That’s a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing, but I’m not just a dumb hockey player.
“So you’re a trash artist?”
The corner of his mouth tightens. “I prefer the term junk artist.”
Potayto, potahto.
“Were any of your pieces exhibited at Piedmont Park last summer? Maybe I’ve seen your work.”
He shakes his head begrudgingly.
I turn to Ava. “It was a pretty cool exhibition. Very thought provoking. You would’ve enjoyed it.”
She grins. “I didn’t know you were into art.”
“There are a lot of things you still don’t know about me.”
Things I’d happily share, if only she’d give me the chance.
She turns to the grill, where Coach and Taylor are locked in animated conversation. “How do you know Taylor?”
“I met Taylor through my volunteer work with the Junior Gliders. I’ve been mentoring him for the last couple of months. He’s a good kid. He’s got a lot of potential, and a great heart.” I chuckle and nod to where he stands, demonstrating his slap shot. “He’s a huge fan of your dad. The kid knows all his stats, and believe me, I’ve tried to trip him up.”
She throws her head back and laughs, and damn, I’ve missed that sound.
Coach calls us to the table, and Arlo helps Ava down from her chair, his arm slipping casually around her waist. It’s far too familiar for my liking.
What the hell does she even see in a guy like that? I’ve only known him for ten minutes, and I can already tell he’s an elitist prick.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and Coach will break his fingers.
A grin splits my face as I make my way to the table.
Coach has gone all out tonight. There are chicken, shrimp, and steak kabobs with grilled vegetables, a green salad, and a decadent-looking fruit tart for dessert.
The dinner conversation flows easily thanks to Taylor and Coach, but when dessert is served, things take a turn for the interesting.
Taylor’s on his second slice of the tart when Coach zeroes in on Arlo.
“What are your intentions toward my daughter?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
Ava gasps, clearly appalled at the directness of her father’s question. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s alright,” Arlo assures her, resting his corpse-like hand atop hers on the table. “Your father is just looking out for you.”
“Exactly.” Coach crosses his arms as he stares down Ava’s date. “You’re my daughter, and it’s my job to protect you.” He narrows his eyes. “I should know who you’re dating and make sure they’re treating you right.”
To his credit, Arlo remains cool and collected, though I’ve seen better men wilt under Coach’s intimidating glower.
“Ava is a lovely woman,” Arlo says smoothly. “Right now, we’re just getting to know one another. We’ll take it slow and see where things go.”
Coach nods slowly, as if in approval.
Are you fucking kidding me? No way Coach is falling for his bullshit.
“And you’re an artist?” Coach smiles wryly. “Back in my day, all the artists were starving. I can’t imagine things have changed much. Not in this economy.”
Arlo laughs, the sound silky-smooth. “I do alright for myself.”