Page 11 of Checking It Twice
And that’s a problem.
It’ll probably be just me and Roberto this Christmas. Again. At least he’s reliable and doesn’t come with emotional baggage or the potential to ruin my career.
Chapter Five
The Last Taco
Mitchell
The conference room smells like grilled chicken and possibility. Catered lunch days are chaos—twenty guys fighting over the good sandwiches, arguing about everything from playoff predictions to who’s got the worst taste in music. It’s loud, messy, and just the distraction I need.
Clare walks in carrying her usual stack of papers and that no-nonsense energy that somehow makes the room feel more focused. She's wearing a navy sweater that hugs her curves in ways that make it hard to concentrate on anything else. When she scans the room looking for a seat, I gesture to the empty chair next to mine before I can think better of it.
“Brave of you to venture into the feeding frenzy,” I say as she settles in beside me.
“Someone has to make sure you animals remember basic table manners.” She opens her water bottle, and I notice it’s nearly empty. Without thinking, I reach for the pitcher in the center of the table and refill it for her.
She glances at me, surprised. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Bennett’s telling some story about getting recognized at a coffee shop by a grandmother who insisted he was too skinny and needed more pie. The guys are eating it up, laughing and adding their own horror stories about overly helpful fans. I'm only half listening. Clare’s sitting close enough that I catch hints of herperfume—clean, subtle, the kind of scent that has me leaning closer without meaning to.
When the chips get passed around, I make sure she gets first grab. When there’s only one chicken taco left and I see her eyeing it, I slide it onto her plate without a word.
“You didn’t want that?” she asks.
“I’m good.” What I don’t say is that watching her enjoy it is better than eating it myself. She’s got this way of savoring food, taking her time, like she’s actually present instead of just going through the motions.
The conversation drifts to holiday plans. Bennett and Lucy are flying to Colorado to ski with his family. Hayes is staying in Dallas and has family coming into town. Chase mentions something about visiting his sister in California.
“What about you, Mitch?” Ty asks. “Still planning to hole up here and avoid human contact?”
“Nah, I decided to go home to Minnesota.” The words come out steadier than I feel.
“Really?” There’s surprise in Chase’s voice. “Thought you were staying put this year.”
I shrug, trying to look casual. “Family obligations.”
Clare’s gone quiet beside me, and I can feel her attention like a physical thing. When I glance her way, she’s studying my face with those intelligent eyes that see too much.
“Minnesota’s beautiful at Christmas,” she says finally. “All that snow and small-town charm.”
“You should see it for yourself sometime.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Casual. Testing. Like I’m just making conversation instead of laying groundwork for something that could change everything.
She laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. “I can’t just up and go to Minnesota with a hockey player I barely know.”
The deflection stings more than it should. Because the truth is, she does know me. She knows I take my coffee black and that I get restless during long meetings. She knows I remember people’s birthdays and that I’ll give up the last taco if it means making someone else happy.
But she doesn’t know about Hannah. Doesn’t know about the wreckage I’m trying to outrun or the desperate need to prove I’m not the broken mess everyone back home thinks I am.
“Can’t blame a guy for asking,” I say, keeping my voice light.
There’s something in my tone—maybe it’s the vulnerability I’m trying so hard to hide, maybe it’s the way I can’t quite meet her eyes when I say it—that makes her pause. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, the careful way she’s reassessing whatever assumptions she made about my invitation.
Lunch winds down around us. Guys start clearing out for afternoon meetings. Clare’s still sitting there, twisting her napkin between her fingers like she’s working up the courage to say something.
