Page 17 of The Player's Club
Elodie smiled wryly. “Yeah, I could tell that.”
“It’s also important to me, being in the public eye.”
Elodie’s expression didn’t change. If she knew who I was and was acting like she didn’t, she was doing a good job of hiding it. I studied her. Eventually, she looked away, and she seemed uncomfortable.
“Are you a celebrity or something?” she asked finally.
My lips quirked. “To some people, I suppose. I’m a hockey player.”
“Oh.” She finally returned her gaze to mine. “Can I confess I’ve never watched a hockey game?”
“You wouldn’t be the first person to say that to me,” I said wryly.
“I know LA has a hockey team . . .” She shrugged. “That’s about the extent of my knowledge.”
Considering her gaze kept moving to various parts of the room, I had to admit, I wasn’t totally convinced by her right now. Maybe I just want to believe she’s telling the truth.
Maybe I just wanted to believe that somebody would want me for me, not for my fame.But based on how attracted to her I was, I wasn’t sure it would change anything for me if she did somehow know who I was.
“So what do you do?” I asked. “And don’t tell me you’re a professional server because we both know that’s a lie.”
Elodie spluttered. “Rude!”
“How many times did you almost spill drinks on somebody last time you were here?”
“Maybe I’m just trying to change careers,” she asserted.
“Well, you’d make a great professional drink spiller.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right.”
“Sweetheart, we both know you aren’t a server. You’re too—” I hesitated, which was a bad idea.
Elodie rolled her eyes. “Don’t finish that sentence. No, I’m not a server. I’m a writer.”
When she didn’t supply any more details, I raised an eyebrow. “And . . .?”
“And what? I write words for a living.” Now, she seemed flustered. Why? Did she not want to talk about her work?
Living in LA meant I knew writers galore. And they all seemed like they wanted to tell everyone about what they were writing, especially if it was for TV or film. More than one screenwriter had propositioned me while living here. Not for sex—no, they wanted my connections even though I was an athlete, not an actor or producer or some assistant fetching coffee for a movie set’s actors.
“What kind of words?” I finished off my drink, wondering if I wanted a second one. Then again, with Elodie, I should probably keep my wits about me. If she decided she wanted to play, I wanted to remember every second of the experience.
“I’m writing a book.” Elodie shrugged. “It’s not very interesting. I’m not writing dinosaur erotica or anything.”
I nearly choked on air. “Dinosaur—?”
Elodie grinned. “Oh, you don’t know about dinosaur erotica? You’re missing out. All kinds of books out there about being pounded in the butt by a T-rex.”
I gaped at her. “You’re fucking with me.”
To prove me wrong, Elodie whipped out her phone, typed in a few choice words, and then showed me all the T-rex porn available. And there was . . . way too much of it.
“Now I know what you like,” I commented.
Elodie laughed. “Getting pounded in the butt by a gigantic reptile does not sound appealing in the least.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’d prefer a centaur. At least they’re half man.”
“I’m not even going down that slippery slope.” I ran my knuckles down her arm, loving that goose bumps rose on her skin as I traced my fingers along a vein in her forearm on the way back up. “So you’re saying you don’t want to be pounded in the butt? Ever?”