Page 9 of Tricky Puck

She rolls her eyes. “None. I’m not into sports.” She enjoys telling me this far too much. Her expression struggles to avoid self-satisfaction and loses the battle.

“If you had to pick, what sport would be your favorite?” I unleash my devilish smirk without reservation and add, “Please say wrestling.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “That was meant to be a joke, right?”

“I’m nothing if not full of laughs.”

“You’re full of something.”

“And you’re holding out. What do you do with yourself besides torture men brave enough to take you out?”

“Brave? You think of yourself as brave?”

“There you go again—flipping the conversation back to me.”

“Answer me, and then I’ll answer you.”

I should be annoyed or frustrated or something because I’ve never had to work so hard to get a woman to talk about herself, never had so much fun flirting or measuring myself against someone, or known a woman who was such a worthy sparring partner.

“I’m more determined than brave.”

“Determined to do what?”

I have her interest.

“To please Grandma, the woman who is the love of my life.” I’m unsure if I share this to please or annoy her. Either way, though, it’s true, but I’m sharing way more than is necessary—or more than is smart for keeping control of my soul.

“I got that about you. It’s endearing, and I can relate. See there—we have something in common.”

“Now answer my question. What do you do? Who is Delaney Collins? Or should I ask what you're hiding?”

“Hiding?” She snorts. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“Ouch. Score a point for Team Delaney. You’ve accused me of the one thing I hate most in people.” I study her, a genuine smile having its way with my face. To hell with trying to school my expression. I lift my glass and take a healthy sip. It could be the Pappy Van Winkel talking, but it’s never affected me this way.

“And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m…between jobs.” She sighs. “Fuck it. I was working as a bartender to pay the rent, but now that I’ve been unceremoniously tossed from that job for being a so-called troublemaker because I didn’t take shit from one of the partners⁠—”

“And by shit, you mean…?” I have a bad feeling about this.

“The usual crap females put up with in bars.”

“Did he touch you?” My voice goes deep, and my chest rumbles as a zing of angry adrenaline hits my system.

She looks at me in surprise, the real kind, then shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Her expression softens. “He didn’t get away with anything. I didn’t let him—which is why I got fired.” She aims a bemused look at me like I’ve turned into a freak.

Fuck. Calming myself, I breathe for a couple of beats, letting the adrenaline and anger fade. I’m not overreacting. Any decent man—or woman—would feel outrage at a man who takes advantage of an employee that way—or tries to—then fires her.

I allow myself a smile at the idea that she didn’t take his crap. “I bet you gave him hell. Wish I’d been there to see it.” I pause. “Sorry, you got fired. Now what? You’re homeless?” Fuck. My mind shoots to my teammate Sabien and his predicament when his dog-walker became homeless—and how he somehow ended up with a live-in girlfriend and a baby on the way.

She laughs. Thank fuck.

“No. I’m like a Girl Scout. I planned for a rainy day.” She takes another healthy sip of her whiskey. “Actually, I’ve been planning on leaving my job sooner or later to take some time off and…”

“And?”

“Shit.” She’s looking over my shoulder and doesn’t look happy. In fact, she looks outraged.