“Oh, come on. But wait…what the hell is tatsoi?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care, if it comes on a tongue I’m not eating it.”
“That sounded dirty.”
She looks up blinking, then grins. “Yeah, it did.”
“You’re cute.”
She looks up at me, a little smile playing on her lips. “Okay. Have you eaten tongue?”
“Hell no.”
Our Negronis arrive and we each take a sip. Kate’s eyes widen. “That’s strong.”
“I can get you drunk and take advantage of you.” I pause. “Wait. That’s a joke.”
“I know.” She smiles and rolls her eyes.
I tell her about my afternoon golfing. “So Hakim got frustrated because he sliced a stroke, like a hundred and fifty yards from the pin, and when he took his next shot it went into a bunch of geese. They were pissed and came straight for him.”
“Oh no!”
“It was hilarious, he was yelling and running away from a bunch of geese. Those fuckers can be mean.”
“And huge, some of them!”
“Yeah. At home, we called them cobra chickens.”
A laugh bursts out of her.
“They didn’t get him luckily, but we were all dying laughing.”
We order our meals, duck confit for me and scallops for her, and talk more as we eat, then decide to share a dessert. Kate pushes her fork into the brownie with mascarpone ice cream and says, “So. Can we talk business for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
“Is the reason you don’t want to play for the Bears because Easton Millar and Josh Heller are there?”
I freeze solid. I stare at the brownie, my fork hovering above it. Slowly I lower my fork to the plate. I lift my eyes to meet Kate’s. As usual, her face is neutral, her eyes warm as she waits for my response. My chest rises and falls with each quick breath.
My jaw tightens. “Why do you ask that?”
I know that’s not an answer.
“I need to know what’s going on,” she says. “As your agent.”
This is agent Kate. Not fun, flirty, friend Kate. Okay. This is what we have to do.
“Obviously you know they played with me in Swift Current.”
“Yes.” She slowly cuts off another piece of brownie with the side of her fork.
“I don’t want to be reminded of the accident.”
She nods. “I understand that. But playing on the same team as them—”
“I don’t want to.” I cut into her sentence abruptly.
Her eyes flicker. “I think there could be a great opportunity for you there.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Did you talk to them again?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” I glare. “I told you I don’t want to play for that team. Why would you even give them the idea I might?’
“It’s called negotiating,” she says dryly. “The more interest, the better.”
I shake my head. “Okay, I don’t know your job, but…I’m not going there.”
“Okay, this is your friend Kate talking now, not your agent. Tell me why.”
“You know why.” I’m afraid seeing them every day will trigger my PTSD. Do I have to spell it out to her? Christ.
“You’re afraid.”
Hearing her say it like that makes me defensive. Never mind I know goddamn well I’m afraid. I don’t want the whole world to know.
“Are you running away from it?” she asks softly.
There definitely was a time when I wanted to erase the accident from my past. I wanted to build big walls around the PTSD and deny its existence. Therapy helped me realize I couldn’t just pretend it never happened. I’ve been doing well, but seeing Easton and Josh…Jesus. They were my best friends. We were always together, on and off the ice. We were the best players on the team, all three of us supposed to play in the NHL.
The year after the accident was a mess for me, but I knew Easton got drafted that spring. It’s hard to describe the bitterness I felt about that, sitting in my cottage in Tofino, and then the dark shame that stained me because I wasn’t happy for my friend.
I also knew Josh had been badly injured and was in the hospital for a long time. By the time he got drafted the next year, I was in a better place, getting ready to go away to college to play hockey because at least it was hockey. I was glad he’d recovered well enough to play again, but it still hurt. My two best friends made it there without me.
We’ve never talked since the accident. I see them when I play against them, a few times a year, but I act like they’re opponents I don’t know. I play my toughest games against them.
Playing with them on a team would be totally different.
“I’m not running away,” I say. “I’m making the best decision I can for my mental health. And you should know that.”
Her chin jerks down, barely, but I see her reaction. She’s got a great poker face, but that got her. A curl of guilt twists in my gut.
“I don’t think I do know that,” she says coolly. “I’m not convinced this would be a bad move for you.”
Fire blazes through my chest. “It’s not up to you,” I bite out. “It’s up to me.”
She swallows. Drops her gaze briefly. Then lifts her chin. “Yes. You’re right.” She sets down her fork. “I think I’m ready to go now.”
I stare at her for a few seconds. The air around us is heavy. “Okay. Sure.”
I catch the waitress’s eye and take care of the check, then we leave. Out on the street, Kate walks briskly.
“Kate.”
She doesn’t stop. “What?”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
She halts. Her head goes back as she looks skyward. “Seriously?”
“Um, yeah.”
She lets out a little growl, turns and marches back toward me, then past me.
It’d be funny, except she’s pissed and I’m pissed and this isn’t the time to tease her about her bad sense of direction. So I catch up to her.
Neither of us say much until we get to her place. She stops at her door. “Thank you for dinner.” She looks up and meets my eyes. The reserve there feels like a punch in the gut. “I think it would be better if we keep our relationship business from here on.”
Now, I’m really pissed. I cross my arms and my back teeth grind together. I’m afraid I’m going to say something I’ll regret, so I snap, “No.”
Her eyebrows fly up. “What?”
“No.” I scowl. “We’re both angry. Let’s call it a night and sleep on things and talk tomorrow.”
Her lips pinch together and she stares at me like she can’t believe I’m saying that. Finally, she says, “Okay. Fine. Good night, Hunter.”
“Night.”
I make sure she gets into her building, then turn and stalk down the sidewalk. My hands curl into fists and my shoulders hunch up around my ears.
Shit.
Fuck.
Damn.
My gut feels like there’s a boulder lodged in it. I drive home, yelling at the traffic and impatiently changing lanes. When I get there, Hakim is out, thankfully, so I can slam things around in the apartment, like the door when I stomp inside and the fridge door after I grab a beer.