Page 13 of Keeping Score

“Hello, Margaret,” he responded with the formal manner you might greet a colleague.

I let out a snort. No one called Maggie Margaret—except me as a joke. But this guy? He did it earnestly and with his full chest.

What shocked me more was how Maggie never corrected him. The same way she never said anything when he suggested restaurants that I had on good authority she would rather drop dead than eat at.

I loved the girl, but the term picky didn’t even begin to describe her.

But today, she happily agreed to meet at the place of her dad’s choosing—the same place I’d personally heard her refer to as a breeding ground for old bachelors every time we’d passed it.

And why the hell did Timothy Brynn get to pick the place anyway? It wasn’t like yesterday was his daughter’s birthday or anything.

“Brody,” he said, approaching me with a level of familiarity I personally didn’t feel we were at yet, but I shook his hand anyway.

“Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Oh, call me Tim,” he laughed. “We’re practically family.”

I almost choked on the snort threatening to spill out but was saved by the appearance of a host asking how many were in our party.

Maggie rewarded me with a pinch for my slip-up, and I shot her a wink as we followed the waiter to a table.

“After you, Margaret,” I said with a smug look, gesturing for her to go ahead of me.

We had barely sat down and ordered our drinks before Tim had already mentioned something about how the hockey game I’d played a few nights before had been a strong game overall.

I didn’t know what to say, because it hadn’t really been a question, but still I nodded.

“We’re lucky to be having a great season,” I said, shifting in my seat.

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” he countered. “It’s pure talent. It’s a hell of a lineup the Harbor Wolves have got there. And Liam? He’s somehow playing better than men ten years younger than him. Incredible.”

“Yup,” I said. “He’s something.”

I couldn’t believe the first thing he wanted to talk about was hockey. Actually, I could believe it. But it didn’t piss me off any less that he proved me right in my assumption about him.

Maggie sat silently beside me, her leg twitching under the table. I could feel her dejection like a punch to my chest.

“So, what have you been up to, son?” Tim asked, and I had to fight my brows from furrowing at the nickname.

“Oh, you know,” I shrugged, “same old. Nothing as exciting as what your daughter’s been up to.”

I rested an arm around her shoulder, trying to signal her into the conversation.

His eyes scanned to her briefly, as if waiting for her to produce whatever information she found relevant to share.

“Um,” she faltered, “I—I—”

I frowned.

Maggie never struggled to find something to say. Maggie never shrank away from any opportunity to talk about herself. She was proud of her life and everything she had accomplished.

So why did she look like the last thing she wanted to do was talk about it with him?

A moment passed. Tim cleared his throat. I squeezed her knee under the table, and she looked up at me with a grateful smile.

You got this, babe, I tried to convey. Go brag about what a superstar you are.

But when she finally spoke, it wasn’t about her career, or her feature in Boston’s 30 Under 30 a few months ago, or even the fact that she’d convinced her law firm to start taking on pro bono clients.