I was saved by our arrival at the staff lounge. “Well, I should get my jacket.”
“You want me to wait on you? I can walk you out.”
Why did he have to be nice? That made the way I was ogling him even worse. “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
He sighed and laughed in a way that indicated he was shaking his head. “Okay, Chef. G’night.”
“Night, Chef!” I called, slamming the door behind me and slumping against it.
It was just a private instruction gig. A private instruction gig that would make Liam’s college education much more affordable. A private instruction gig at a hockey player’s house.
Normally, I prided myself on being immune to the hockey player charm. But rather than being immune to Royce, I wasleft feeling like a giddy schoolgirl, scrunching my shoulders and letting out a little squeal.
Ovulation was a bitch.
If Liam ever moved out of my house for good, I’d start dating again. I had to. Because being delusional enough to feel flattered by an NHL player was the kind of sheer nonsense that I couldn’t entertain.
SIX
HARLAN
FEBRUARY
Today was a big day.It was Cordero’s first day on the team and his first practice with us. A light sweat prickled my neck when I saw a seat open next to him at one of the round tables in our dining room. I’d met him before, of course. Issued a wave when we played against each other, or rather, when he handed my ass to me on a silver platter with a shutout game. I was just happy to have only let three past me in front of him.
I was grateful for the heavy plate steadying my hand while I approached him. “Seat taken?”
Two bright brown eyes and a handsome face turned my way. “All yours. Good to see you, Royce.”
He’d probably brushed up on the roster before coming here. There was no way he actually remembered me. Still, I suppressed a fanboy shriek at him even acknowledging me. This guy had been my idol since I was twelve. “Same,” I said, trying so hard to be casual about it. “Welcome to Ohio, I guess.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You know what they say, ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”
I fought a cringe at the cliché phrase. Granted, I had used that phrase as “Happy goalie, happy life,” but I was being clever and ironic. Was Eric Cordero . . . not funny? This was why they said to never meet your heroes.
“I thought you wanted more starts in your last year,” I said.
He wrinkled his brow. “Who said it’s my last year?”
“Uh, sorry. I thought you announced your retirement.” I sank my fork into a piece of honeydew. I wanted to salt it first, but I didn’t want my weird to show in front of Eric Cordero. Not yet, anyway. It really does bring out the melon’s flavor, though.
“My agent did. Trying to get a bid for me, I guess. You see how well that turned out.” He stacked his fork with an absurdly huge bite. “I still hope I’ve got at least one more after this.”
“I think you do,” I said.
“Well, sorry for barging in on your space like this. You’ve been top dog for a while.”
I lifted my brows and snorted, stealing his words. “You see how well that’s turned out.”
He cocked his head back. “What do you mean? You’ve been killing it this season.”
I hoped I wasn’t blushing, because how embarrassing would it be for Eric Cordero to see that a single compliment from him would light up my whole world? “Been here three seasons and you don’t see my name on any cups anywhere.”
He shrugged. “Eh, you’re lucky if you get one of those in your career.”
“You have a few,” I pointed out.
Cordero shook his head. “You gotta find a way to play for today. Every game is an opportunity. If you get too caught up in the ending, you miss out on all the good stuff in the middle.”