Page 51 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Why do you want to know?”
I lift my brows in question before turning back to the stove, giving the pan one more stir before finishing it off with a pat of butter and another dash of seasonings. “I think it’s interesting. I haven’t met an author before, least of all one who writes books about hockey.”
“Only five of them,” she murmurs.
“Ask me how many I’ve written,” I deadpan, serving up the food and bringing the plates over to the island. Her cookie is gone, along with the PB&J. Good. “Your job is cool, Red, and I want to learn more about it. That’s all. No other hidden motives.”
She accepts the plate I hold out. “It’s really not that cool,” she says as I retrieve forks and napkins. “It’s just me sitting like a gremlin at my computer, pecking away at the keyboard as I down far too much Diet Coke and try to pretend I’m healthy because I choke down a vegetable every once in a while.”
“You don’t like veggies?” I ask, mostly because she’s forking up the pepper slices on her plate.
“I love them,” she says. “It’s just that my author brain wants to function solely on caffeine and junk food and not on anything with, say, nutrients in it.”
I chuckle and her head whips toward me, cheeks going pink.
“What?”
She waves a hand up and down my body. “You look like you.”
“And how’s that?” I can’t help but tease, loving that her cheeks grow a little pinker.
Her eyes narrow, though, that gorgeous brain of hers not missing a beat. “Hilarious,” she mutters. “But you know you’re in shape.”
I lift my tee—and yeah, I’m showing off. “I don’t know,” I say, still teasing, “these probably need some more time in the gym.”
She chokes and smirking, I head to the fridge, searching the contents for a Diet Coke. I don’t drink them but I’m pretty sure there are a couple left from the last time everyone came over. It takes a few seconds, but I spot the silver and red can and snag it, setting it by her hip.
Her face goes soft.
“So, what kinds of things do you research, Red?” I ask, picking up my plate and starting in on my food.
She points at my food. “That, for one,” she says. “Pregame meals. And travel schedules—making sure my characters aren’t flying to a game in the middle of summer, for another. And that not all their games are home games or against the same teams. I made a whole schedule for my fake team, actually. I even padded in the days off and travel time and holidays and preseason and playoffs.” She shrugs and takes another bite, but I wait, not daring to interrupt the flow of her words, still in full Gollum mode, wanting to soak up every piece of her she gives me. “And what happens after a trade,” she says. “And how contracts work and what the various positions on and off the ice are that bring the team together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, obviously, there’s you guys,” she says, “but there’s also the coaching staff and the trainers and the equipment managers and the player development department and…” A shrug. “Well, I’m sure you know.”
“Yeah, Red. I do know. It’s definitely not just us guys. The organization as a whole has to be functioning and supporting each other to be successful.”
Something that’s generally easier when the team’s captain isn’t going viral for all the wrong reasons?—
No.
I don’t want to think about Courtney and me, don’t want to think about all the ways I’ve messed up.
I just want to enjoy…Faye.
She nods, keeps eating chicken and veggies.
“What else?” I prompt after we eat in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m sure there’s more,” she says. “I tend to get a little obsessive when it comes to work.”
I smile.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say instead of admitting that I really like how her brain works. Or that sitting here eating and talking feels…domestic. And right. I reach for the can of soda when she does, popping open the tab and handing it to her.
