Page 92 of Offside

She glanced up as I passed. Nothing on her face. She was good at that. Pretending there was nothing between us. I hated it.

I stopped anyway.

"Callahan."

"Lindqvist." Still the professional voice. Dom was two feet away.

Dom asked her about the afternoon session and went back into the training room, and for about four seconds there was nobody in the hallway but us.

I could have said any number of things. Can I see you tonight? Don't let anyone talk you into staying late. Or, I could have said nothing at all, which was the arrangement.

"Jag saknar dig redan," I said.

She blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." I kept walking.

I made it about six steps before it sounded like she took her phone out of her pocket, and I did not turn around, but I smiled the whole way to my truck.

She texted me at three forty-seven.

Maren: Don’t make plans tonight. Come here instead? I have a surprise

Ryan: What kind of surprise

Maren: The cooking kind. I make exactly three things well and tonight you’re getting one of them

Ryan: I’ll bring wine

Maren: Please bring something red

Ryan: Anything for you

Maren: Flattery will get you everywhere

I was grinning at my phone in the parking lot like I was twenty-two. I was thirty-one years old and a professional athlete and a team captain and I was sitting in a parking lot grinning at a text message, and I was completely unbothered by it. I put the car in gear before Cole could walk out and witness it.

She opened the door and I could smell garlic and bacon from the front walkway. After a brief kiss, I watched her walk back to the stove, okay, I watched her ass as she walked back to the stove, possibly drooling a little bit.

She was standing there in denim cutoffs and a white tank top, hair up in that loose knot she did without seeming to think about it, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. The cutoffs ended just below her ass and I stood in the doorway for a solid three seconds before I remembered I had a functioning brain.

“Stop looking at me like that and open the wine,” she said without turning back around, a laugh in her voice.

I paused behind her, placing one hand on her hip, and she looked up over her shoulder, gave me another quick kiss, and got back to her cooking.

I found the opener. Second drawer, between a broken flashlight and a takeout menu that had been there long enough to be laminated with grease. Opened the bottle. A good Rioja, not the grocery store kind—I had some self-respect. Poured two glasses and looked around her kitchen. The cabinet hinge. The flashlight. The takeout menu laminated with grease. Everything in this place was already becoming specific to me.

“Your cabinet hinge is loose,” I said.

“I know.”

“The third one from the left. It’s going to come off.”

“I know. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

“Do you have a screwdriver?”

She turned from the stove. I was leaning against the counter, wine in hand, completely serious. “Ryan. I’m cooking.”