Page 48 of Falling Offsides

I poke at my pasta taking in the way he’s still observing me. The same way he was watching me eat the cake he made me. “Or you could just admit you like my company.”

Auguste doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look away either.

So, I lean in across the table, eyes holding his. “Can I ask you something personal?”

His jaw tightens even though he nods.

I start slow. Soft questions. Easy things.

“Favorite meal?”

“Steak,” he says, without hesitation, gesturing down at his plate.

“First fight?”

He lifts a brow. “On or off the ice?”

I grin. “Both.”

“Off the ice? My brother—Étty is a cocky bastard when he wants to be. On the ice? Some kid who grabbed my stick wrong when I was twelve. Got a black eye and a penalty. Worth it.”

I laugh. “Worst injury?”

Auguste taps the edge of his water glass. “Cracked ribs. Took a puck to the side and kept playing. Dumb choice.”

The questions slow. Shift. I hesitate at first.

There’s a flicker of surprise in my chest—like I can’t quite believe I’m asking the next one, or where it came from. Maybe it’s all Delilah’sfault with her nonstop big talk and spicy book banter. Or maybe… I just want to know something real about him. Something no one else ever gets to know.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He watches me. The candlelight flickers in the bright forest green of his eyes.

“No.”

The syllable whacks me in the gut. It’s so final.

I raise my brows. “Too cynical?”

“Hmm… too practical,” he replies, voice low. “But I believe in wanting someone before you know why.”

Oh.He’s a lust to love man. That makes a lot of sense to me, given he likes to observe and study people.

Something in my chest stutters—Is that what he’s doing to me? Observing? Studying? Lusting?

I look away first.

Then—quietly, almost like I’m trying to diffuse my own thoughts—I ask, “Where’s home? I mean—real home.”

Auguste’s expression shifts. Softer now.

He doesn’t answer right away. “Rimouski. Small town in Quebec. Cold as hell.”

“Do you miss it?”

He nods slowly. “Sometimes. It’s the little stuff I miss. My mom always made too much food, even when it was just the five of us. My dad would fall asleep during movies and swear he was just resting his eyes. My sister used to steal my hoodies—still does when I’m home…”

Quiet settles between us again while we eat and the conversation percolates.

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