Man, I love that sports reporter. I should send him a fruit basket or something.

I have no clue if Hensley is going to bring Patric with her for this visit, but it’s going to be hard not to gloat about the game. I shall try to persevere, though.

I decide to move past that one paragraph and read the rest of the article. There’s a small mention at the end that Max Fournier, the starting goalie for the Cold Fury last year, has just been released from the injured reserve list and will be starting practices with the team next week. Of course, the postulations have begun about whether he should replace me as starting goalie and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was a little worried about it. It’s just not something I’ve thought about until now, instead having concentrated on myself and getting wins for the team.

But it’s going to come to a head sooner or later. The coaching staff will have a decision to make, and the most I can do is keep playing my ass off to keep my spot secured. This is the last year on my contract, and if I don’t have a stellar season all the way through, it’s not going to get renewed and I don’t care what Gray’s statistical model says.

Speaking of Gray, I fold my paper, set it aside, and take a peek at my phone. I sent her a text this morning to see if she was interested in getting another cup of coffee. I had nothing better to do after Hensley took the girls today.

Okay, well…I did have something better to do. I had a lot of shit I needed to do. More laundry—which never seems to end with two young girls—a trip to the art supply store because Violet has to do a diorama or some shit like that this weekend for school, grocery shopping, and I need a haircut. I have to do this all today, because tomorrow I’m getting ready for a late-afternoon flight to New York for a Monday evening game against the Vipers.

I have absolutely no business wasting time on coffee with Gray, although just now saying the words wasting and Gray in the same sentence makes no sense to me. For some reason, time with her is just not a waste to me. That is very odd, because she and I have decided to just be friends, and I don’t do “friends” with women. Not that I’m opposed to it, but I’ve never had the opportunity to do so. I’ve always been the type to pal around with men, not have coffee with a woman.

But who the fuck am I kidding? I want this to be more than friends so I’m doing this in the hopes that something can develop with her. And I’m willing to wait. I’m not in a hurry because I don’t even have a freshly inked divorce decree in hand yet. I know it’s coming any day, but I’m not in a hurry to jump into another relationship.

Am I in a hurry to get into Gray’s panties?

Abso-fucking-lutely, divorce decree be damned.

But I also wasn’t kidding with her the other day when we talked. She wouldn’t be a fling. A woman like Gray Brannon—gorgeous, genius, larger than life, funny, and let’s face it—I’ve seen her in yoga—she’s very flexible too. Yeah…she wouldn’t be a fling, but I really, really want to get inside those panties, which I have already imagined would be white virginal lace for some reason.

I know she’s not a virgin. At least I highly doubt she is, but I’d like to imagine that what would happen between the two of us…what I would do to her…well, let’s just say my fantasy includes her in white lace.

I rub my hand across my face in frustration. Frustrated that I see she didn’t text me back, because I really like spending time with her, frustrated that I’m horny for my boss, and frustrated that before too long I’m going to have to see Hensley and try to pretend in front of the girls that I enjoy their mother’s company. I promised myself when Hensley and I first separated that I would never let them witness my true feelings. At first that meant anger and betrayal, to the extent I had a hard time looking at Hensley without disgust written all over my face. Now it’s more of an annoyance. Like swatting away a bothersome mosquito intent on drawing your blood.

Setting my phone back on the table, I put Gray Brannon out of my mind. At least temporarily, because I am still buoyed by the fact that she did text me late yesterday afternoon before I got to the arena for the game. Her text was simple but it told me a lot.

Missed you in yoga today. Good luck tonight. I have faith, not analytics, that Sutter won’t sneak one by you tonight.

Three sentences, all of which made me confident that Gray is very seriously thinking of that kiss we had. She’s considering the possibility of something more. I know this because A) she said she missed me, B) she wished me luck and GMs don’t text their players to wish them luck, and C) she isn’t relying on the comfort of her analytics by which to bolster my confidence. She has faith in me.

That right there…

It means I’m by no means ready to give up my pursuit of her, no matter how stupid it may be.

I push back from the kitchen table and pick up my plate, my eggs, bacon, and some sliced fruit long since polished off while Violet and Ruby pick at theirs daintily.

“Want some more milk, Vi?” I ask my oldest, eying her empty glass.

“No, thank you,” she says, and eats another bite of banana.

“Drink your milk, Ruby,” I add as I walk away from the table. She ignores me and nibbles on bacon. She hates milk and would prefer water. When the girls first came to live with me, I didn’t know if that was a bad thing or not. I knew kids needed milk, right? Calcium and all that shit. But on the flip side, I was ecstatic that Ruby loved water. She shunned sugary juices and soda, preferring ten out of ten times to have some basic H2O.