Page 67 of Hard to Get

We make some small talk, catching up about my work and his road trip and the two home games they just played back-to-back Saturday and Sunday.

“That must be tiring,” I say. “You guys play so hard, you need a day off after.”

“Yeah. It only happens a few times a year there’s a back-to-back. At least they were here at home.”

“You looked good Saturday night,” I say.

“You watched?”

“I was there.”

“What?” He stares at me. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Did you need to know?” I tease.

“Well… we could have gone out after. Oh… maybe you were there…” His voice trails off.

“It was a business thing,” I tell him. “One of our business partners has a suite and invited Troy and me to join them.”

“Oh. If you want to come to other games, I can get you tickets.”

“That would be nice. Anyway, it was a good game. Congrats on the win.”

He relaxes and smiles. “It felt like we were playing better. But then last night wasn’t so great.”

“If you hadn’t been playing against that goalie, I think you would have had about six goals.” I shake my head. “Shots on goal were crazy lopsided.”

“And yet we lost.” His smile is thin.

“Yeah. That’s frustrating.” I sip my wine. “You were playing some long shifts.”

He shoves a hand into his hair. “Yeah.”

“That means your coach relies on you.”

“Yeah.” He makes a face.

There’s a pause in the conversation, so I say, “Soooo… I was bored yesterday and I put together a bunch of your stats.”

He blinks. “Uh… okay.”

I bite my lip. “They might be helpful to you. If you’re interested.”

His face is inscrutable. A slight twitch of his eyebrow is all I get. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He lifts his drink and takes a few swallows. “Sure.”

After a pause, I say, “That didn’t sound enthusiastic. I’m not trying to push this stuff on you.”

“I know.” His smile is cool. “It’s fine.”

He thinks I’m insulting him.

“I’m not… it’s not…” I stop. Then I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m not saying you’re a bad player. You’re not.”

He inclines his head.

“It’s what I do.” I make a face. “I love stats. You don’t have to listen to me, though.” I stand. “How about dinner?” I ask brightly.

I barrel to the kitchen. The chicken is in the oven. The salad is in the fridge. The table is set.