Page 41 of Tricky Puck

She laughs. “You’ve had your quota of singing performances from me. That was a once in a lifetime deal.”

“That’s extreme. I’m convinced you should do more than write the songs. You should perform.”

“I’ll take your expert opinion under advisement.”

“You’d be even more successful than if you sell the songs to someone else.”

She rolls her eyes. “How about if we make a rule, Milano. You don’t tell me my business and I won’t tell you how to play hockey.”

She pulls out her phone and starts texting.

“Who you talking to?” I ask before I can stop the curious impulse—or at least I tell myself it’s innocent curiosity. But the edge of something more tenses my jaw.

“My uncle Torin. He’s subletting my studio. He’s got all the usual bachelor questions.”

I breathe out slowly, relaxing and stick to drinking my coffee. We sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes until she starts fidgeting.

“You really are a man of few words.”

I shrug.

“Do you have any food in this place or is the kitchen just for show?”

“I eat at the arena. Sorry. I might have some eggs, but…” I check the time. “There’s no time. I need to get in extra early today.”

She stands, drains her coffee mug and slams it on the counter.

“Fine. Let’s go. I’ll be back for a visit when it’s necessary.”

I finish my coffee and refill the go cup for the road, then wrestle her bag from her.”

“My next home game is coming up in a few days.” I punch the elevator button.

“I’ll think about it. I need to settle into my new digs first.”

Disappointment surprises me, but I dismiss it. She’s right.

We step into the elevator and I’m careful to keep my distance for the ride down to the parking garage under my building.

“It’s a three hour drive each way,” she says randomly as she gets in my car. “I’ll pick my spots about which games I go to.”

“Shit, you’re probably closer to Montreal than Portsmouth. You can come to our game next week when we play the Canadiens.”

“Sure. Sounds… fun.”

“Yeah?” I’d been joking about her coming, but maybe it’s not so funny.

“Yeah, let me translate my sarcasm for you. What I really mean is that it sounds fucking cold.”

I laugh and realize I’m skating on thin ice between temptation and good sense. Shit. “Don’t worry city-girl, you’ll get used to the cold up here.”

We arrive in the garage and I toss her luggage in the back, then bump into her at the passenger door when I go to open it for her.

“You might have a lot more to get used to besides colder weather up in that cabin.”

“No kidding. I know what a cabin in the woods is all about.” She squints those damn compelling green eyes at me. ‘You worried about me, Milano?”

“You’re the last person I should be worried about. You’re a tough girl, no lightweight. I got the message somewhere between the Pappy Van Winkel and dinner last night with the hockey guys. You held your own for a fish out of water.”