Page 5 of Brooklynaire

He’s already shaking his head. “No way. A concussion takes at least two weeks toheal.”

“Two weeks!” I squeak. “But I don’t need to playhockey, Nate. It’s a deskjob.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He folds his hands like the CEO that he is, and then he drops a bomb. “For the next two weeks, Lauren is leaving her Manhattan seat to cover the Bruisers’ office. Until you’re really back on your feet. It’s alreadydecided.”

My heart slides into my gut. “That’s really not necessary.” NotLauren! It’s déjà vu all over again. “Lauren hates hockey, anyway.” She’d said so herself a dozentimes.

Nate just smirks. Most men can’t pull off a smirk. But most men aren’t Nate Kattenberger. If you’re as smart and attractive as this guy, you can do pretty much anything. “Lauren will just have todeal.”

“Is there really no way I can talk you out of this? I’m just going to sit around this little apartment,bored.”

“You’re benched, Bec. It happens. The players bitch about the downtime, too. We need your brain, okay? We don’t fool around withconcussions.”

I don’t point out the obvious difference—Nate’s hockey players get their head injuries while doing great things for the team. I got mine being anidiot.

Yayme.

“Thank you for the flowers, Nate.” My voice is so low I can’t be sure he heardit.

Our eyes meet, and the years fall away. I see the twenty-something guy I used to know, the one with a scrubby office and a big dream. Back then we worked late, eating leftover Chinese at our desks, and competing to see who could throw wadded-up napkins into the waste can from across the room. He was the guy with the knowing smirk and the big brain. And I took care of the little things so he had time to reinvent the way your mobile device connects to theinternet.

Now Nate smiles at me, showing me his dimples. The dimples don’t fit the rest of the Nate Kattenberger package. They’re too boyish for such a serious face. They soften him. I smile back instinctively. And for that moment, everything isokay.

It’s a funny thing to be so familiar with this powerful man, and yet still aware that he holds my whole life in the palm of his hand. I trust him. But I also really can’t afford to let himdown.

“Alternate universe theory is a thing,” he sayssuddenly.

“Wh-what?” As always, I’m a couple of paces behind Nate. Even when I don’t have aconcussion.

“Alternate universes. The multiverse. It’s a legitimate theory inphysics.”

“Pfft. Renny just reads sciencefiction.”

Nate’s eyes brighten. “Because science fiction isawesome. The multiverse theory posits that infinity is large enough to simultaneously encompasseveryparallel chance. Every non-choice. Everypossibility.”

“Well, that’s just scary! Please don’t send me to a planet where my brother-in-law runs yourcompany.”

Natesmirks.

“But I do like the idea that there’s a universe in which I did not step out onto the ice yesterday and then mess up our end-of-seasonworkflow.”

His smile fades. “It’s going to be okay, Bec. What’s a little more chaos betweenfriends?”

“Right?” I ask, but my voice cracks. I’m so tired of chaos. I’m just suddenly so…tired.

“Hey,” his voice is soft. He stretches a hand across the ugly brown roses on the sofa and squeezes my hand. “Would you tell me if you weren’tokay?”

“Yes.”No.Probably not. “In a few days I’ll probably feelgreat.”

“I hope so. Besides—the team still has to get us there. My model predicts we’ll clinch our playoffs spot a week fromtonight.”

“Inthisuniverse, right?” Itease.

“Listen, bitch,” hesays.

And then we both crack up, because “listen, bitch,” is from a B-movie we watched once on a jet to…Brussels? London? I don’t remember the destination. The flight was delayed, and we ended up watching two aliens fighting, and the purple one said “Listen, bitch!” to the greenone.

It’s been a part of our shared vocabulary ever since. That and palindromes. With Nate it’s just all dork humor all thetime.