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you?”
    “Nope.”
    “Even though I’m a hotshot professional hockey player?”
    “Especially not for that,” she says, glaring at me with mock disapproval. “Besides, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
    “You should cut me some slack—I’ll be less of a prick.”
    “Didn’t you know you catch more flies with sugar?”
    “So, if I’m nice you’ll cut me slack?”
    “Nope. Not even then,” she says with a smirk.
    I stare at her a moment, then before I even know what the fuck is happening, my head tilts back and I start laughing.
    Hard.
    And it feels natural, and fun, and…right.
    “So, you really know nothing about hockey?” I ask, chuckling.
    “It’s played on ice, right?”
    “Last I checked,” I tell her with a snort.
    “Then that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
    “Tell you what—I’ll get you tickets for tomorrow night’s game and you can start learning about it.”
    “Oh, that’s really nice but I have plans tomorrow night,” she says, her cheeks turning slightly red.
    “I can get you four tickets, so if you’re going out with friends or something—”
    “Actually, it’s a date, so I’m not sure what our plans are.”
    Oh, yeah—no way she is going to have dinner at my apartment tonight. I don’t know much about Sutton Price but I can tell she’s not the type to play the field. I’m oddly disappointed she has a date tomorrow, but no clue why. Past the disappointment that she won’t be writhing around on my bed, I shouldn’t have any feelings for her one way or the other.
    “Well, tickets are available any time you’d like to give it a try,” I tell her with a smile.
    Sutton watches me, her face full of interest. “I’m not sure why you were labeled the team prick. I’m just not seeing it.”
    My laughter has completely faded and I’m sort of teasing, sort of serious when I say, “Get me closer to the ice and my jackass attitude will start shining through.”
    “What? Seriously?”
    “Seriously.”
    “You mean, you get grouchy when you play hockey?”
    “I mean I fucking hate playing hockey, so yeah…I get a little grouchy.”
    What. In. The. Hell?
    Why I just told her that, I have no clue. I’ve never admitted that out loud to anyone in my entire life, although it’s a mantra I repeat silently to myself on almost a daily basis. If the press ever got hold of that, if the fans ever found that out, I’d be finished—run out of town faster than my very own slap shot, and every team’s door would be closed to me.
    And yet, I can’t find it within me to care that I just told a complete stranger that little secret.
    I expect her to scoff at me, because frankly, it has to be unbelievable that a professional hockey player hates playing hockey. I think we are a rare breed.
    Hell, the more I think about it, I bet I’m the only one of the breed. I’m like the dodo bird, on the verge of extinction.
    Rather than scoff at or dismiss my assertion, Sutton’s eyes go sad and she says, “I’m sorry….That really has to suck.”
    I can’t fucking stand to see that look on her face.
    Pity.
    You can give me your ire, your hate or your disgust, but don’t ever fucking give me your pity. The pleasantly warm feeling that I held in the bottom of my belly just moments before has completely dissipated, and has been replaced by cold concrete.
    Standing up from my chair, I toss the binder on her desk with a resounding thwack. She flinches backward and her eyes widen with surprise.
    “Sorry, gorgeous, I don’t do ‘homework,’ ” I tell her with a sneer while pointing at the binder. “But my offer still stands: If you want to come over for dinner tonight, you can give me a summary of that monstrosity. Or we could do other things.”
    I expect my barb to strike deep and offend her, maybe causing a little tremble to her lip that will help orient me back to my true self. She disappoints yet again, instead narrowing her eyes and curling her upper lip in disdain.