"Are you throwing me over for that girl?" she says loudly, nodding toward Sutton. I turn my gaze and follow Cassie's stare. Sutton has overheard this little byplay and stares back at us, her face impassively serene despite being called out.
Turning back to Cassie, I tell her quietly, hoping to bring the noise level down a bit, "I'm not throwing you over for her. I'm throwing you over for me. I'm just not interested anymore and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you'll let this go."
I give my back to Cassie without giving her a chance to respond. In three long strides, I reach Sutton and take her elbow, turning her toward the door. With my free hand, I push it open and usher her through it before me. She gives me no resistance, trusting in my direction.
We step out into the midday sun, and I note there's finally a crispness to the air that signifies that maybe fall has truly arrived.
"So, is the life of a hockey star normally filled with stalker ex-girlfriends?" Sutton asks me as the door closes behind us.
I turn to her with a grin. "I think it's part of the standard résumé. And for the record, she was not my girlfriend."
"What was she, then?" she asks me with complete confidence in her nosiness.
I'm not sure she'll like my answer but I give it. "She was a hookup. Nothing more."
"Oh … okay," Sutton says quickly and I'm pretty sure I just lost some brownie points with her.
"Where's your car?" I ask Sutton just to change the subject.
"My car?"
"Yeah … figured you could drive if you don't mind. Mine is behind the complex in the players' parking lot and yours is probably closer."
"Okay," she says hesitantly and takes off toward the parking lot. "But I have to warn you … it's a little junky. I'm not sure a celebrity of your status should be seen in it."
"I'm sure it's fine," I tell her with a chuckle, although when she stops at a rusted-out bucket of a car to unlock the door, I'm not sure it will get us to our intended destination.
"It runs fine," she assures me, the look on my face undoubtedly giving away my concern. "We can take your car if you're worried about it."
"I'm definitely not worried," I tell her as I walk to the passenger door and wait for her to unlock it. She shoots me a grin, unlocks the driver's door with a key, and then climbs in to reach the passenger lock. Good Lord, it doesn't even have automatic locks. I didn't know cars this old still existed.
I'm not even sure what type of car this is, but it's small so I have to fold my frame practically in half to get in the seat after I toss my equipment bag in the back. Despite the car probably being made several decades ago, it's very clean and well kept on the inside.
When Sutton turns the ignition, the engine sputters to life and gives a lusty purr. She turns to me and grins. "Let me guess … you probably drive a sports car, right? Red, maybe convertible, goes from zero to sixty in about three seconds flat?"
"You so have me pegged wrong," I tell her with a mock glare. "I drive a used Suburban. While it's not as old as this bucket, it's got its share of miles on it."
"Wow," she says, like I just told her the most amazing thing in the world, and puts her car in drive. "Consider me impressed."
"Why does that impress you?"
"Well, because I just placed an unfair stereotype on you. I just assumed all wealthy sports stars spent money like it was going out of style."
I can't help the bark of laughter that pops out. "It would probably surprise you, then, to learn I live in a small apartment and I hoard my money, although I do have an addiction to large flat-screen TVs."
"Definitely busting my stereotype," she agrees. "So why the obsessive saving of money?"
"So I have something to fall back on when I'm done playing hockey. I don't know anything else."
"And just how long do you think you'll be playing hockey?"
Turning to look at her while she drives, I notice that the side view of her face is just as beautiful as the front view. Her long, red hair is hanging loosely with a slight wave to it, setting off the sparkle to her eyes, which reflect the brilliant flecks of green from the sun angling in through the windshield. I notice for the first time that she has a tiny sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She fascinates me like no other person I've met, and that scares me just a bit. It excites me too.
The answer to her question should be easy, but it's really not. I decide to lay it out honestly to her. "Just a few weeks ago, I was on the verge of quitting. I didn't like the team pushing me … attempting to mold me into something I wasn't. I didn't love the game enough to let them do that to me."