“You kissed me in front of Riley,” she says.
“And half the hockey world.”
“Jax—”
“You’re going to be on every sports channel in the country by morning.”
She stares at me. “Is that — are you bragging?”
“Little bit.” I look at her. “Damn, you look good.”
She goes red.
“I’ve been crying,” she says.
“I know.”
She doesn’t have anything to say to that. I don’t take it back.
I stay right where I am because there is nowhere else I want to be.
Her phone goes off.
She looks at it. Something moves across her face — the press conference smile going up for half a second before she gets it under control. She looks at me.
“I have to take this.”
“Take it.”
She steps away.
I watch her from across the room. The way she holds the phone — shoulders back, chin up, the specific posture of someone who knows exactly what they’re about to do. Her free hand moves while she talks, the way it always moves when she’s thinking. She goes very still when whatever they’re saying lands.
Then she stands up straighter.
There she is.
She comes back.
Stands in front of me.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“Okay.”
“Not here.”
“Okay.”
She looks at me. “You’re not going to ask what it is.”
“You’ll tell me.”
“What if it’s bad.”
I look at her. “Is it?”
She thinks about it. “I don’t know yet.”
