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His laugh is deep as his tongue darts out to tidy up the cream. “This isn’t even real maple syrup. I always use the most fake, as full-of-high-fructose-corn-syrup variety as I can find.”
I shudder. How does he have such a nice body if he eats like this? At least my bad chocolate habit is only an occasional thing. “And clearly, the kitchen already knows this. You must have been here awhile for them to know your order by heart.”
He chews and swallows. “Before you go judging me, notice there are plenty of raspberries on my plate.” He whips his fork in the air to show me. “I’m not all about the butter, cream, and carbs. I do have some decency.”
I give him a look that I’m hoping conveys the worddebatable.Gosh, he is so fun to mess with and I like the competitive flare in my belly. It makes me feel a little like myself again.
But he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too busy digging into his food. I’m used to being around guys who eat a lot. Professional football players have to bulk up. That doesn’t mean I didn’t stop trying to get them to mix in a lot of healthier options. By the end of my time with the Wolves, most of the defensive players’ diets had improved a lot.
The end of my time with the Wolves.That sentence feels wrong in my brain because I’d always assumed I had years left there, plenty of time to make a difference, to make my mark. I take a last swig of cranberry juice—the burn of it soothing the sting in my throat.
He takes another large bite, close to twice the size of the one before, and I get the distinct feeling he’s trying to be off-putting with his poor manners.
Fine by me. I push off from the table and stand, but he raises a hand. “What’s on the docket for today?” he asks around bites.
“The docket? I’ve got a lot to do.” There are many a chocolate-covered cinnamon bear calling to me from the shelves of the grocery store in town.
“That’s something my mom used to ask us kids,” he explains. “She was trying to get us to maximize our time.” He smiles faintly, and it makes me imagine that he loves his mother, even though I can tell there’s something behind those words. Is it cynicism? A healthy dose of separatism? Or is there regret in his voice?
Not sure how to respond to that, I fiddle with my key card, tapping the edge of it on the table. I’ve got to get out of here before he recognizes me, or before I let it slip that I know who he is. “Well, it was good to see you again.” I hope my voice sounds professional, stand-offish even. “I’d better go.”
He nods. “Thanks for the table.” He drinks from an enormous glass of orange juice Teresa just dropped off for him. “Will I see you in the gym later?”
“I hope you’re not planning on running again. I saw the limp is strong today.”
His expression falters. “I didn’t hurt my leg yesterday.”
Ugh. Men. Why do they find it so hard to admit when they’re hurting? It was pure madness, and it made my job so much harder than it needed to be.
“It’s not a sign of weakness to fall off a treadmill, okay?” I offer, and I know my tone is one of annoyance. “It’s alright to admit it hurt.”
His gaze goes to his mostly eaten plate of food before returning to mine. “Tell me something. When you replay that fall of mine in your head, do you laugh?”
His expression is serious, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.
The question surprises me, and now I’m smiling. “Maybe a little. I mean, I say you talk to management and see if they’ll give you the security footage. You could get some money selling it to one of those YouTube companies that post epic falls.”
His face flushes. “I didn’t think about the cameras in there. I was hoping that moment would only go down as legend, not something to be replayed.” Another healthy swig of O.J. and this time, I’m drawn to his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
Hey Alec Tate! Did anyone ever tell you it’s sexy when you swallow juice?
I cross my arms over my chest. “I know it hurt, and here’s the deal. I can’tnotoffer to look at the knee, just to make sure you’re okay. It’s like I can’t not, you know what I mean?” I squint my eyes and tilt my head to one side.
He nods and his tongue darts out of his mouth to lick his top lip. “It’s actually an old injury. So yeah, while yesterday was a big blow to my ego, it didn’t blow out my knee. That was last year.”
I already know this, but something in my chest squeezes close. “Come here.” I reach out a hand to pull him to standing. His grip is warm and firm, but he lets me pull him up—and there’s something about it that makes my head throb. I drop his hand and take a step back, flicking my hair behind my shoulder. He’s several inches taller than me and is wearing shorts again, except these are khaki, not nearly as tight as yesterday’s. I gaze at both knees and his left one is noticeably more swollen and off-kilter, with a bulging, roughened scar.
I should probably admit that I know him. But that would just be awkward now.
He sighs and scrubs the back of his neck. “Can we—” he looks around the room.
“Of course. Sorry.” My cheeks burn. Yes, I love what I do—or what I did. But I shouldn’t be trying to diagnose an injury right here in the eatery. What’s gotten into me?
His face softens. “You ever heard of the unhappy triad?”
I nod. “You poor man. That is unequivocally the worst knee injury anyone can have.” It involves two torn ligaments and a torn meniscus. It was all any of us on staff at the Wolves could talk about when it happened.
His face reddens and he chews the inside of his cheek.
