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I hadn't realized how much I'd missed that.

Eventually, though, I noticed the faint line appearing between Max's eyebrows and knew he'd started thinking about something other than embarrassing rookie stories.

I let him struggle with it for several minutes before telling him he might as well say whatever he'd been rehearsing in his head.

His eyebrows rose. “I haven't been rehearsing anything.”

“You have, and you get a line between your eyebrows when you're trying to work out how to tell me something.”

Max's hand immediately went to his forehead.

I laughed hard enough that I had to hold my ribs. “Oh my God. You actually checked.”

“Shut up.”

“You did.”

“I've changed my mind. I'm not telling you anything.”

The fact that he was joking didn't hide the nervousness beneath it, and that got my attention because Max wasn't often nervous around me anymore. I reached across the table and caught his hand before he could retreat behind his coffee. “Tell me.”

He turned his hand beneath mine until our fingers linked, and for a moment, he watched them rather than me.

“After the game tomorrow, I'm not flying back to Denver with the team, and neither are you.”

That was sufficiently unexpected that I stared at him for several seconds before asking whether he'd discussed this plan with anyone who actually had authority over my travel arrangements.

His mouth twitched. “Yes. Coach knows, Cinder knows, and Ignatius is providing transportation.”

“Ignatius is providing transportation,” I repeated, because somehow that sounded considerably more ominous than we're taking a different flight. “Are we being kidnapped?”

“Technically, I've informed you in advance.”

“I don't think lack of notice is the part people object to.”

Max laughed, but his fingers tightened around mine before he finally explained that Ignatius was going to fly us out immediately after Game Six.

“Where?”

“My farm.”

For several seconds, I couldn't think of anything to say.

I'd heard Max talk about the farm, although never enough to satisfy my curiosity. I knew it was outside Montreal, that he'd spent almost two years finding it after signing his second big contract and that there were six horses. I knew he'd renovated the old house and apparently funded his contractor's new truck in the process, but more importantly, I knew from the way Max spoke about it that the farm wasn't simply another expensive property belonging to a wealthy athlete.

It was home.

“You want to take me to Quebec?”

“Yes, and before you start worrying about Game Seven, we've got enough time. Ignatius will drop us at the farm after the game and leave us there, then he's arranging for us to be collected so we can rejoin everyone in Denver with plenty of time before Game Seven.”

I studied him more closely.

There was still something he wasn't saying, and this time I knew what it was.

Sunday morning came back to me, along with the promise he'd made while we were lying in bed.

After we deal with your father, I'll tell you everything.