Page 121 of Pucking Sweet

“Tell me something about yourself,” I say.

He’s distracted by the action on the TV. “What?”

“Just tell me one thing that’s not about the game or the girls,” I go on. “One thing about you.”

He turns, one brow raised. “What the hell, Morrow? Want me to put out later too?”

“Don’t last-name me anymore. To you, I’m Cole.”

He blinks, leaning away. “Jeez, is this a date?”

“Call it an interview,” I counter.

“An interview?”

“You think you’re good enough to be with Poppy? You want to share her with me? I want to know whether you’re worth the trouble.”

He chuckles. “Well, A, no, I don’t think I’m good enough for Poppy. B, I never technically said I’d share her with you. And C, I can save you the time now and say I’m definitelynotworth the trouble.”

I just give him a deadpan stare. “Don’t do that either.”

“Do what?”

“Your self-deprecating bullshit. I see through it, and so does she.”

“Oh, does she?”

“She wants to know you, Nov. She wants to let you into her world and her life and her bed, and I’m gonna make sure you’re the kind of man worthy of such an honor. Now, if you won’t open up to her and be real without the jokes and the swagger, you’re gonna do it with me. I want one real thing. Just one, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

His eyes narrow. “One thing?”

“Easy peasy.”

“You go first,” he challenges.

Swiping my beer off the bar, I take a sip. “Fine. My dad died.”

His protective shields instantly lower. “Oh, shit. CJ died?” His hand drops to my thigh. “Oh, Cole. When?”

Shit, his concern is genuine. How could I have forgotten that Novy knew my dad? He knew how close we were too. I talked about him all the time. I think Novy even went to dinner with us once or twice after a game when Dad was visiting. It feelsgoodto tell him, like a weight’s been lifted. It’s validating, like seeing his concern assures me Dad was the kind of person who deserved to be missed, to be mourned.

“He was fading for a long time,” I explain. “He passed shortly after last season ended. That’s why I was so late getting down here. It’s why I still live in temporary housing. House-hunting didn’t seem to matter when I was busy packing up the last fifty years of his life.”

“Dude, I’m sorry,” he says, giving my thigha squeeze. “You should’ve told me when it happened. I could have come to the funeral or something. Why didn’t you?”

“I’m telling you now.”

He drops his hand away. “Well, I don’t think I can top that.”

“I hope you can’t,” I reply. “But I’ll take any small thing, any piece of you, Nov.”

He’s thoughtful for a minute. “I cry watching sheepdog herding videos.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “Can’t explain it. I just watch those dogs racing around, collecting all their sheep, moving them from pen to pen, and I get choked up every damn time. You ever seen it?”

I smile, my chest feeling a little lighter. “No, I can’t say that I have.”