He laughs, a genuine sound that’s more pleasant than it has any right to be. “See? There it is.”
“There’s what?”
“That sharp wit you keep hidden under all the hockey mom politeness.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t.
“I have another confession,” he continues.
“We’re really going for broke here, aren’t we?”
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
The directness catches me off guard. Most men dance around their intentions, they don’t just... say it.
“That’s not a confession, that’s a proposition.”
“Fine. I’d like to take you to dinner, and I think you might actually enjoy it if you stopped calculating escape routes long enough to consider it.”
I laugh despite myself—the real one that slips out when someone surprises me.
“There it is,” he says, looking pleased with himself.
“What?”
“Your laugh. You should use it more often.”
“I laugh plenty.”
“You make polite conversation. There’s a difference.” He stretches his legs out in front of him and I turn away so he won’t catch me staring. “So. Dinner. What do you say?”
“Can you cook anything that doesn’t come from a box?”
“I make excellent reservations,” he replies with a grin. “That’s what restaurants are for.”
I have to say no. My life is complicated enough without adding a professional athlete with a public dating history and an ego the size of the Space Needle.
“I don’t date,” I say finally.
“Ever? Or just not right now?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Fair enough. What about coffee then? Very low stakes. Public place. You can leave if I turn out to be as boring as you suspect.”
“I don’t think you’re boring.”
“No? What do you think I am?”
I look at him—really look. There’s something almost boyish in his expression, like he genuinely wants to know what I think of him. It’s disarming in a way his confidence isn’t.
“I think you’re someone who’s used to being the most interesting person in the room,” I say finally.
“Ouch.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
“Wasn’t exactly a compliment either.”
