Page 20 of Rookie Season
“You hiding out here?”
She emerges with two cartons of eggs and some bacon balanced on top. “Starting breakfast.”
“Easy, Cirque du Soleil.” I reach for the bacon as it slides off.
“Thanks,” she murmurs when I grab it, one-handed, before it hits the floor.
“You know, for someone who practically lives with the team, you act like we bite sometimes.”
“Well, bears and humans aren’t a good combination,” she says under her breath. I don’t have time to press her on that because she continues, “Besides, I enjoy cooking.”
She kicks the fridge closed with a bunny foot and sets the eggs on the counter. Under the sink, she rummages around until she finds a big frying pan.
I set my mug on the counter. “Bet you’re good at it too. But how often do you let someone else do the heavy lifting?”
She puts the pan on the stove, turns on the element, and cuts a chunk of butter into it. “If I waited, I’d be waiting a long time. I’m not a famous athlete with thousands of fans ready to worship me.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. You’ve got more than a few worshippers at Mile High.”
Her lips twitch. “They like me because I pour the alcohol.”
“They like you because you’re funny. And kind. And…”
“What?” She leans a hip against the counter, face tilted up reluctantly. Her lips are parted, her dark eyes alert and warm.
I pause. “And way too fucking beautiful.”
Sierra turns away and grabs a couple of eggs, but not before I see her flush. “Save it for the Kodashians, Ryan. You don’t need to pretend what happened last year was a big deal. We’re cool.”
I frown as she taps an egg on the edge of the pan, cracking it in.
“We are?” I ask slowly.
Sierra turns for a handful more, but I’m right there to pass eggs to her. She jumps, taking them from me. Our fingers brush. Our eyes lock.
“Yeah. It was a one-time thing. Meaningless.”
My appetite evaporates in an instant.
I didn’t realize how much it would suck to hear her say those words. Not like I’m head over heels, but I think about her a lot. About last year, what was and what might have been. Now, if there was any hope left alive that she was into it, that hope is dying an agonizing death.
Once she’s done, she dodges me and goes to the sink to wash her hands.
Then she wipes down the counter thoroughly. Carefully.
“You take almost as good care of this as your bar at home,” Brooke observes from the other room.
“You’ve got no idea,” Clay counters. “Her bar is sacred. It’s her altar.”
That’s when it clicks.
I step closer to her. “How many times have you hooked up on your bar, Sierra?”
Her eyes flicker.
Laughter goes up from the dining room. Neither of us looks over.
“Let me guess: one-time thing, meaningless,” I say quietly. A slow smile tugs at my lips.
