Page 6 of Her Player

He snickered. "That... that's not what I'm⁠—"

I pointed at him with my pencil. "Come to think of it, Jett doesn't call you⁠—"

"All right," he said, crossing his arms. "I get it. Not everyone calls me Stone."

I flitted my gaze down his body, but it was all the glance I needed. I understood why the fans called him Stone. He was a literal stone of beef. Gave Coach a run for his money in a lot of areas. He was thickly cut with a barreled chest and mountainous arms for a man skating around doing cardio on the ice for a living. His shoulders were broad, making his waist look even more tapered. His jaw was broad and prominent. His nose, wide and proud. Even his forehead seemed strong, like it held its own strength from within. The dusting of disheveled black hair on top of his head was the only thing that softened his icy blue stare.

Yeah, I understood why they called him Stone. Didn't mean I was going to, though.

You're looking at someone sixteen years your junior. Cut it out.

The voice in my head made me drop my eyes back to my clipboard.

"Had any issues with your tires lately?" Rhett asked.

"Nope."

"So I take it we're doing good, financially?"

I straightened a stack of papers that didn't need straightening. "We're doing fine."

"Any plans for the new funds?"

"The food court renovation is finally happening. We'll have the funds to do it properly after next weekend." A small smile slipped before I could catch it. "And the new Zamboni is on order. Coach is getting his replacement whether he admits he needs it or not."

Rhett chuckled. "Well, don't tell Coach. Otherwise he might ask for a raise."

I snickered. "Yeah, he'll get a raise. In his blood pressure. If he doesn't stop fiddling with that thing and breaking it more than he already has, I'm about to make his life a living hell over it."

The sound that came from Rhett flashed me back to that night. The night he came over and helped me with my flat tire. The night he came over, plopped me down on my couch, and watched Golden Girls with me while I tried to dig myself out of the recesses of my own mind. The sound reminded me of how lovely his smile had been, illuminated by nothing but the light of my television.

I found my brain quickly doing the math in my head on the age difference between the two of us. Why it was important to my brain, I didn't have a clue.

Fourteen years.

Even bigger than the age split between my daughter and Coach.

I rolled my right shoulder, trying to work out the knot that had been living there for three days, and didn't quite succeed. I'd been at the desk too long.

"You're tight," Rhett said.

"I'm fine."

"You're rolling your shoulder like it owes you money."

"I'm fine, Rhett."

"Miss C." He pushed off the doorframe. He didn't come closer. Just stood up straight, which was its own thing, because the man was easily six-foot-seven and pushing off a doorframe was a whole event. "I've got hands that work for a living. Let me work on it for two minutes and you'll sleep tonight."

"I sleep fine."

"You don't sleep fine."

"How would you know?"

He didn't answer that. He just looked at me with that infuriating patience of his, the one that didn't ask for anything, that wasn't going anywhere, that wasn't going to push.

That was the worst part. He wasn't going to push. He was going to stand there and wait until I either told him to leave or asked him to stay, and we both knew which one I was more likely to do.