“He broke his wrist in practice,” Rachel says as she bites into her croissant.

“What?”

His comment about needing his lucky charm at practice finally makes sense. I’m a little bit angry with myself because, had I not been too excited and unexpectedly affected by seeing him again, maybe I’d have had enough working brain cells to notice?

I excuse myself from the table, step outside the restaurant to the sidewalk, and call him. Whatever went on that weekend in Florida, I’m sure he understands that I was drunk and not thinking clearly. He still called me his lucky charm even though I doubt that I am one for anyone.

“Is that why you haven’t invited me to one of your games?” I ask when he answers, shocked.

“So you’ve missed me,” he says. He sounds deeply satisfied.

“No. Yes. I mean… Are you injured?”

“Yeah, I fucked up in practice,” he rumbles ruefully. I can hear the frustration in his voice. “Haven’t played.”

“God, Tahoe. I want to know these things, we’re friends. You were at the hospital for me, I want to be there for you.”

“I’m fine, Regina.” He laces his voice with a bit of uncharacteristic tenderness, and then he sounds amused. “I could’ve definitely used spooning though.”

I laugh. Then I check the time. In mere seconds, I calculate how much time I would spend baking a pecan pie and come to a decision. “I’m coming over tonight,” I say, and hang up.

I hardly notice the silence at the table when I return to the girls, or how they’re sharing questioning looks between themselves until I glance up from my plate.

“What?” I ask.

Wynn says, “I didn’t say anything.”

Rachel just looks at me with that concerned look of wanting to tell something to your best friend but don’t know how to do it without riling her up. So I decide there’s no point in discussing anything, and I bring the topic back to Rachel’s upcoming ultrasound and whether or not she and Saint will finally learn the sex of their baby.

I ride the elevator up to Tahoe’s floor a little after 8 p.m. I’m dressed casually in jeans and a sweater I bought with my special employee discount. It’s emerald green and warm enough that I didn’t need a jacket.

I’m more nervous than I expected to be, my heart pounding as I step off the elevator. I’ve been here before, first with Rachel and Saint, then when I dropped by unexpectedly, but I’m not used to his apartment. The place is so immense and bold, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Wood floors, leather furniture, stone-covered walls with Expressionist and Impressionist paintings scattered all over. Every painting on his wall is old. The frames are old, gold and carved. They contrast greatly with the modern furniture, creating a very complex, manly, elegant look.

The most impressive piece is the Van Gogh above the fireplace mantel. Van Gogh, a man so lonely and tortured and passionate, he chopped off his ear for love. He worked his whole life without selling a painting, save for one. I don’t have much appreciation for art, but I’ve gone to exhibitions with Rachel and the only painter I’ve truly gotten, and will never forget the story of, is Van Gogh.

And sitting with a pile of papers strewn all around him is Tahoe. I knew that he expected me, but it’s always still a surprise to see him alone, no floozie clinging to his shoulders, no woman draped over him.

He looks so good like that, all male, solitary. It somehow fits him. He was reading something in one hand and his injured arm is spread along the back of the couch, casually lazy, the lights above shining on his blond mane.

I feel like I haven’t seen him in years.

Except for last night at the club, I haven’t seen him since I got drunk and punched him.

Ohmygod, I’m such a lousy drunk!

“I brought you something.”

I extend the pie as some sort of olive branch.

His eyes shine as he takes me in with a sweep of his gaze and smiles at me. “Wow. Food.” He slowly comes to his feet, then reaches out with his good hand and rumples my hair.

I feel…warm.

But my eyes wander down his chest and the length of his arm, to the thick white cast around his wrist. I don’t like seeing him with a cast. I can’t imagine what it means to him to miss his games and practice sessions.

“Just don’t eat the aluminum, okay?” I stick my tongue out at him and set the pie on the coffee table next to his pile of papers.

He lounges back down with that lazy grace of his and watches me with a peculiar frown, one that almost seems to wonder why I’m still standing. “Aren’t you going to stay and feed it to me?” he teases.

“What?”

He holds his arm upward and glances at his cast. “It’s difficult to eat with a retired right hand,” he says.

“I’m not feeding you pie.” I scowl, but lower myself down next to him anyway. I nudge him for being shameless enough to ask. “You’re spoiled. Who spoiled you? Your first? Lisa?”

“Not really.”

“You loved her?”

“I worshipped her.” He glances at me with his most somber expression, the one that makes his face look extra chiseled. “Do you love Trent?” he asks.

He looks so intently at me you’d think that discovering my answer is his reason for living.

“I don’t know, I mean it takes a while to love someone like that. I really like him. I want to love him.” I’m tempted to tell him that Trent and I are on a break, but I don’t want him to ask any questions, so I don’t.