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“Has anyone told you that you’re Machiavellian?” I ask as the car heads toward the team hotel. I’ll need to get ready soon for the game. I skipped my game-day nap. Ilike them, but I slept on the early flight this morning so I’ll be fine.
“As a matter of fact, yes.You. You just did.”
“Well, you are.”
She’s smiling. “I know.”
As the car swings onto the Strip, my phone buzzes, and I check it. It’s a text from my mom.
Guess where I found your kitten?
I groan, bracing myself for Athena’s antics.
Top of the fridge? Bottom of the laundry basket? Inside the dryer?
I hope it’s not the latter. But I bet it is. She’s the sneakiest.
Your closet. Top shelf. Sleeping on a tie.
There’s a pic attached of the tiny furball curled up on some sapphire blue neckwear. Fuck, that’s cute.
Everly shoots me a curious look, like she wants to know what’s on my phone. “All good?”
But if I let on that I foster kittens, I’ll never hear the end of it from her. “Yep,” I say, shutting the text.
She returns to her phone, typing away. Smiling too. That looks like how a woman smiles when she sets up a date. A fire rages in my chest, out of control in seconds.
“Got a date?” I ask. It comes out strangled.
“Maybe,” she says, a little flintily.
The flames burn higher. Brighter. Hotter. In seconds, there’s a wildfire in me, eating the forest alive. “Is he your type?”
“I guess I’ll find out. We’re going to grab lunch on Sunday,” she says.
“Lunch,” I scoff. “That’s weak.”
“Why is lunch weak?”
“Because it’s lunch. Who takes a woman out for lunch?”
“A nice guy,” she says.
I grind my teeth, then stare out the window, my jaw ticking the rest of the way back as I think about her lunch this weekend.
As I’m heading to the Vegas arena a couple hours later, a text from her lands on my phone. It’s a link to my social feed.
She dropped some pics from the circus. The shot of me watching, a pic of the sword swallowing, then the final snap of the ringmaster and me.
The caption reads:If hockey doesn’t work out, I might run off to join the circus.
I shake my head. She’s brilliant. So fucking brilliant. And I bet this fuckface she’s having lunch with won’t appreciate her clever ways.
She needs a guy who does. A guy who does more than take her to lunch. A friend takes you to lunch. A date doesn’t take you to lunch on a Sunday.
Wait. This Sunday. I know something that’s happening this Sunday right around noon. I send her a text.
Max: Had a great idea for my next favorite thing. There’s a fun bike ride in the city this weekend. Starts at noon on Sunday. You can get another pic.
