I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re saying my birthday has something to do with why I like plans?”
Her head tips slightly to the side as she surveys me. “You don’t think so?”
“No. That’s just dumb.”
She laughs. “I’m sorry—” She dabs at her chin with her napkin. “That was a very Virgo thing to say.”
I just roll my eyes.
“You were talking about liking plans,” she prompts. “Please go on.”
I sigh, trying to think of the right way to explain it. “There are parts of hockey that are perfect for me because I have so much control, you know? The structure is there, and I just get to thrive inside it—meal plans, workout plans, practice schedules, game schedules, travel itineraries. Everything is orderly and organized and so crystal fucking clear. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
“So, while I live my life under this constant weight of endless organization, there is one singular piece of this life that creates chaos.”
Her eyes brighten, and I know she’s already guessed it. “Contracts.”
“Contracts,” I echo with a nod. “You have guys out here picking up and moving their entire life every single season. If you only sign year to year, you have no idea where you’ll be next. There are even some guys, like the guys who play in the minors, that can get called up and sent down multiple times in a year. That’s what’s happening to Patty right now.”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Tall Broad and Glistening?” she teases.
I give her my best mock glare. “Call him that while you’re on a date with me again, and I’ll take you over my knee and spank you.”
Her eyes go wide as we hold each other’s gaze. It only lasts a moment before she busts out with a laugh. “Ohmygod, that was so fucking hot. But I can’t tell if you actually mean it.” She drops her glass down to the table and leans forward, eyes alight. She lowers her voice, her tone oozing sex. “Is that what you wanna do, Daddy? You want to take me into the bathroom, bend me over the sink, and spank me for being a bad girl?”
I lean back in my chair, eyes wide. “Holy fuck.”
She laughs, leaning back too. “No, you’re a good boy, aren’t you. My sweet, lost beach puppy without a home. Man, when I nail it, I really nail it,” she adds, almost to herself. “So, Ryan Langley, Mr. King of Organization, is organized in every aspect of his life except his living situation,” she summarizes.
“It’s where all my chaos reigns,” I reply with a shrug. “I’ve never cared where I live, or whether the house is a dump, or if the windows even lock. It just doesn’t matter to me, not until I have some control over my fate. So, I rent a shitty split-level over by the practice arena that the guys all affectionately call ‘the death trap.’ When the injury happened, I think Sully and the guys took it as their chance to rescue me.”
“And now what will you do?” she says, plucking a shrimp from the silver dish and dipping it in the cocktail sauce. “Now that star forward, No. 20 Ryan Langley, has a four-year contract and a three-mil signing bonus, you finally gonna invest in some curtains?”
I grin from ear to ear. “You know my number.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve watched you play, remember? I was in L.A.”
“Oh, I remember,” I reply, holding her gaze. “At the wedding, you told me I was your favorite Ray to watch.”
“Hmm,” she hums, popping the shrimp cocktail in her mouth. “You must have misheard me.”
“I didn’t mishear anything,” I reply, unable to look away. She’s just so goddamn gorgeous.
I’m saved the embarrassment of saying something regrettable like ‘sit in my lap’ by the arrival of our meals.
Our conversation takes a more fun, casual turn as we eat. We fight over the check—her demanding that this was her idea and thus her treat, and me arguing that I never let a lady pay on a first date. I only get her to relent by promising that she can buy me ice cream.
By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s dark outside, but this part of the beach is hopping with night life. The restaurants are all packed, with people milling around outside waiting to be seated. It’s a bit chilly, but not too bad that more people aren’t strolling with dogs and kids.
There’s a line out the door at the little ice cream shop. Tess pouts when she sees it, glancing around the other shop fronts looking for an alternative. “Hey, let’s walk over to the beach,” she says, pointing to the ghostly white stretch of sand that marks the hilly dunes. “The line will die down in a few minutes, and we can come back. Can you manage without crutches?” she adds, gesturing to my knee.