Page 83 of Top Shelf

There’s a pale coffee beside her, and another waiting next to it, black and still hot enough to steam. She looks up from her notes when the door clicks shut with a smile I have waited all night to see. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I set my bag down slowly, eyes on the extra coffee.

Heidi follows my gaze. “You texted when you landed, and it usually takes you about thirty-five minutes from the airport this time of day, unless traffic is feral.” She lifts a shoulder. “So, I made you coffee.”

I pick up the cup. “You waited for me?”

“I had to print intake forms anyway.”

“Mm.”

Her mouth presses together. “It’s just coffee.”

It is not just coffee. It is the timing of it, the knowing. The fact that she watched me answer questions after a season-ending loss, then thought about when I would walk through the door. She’s learning parts of my routine in the same way I’ve been learning hers.

“Thank you,” I say.

Her expression softens, and she looks back down at her notebook. “You’re welcome.”

The morning settles around us, and for the first time since the final horn, the hollow space under my ribs eases.

“I’m sorry about the season,” she murmurs, closing the book shut.

“Me too.”

“Are you okay?”

I take a sip of coffee. “Yes. Hollow, maybe.”

She nods with a hum of agreement. “I wish you’d made it.”

“So do I.”

“But selfishly…” She winces a little. “I’m not mad you won’t be on a plane every four days.”

I blink at her.

“What? I said selfishly—I acknowledged it!” She chuckles, gathers her keys, then hesitates. “Oh, I saw a clip online of your presser too. With a headline thing.”

“What did it say?”

“Something about you shutting down questions about your mystery wife after the playoff loss.” She rolls her eyes. “Mystery wife sounds like I wear red lipstick and am the villain in a bad cartoon.”

“You do wear lipstick.”

“I’m not the villain, though.”

“No, you are definitely not that.”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “Thanks for not saying more.”

“I should’ve warned you they might ask about you.”

Her shoulder lifts and sighs. “You don’t have to warn me every time the internet remembers famous people have lives.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” She steps closer, keys in hand. “But you can tell me if you think something might hurt the studio. I’d definitely want to know that.”