Page 7 of Cross-Checked

“Absolutely not.” My tone invites no disagreement, but I suspect Charlie doesn’t want his players forced into this lunch, either. Every hockey player has his own pre-game rituals, and almost all of them include an afternoon nap, followed by a series of superstitious behaviors they have to run through. Even though, obviously, they’ll all need lunch anyway, they shouldn’t be forced to sit through this ridiculous charade—especially because our goalie Colt just broke one of their player’s noses, so tempers between the players are bound to be high. “I’ll talk to Frank about it.”

Charlie just laughs and shakes his head. “Good luck with that.”

“I don’t need luck. Frank may own this team, but he pays me very well to manage it. And he’s always trusted me to know what’s best for our players.” Am I really this confident that he’ll see it my way? No. But am I certain that I can convince him? Yes.

“Alright. Well, enjoy your dinner and I’ll see you tomorrow. Should I tell our captains that they don’t need to be at that lunch?”

“I’ll let you know once I have confirmation from Frank.”

“Alright then.” He gives me a nod before turning to leave.

I scroll on my phone for a few minutes, ignoring what I sense are the curious eyes of two men farther down the bar. And when the bartender finally brings over my plate, which has a filet artfully arranged over some asparagus and mashed potatoes, my stomach grumbles so loudly I’m pretty sure the whole restaurant heard it. I can’t help it; this smells fucking fantastic, and I was on a series of calls all day, meaning I only had time for a protein bar for lunch. If we were back at the office, my assistant, Colleen, would have ordered me something so I didn’t skip a meal—because, let’s be honest, I get hangry and no one should have to deal with me when I haven’t eaten.

The bartender smiles as he sets the plate in front of me, and a row of perfectly straight teeth sink into the right side of his lip like he’s holding in a laugh. “It does smell good, doesn’t it?”

“Honestly, I’m so hungry I was about to eat my own arm. You could have brought me a bag from the closest fast-food joint and I think my stomach would have reacted the same way.”

“Luckily for you, you’ll probably enjoy this more.” He gives me a wink as he licks his lower lip, and it occurs to me that this man who looks like he was a child yesterday is flirting with me.

“Maybe Ipreferfast food.”

He looks me up and down, taking in the dark hair that’s kept the perfect shade of brown with my monthly hair appointments, the smooth face that’s kept wrinkle free from regular visits to my aesthetician, the large pearls that adorn my earlobes, and the silk blouse beneath the burgundy blazer. “That would surprise me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You seem like a woman who . . . knows what she likes.”

“I do know what I like,” I tell him, letting my lips curve up at one side. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer a greasy hamburger over a filet.”

He crosses his arms and leans forward, resting his elbow on his side of the bar. “So why are you here having a seventy-dollar steak, then?”

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly good food allowance from my work if I go to McDonalds, you know?” I say as I unwrap my cutlery from the napkin and lay the cloth across my lap.

“So what do you do for work?”

I don’t know why I still haven’t found a good way to answer this question. I’m not the kind of person who throws around my job title to impress people, nor do I want to invite the questions it inevitably generates from perfect strangers. “I work in sports.”

Leaning in a bit closer, his eyes focus on my lips as I lick them—a nervous habit I’ve never quite gotten over. “Tell me more.”

I pick up my fork and knife, sinking them into my steak as I flick my eyes back up toward him. “No thanks.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Are you always hesitant to talk about work?”

Yes.

“No. But you just watched me turn down dinner with my colleagues, so obviously I’m not looking for work talk.”

I watch as his pupils dilate, his eyes lingering on my mouth. I know that my lips, and the wide smile they afford me, are the physical feature I’m most known for. So his intense interest in them shouldn’t surprise me, but it still does. He’s a damn baby compared to me.

Then he stands, spreading his hands along the edge of the bar. His forearms are dusted with blonde hair over his tanned skin. The color matches the natural highlights in his slightly overgrown waves, giving him a touch of southern surfer boy charm.

“So whatareyou looking for?”

Such an open, honest invitation. And in the past, right after my divorce, I’d have probably taken him up on it, even thoughhe’s easily fifteen years younger than me. But I grew tired of that long ago. Now, I just want peace. My job is stressful—hell, my whole life is stressful—and honestly, a good night’s sleep sounds way better than sex.

“Just to eat my meal alone.” I give him a sympathetic smile to soften the blow.

His lips turn up into a half smile as he nods, before turning and heading down the bar to flirt with the much younger lady at the other end. As I take the first bite of my steak, then wash it down with my wine, I know I made the right choice. Because the only thing worse than the loneliness of being divorced and forty, is the empty feeling I’m left with after meaningless, and often mediocre, sex with a stranger.

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