Page 49 of Puck Me Back to Life

“You know those will kill you.”

I glance sideways. “Hello to you too.”

“I'm serious. You're a professional athlete.”

It would appear that the more comfortable he gets around me, the sassier he becomes. I enjoy encouraging the behavior, possibly too much.

“You're supposed to be setting a good example,” he says.

“I'm not setting an example for anybody.”

“You literally have children wearing your jersey.”

“That's their parents' mistake.”

A laugh escapes him, then he points at the cigarette. “Still gross.”

I narrow my eyes. “You really want to be judging me right now?”

His expression immediately becomes wary. “Why wouldn't I?”

I take another drag, lowering my voice. “Because you ran away after I made you come last night.”

His face turns red so fast it's almost impressive. I don't think I'll ever get tired of that, which is another thought I should probably put somewhere locked and far away. Hayes looks aside, and the movement is so obvious I have to bite back a smile.

I take another drag.

Before I can lower my hand, Hayes reaches over and plucks the cigarette from my fingers.

For a second, I stare at him. “What are you doing?”

He ignores me completely. The cigarette rises to his mouth, and then he takes a long pull. Not tentative. Not awkward. Comfortable. The kind of drag taken by someone who knows exactly what he's doing.

Smoke leaves the corner of his mouth a second later, slow and controlled, like he's been smoking for years.

I raise an eyebrow. “Well.”

Hayes hands the cigarette back with the picture of innocence. “I used to smoke.”

That wasn't the answer I expected. “Captain America smokes?”

He shrugs. A little of the amusement disappears from his expression. “I picked it up during my hiatus.”

Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. It isn't pity. Hayes would hate pity, and honestly, I don't have much use for it either. What rises in me is closer to anger, not at him, but at circumstances, at whatever happened during that year, at the idea of him standing alone somewhere teaching himself bad habits because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

“How much?”

“A pack every few days.”

“Damn.”

His mouth twists. “It wasn't exactly my healthiest coping mechanism.”

“No kidding.”

“I quit before training camp.”

That surprises me. “Seriously?”