by a draft, a few yards ahead and out of sight around the curve.
I put my hands on her hips.
She stiffens. Her back meets the concrete wall of the stands, and I step between her legs, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough to see the way her pupils swallow her irises.
“Come see me play,” I murmur, enjoying her reactions. “You’ll see why they call me a star.”
This time it’s unmistakable. Heady and rich and sweet enough that rational thought stops functioning. I want to drop to my knees right here and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
She puts a hand flat on my chest. When she pushes, I don’t move. Instead I take her wrist and pin it gently above her head, pressing it against the cold wall.
Her brown eyes blaze into mine.
“I’m not one of your fans,” she says, her voice low and sharp despite the flush crawling down her neck. “And I can make sure you’re incapable of having more children.”
