Page 11

TEN

Damon

I watch the muscle flickering in her cheek for a long moment before she grabs her utensils, her bowl of wonton soup that’s mostly wontons, and then stomps over to me.

“What?” she snaps. “We can’t multitask—eat and talk about the team at the same time?”

“Nope,” I tell her again. “Because we’re not fucking talking about the team.”

She freezes, halfway onto her stool.

Then I watch the steel gird her bones, grim determination come into her face. But, as I knew she would, she doesn’t back down from the challenge in my words.

Instead, she finishes her assent, plunks that lush ass onto a stool, and glares at me.

But, a moment after that, the call of the wonton soup gets her and she starts eating.

Fuck, I like that about her.

She’s not shy with her food, not worried that I’m going to judge her over what she’s eating.

She just dives in.

But now I wonder how much of her always plowing forward is because she’s running from the past.

“You going to stare at me?” she mutters through a mouth full of lo mein. “Or are you going to eat?”

So you can get the fuck out of here.

Though she leaves the last sentence unspoken, I sure as fuck don’t miss the thought crossing through her mind.

And it has me fighting back a smile.

Considering that I don’t want to end up with a fork protruding from one of my eyeballs, I stop staring and turn my focus to my own plate.

Fuck but Dragon is the best.

Who would think that high in the Sierra Nevadas there would be a kickass Chinese food restaurant?

I’m just happy to reap the rewards of that tonight.

And happy it means I won’t have to hear Joey’s stomach rumble again.

“I thought you said you were going to talk,” she mutters after we’ve chowed down for several minutes.

This time I lose my fight with my smile. “No, Red. I said we were going to talk.”

“Like I said”—it’s still a mutter, but now it’s a mutter bordering on a grumble—“I have some videos for you to review and?—”

“And like I said—” I swivel in my stool, bend down until we’re face to face—“we’re not talking about the fucking team.”

Her eyes narrow and I can see that she wants to ask what in the fuck all we’re going to talk about then, but instead, she turns back to her plate.

I wait until she’s consumed enough wonton soup that I deem it safe to speak again.

“You grew up in the Bay Area?”

She freezes, a wonton speared on her fork, the bite suspended an inch from her lips. “Yes,” she says slowly before shoving the food in her mouth. “Why?” she asks as she chews and swallows.

“You grow up with your mom and dad?”

She sets the fork down, goes back to her spoon, and starts slurping broth. “Why?” she asks again.

Stubborn woman.

“Ky and I grew up in Maine with just our mom,” I say, offering up shit I don’t normally offer, but knowing it’s a necessary evil, especially if I’m asking Joey to share. “Our dad skipped out when she was in diapers and I didn’t hear fuck all from him until I got my first big paycheck in the league.”

She jerks, eyes coming to mine.

And I see it—part of why I’ve kept my distance.

Because her siren’s call of soft and steel makes me want to do everything I always promised myself I wouldn’t do.

Claim a woman as my own.

Because that bastard is my father.

And because…I don’t trust myself to?—

“Ky is your sister?” she asks quietly and I clench my teeth together so sharply my jaw acts. Because I know she’s thinking about the news stories, about how she and my sister endured similar awfulness at the hands of similarly awful men.

I nod. “Kylie.”

“Older?” she asks. “Younger?”

“She’s two years younger.”

“Where is she now?”

“Here in town with me.” I drop my fork onto my plate. “After Mom died, she came to this coast and moved in a couple of months ago when she picked up a teaching gig.”

Joey’s head tilts to the side, that soft surpassing the steel. “What grade does she teach?”

“Seventh grade history.” I chuckle. “For some reason, she’s decided that her jam is corralling teenagers when they’re objectively the most teenager-like.”

“Seems to me that the trademark Connors backbone isn’t afraid of a couple teenagers.”

“Seems to me you’d be wrong.” I chuckle again. “I helped her one day in class a couple of weeks back. Swear to fuck I’ve never sweated more, not even when I was playing in the league.”

Joey giggles and it’s such a rare sound, so light and sweet and not like steel that, for a moment, I’m frozen again, taking in the beauty of her amusement, of her smile, of the way her eyes dance. “It was really that bad?”

“It was worse.” I snag my empty plate and hers, bring them both to the sink and start rinsing. “One kid told me I need to start moisturizing because I look scaly like a zoo snake.”

There’s silence.

But only for a heartbeat before she bursts out laughing.

And fuck if that isn’t as beautiful as her giggle.

I go back for her now empty bowl, take it over to the sink, and load it in the dishwasher next to the plates and silverware.

She’s still laughing by the time I make it back over to her, and I don’t even give a fuck that it’s at my expense.

She’s laughing.

Not crying.

“I told Ky I’d never go back,” I say solemnly, watching those green eyes dance.

“What?” she teases. “You’re not going to start a moisturizing routine? Skin care is really important.” Her brows flick up, eyes scanning my face. “ Especially as we get older.”

I frown at her, but inside I’m laughing too. “That was a weak roast, Red. You’ve been in locker rooms often enough—I know you can do better than that.”

“I’m too content and full of Dragon Delight to truly put the work in.”

Grinning, I climb back up onto my stool.

And I take advantage of the fact that she’s relaxed enough to tease me by pressing for more information.

If I’m going to fill that emptiness inside her, I need to know everything.

“Tell me about your family, Red.”