She kicked at the towel on the floor, but it was a less-than-satisfying experience as it only went about two feet and landed with a soft plod on the carpeted floor.
“This is why people own their own houses. Because they can have a punching bag in the garage or basement.” With a sigh of frustration, she pulled a comb through her hair quickly. After a short debate, she just claw-clipped it up. Screw him. If he thought he could demand her presence like a king to a peasant, he’d just get what he got. The drowned rat look should discourage him from trying it again.
After throwing on the first tank top she could find, along with some long shorts—or rather, long on other people, normal length on her legs—and two-dollar flip-flops, she stuffed her key in her back pocket and huffed over to his apartment.
She banged on the door and counted to five impatiently. “Figures,” she called when he didn’t appear. “You spend all your time trying to push my door down and then you’re not even ready when I come over to your—oh.”
Kat took a quick step back as the door opened. Michael stood there, looking half-annoyed, half-amused. He pulled it off remarkably well.
“You rang?” he asked dryly.
“No, you did, about ten minutes ago,” she reminded him. When he just stood there, staring at her, she shrugged. “You get me out of the shower, you get what you get. I don’t really care if I don’t meet your visual standards.”
“Who said you didn’t?” he asked calmly, then let her in.
The moment she walked through the door, she smelled something delicious. “What… okay, what’s that?”
“White chicken chili. I usually like to let it cook longer, Crock-Pot style, but I was in the mood for some and didn’t have any in my freezer.”
“He cooks,” she murmured, following him to the small kitchen that mirrored her own. Only his had something hers didn’t… food.
“He dumps cans and chicken breasts into a pot and turns the heat on,” Michael corrected as if that weren’t more than about 50 percent of the population. Walking to the stove, he stirred the pot of the aforementioned soup, then set the long-handled spoon down in a spoon rest. “This could use another half hour. Let’s talk. Then I’ll feed you dinner.”
“Oh, by all means, let’s talk.” She was fighting to hold on to her annoyance by the minute. The man had badgered her out of the shower… to feed her dinner. This was a first. She walked with Michael to his mirror-image living room and sat on an armchair that was suspiciously identical to hers… minus the pattern. He settled in on the sofa, and she waited expectantly. For him to tell her he was done. That Sawyer called, and the experiment was over. That she was a horrible kisser.
No, wait… not that.
“I have to apologize.”
No, not that either.
“Apologize for… what?” She blinked. When he raised a brow, she held up her hands. “Sorry, I don’t mean that in the sarcastic way… which is odd for me. You’re surprising me.”
“Because real men don’t apologize?”
“They do if they want to be respected,” she shot back, and he grinned, surprising her once more.
“Well, I apologized. Take that for what it’s worth.”
She bit her lip and nodded, then shook. “I’m sorry, what were you apologizing for again?”
That quick grin flashed once more. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m apologizing for treating you like a kid when you got here.”
She waited for more.
“Okay,” he said into the silence, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “When Sawyer called, he asked me to do him a favor. I do a lot of favors. I collect them, you might say.”
“Favor collector. Sounds like one of those weird subtitles they would put under your name if you went on a seedy talk show.” She bit back a smile to think about it. “Michael Lambert, favor collector.”
“Now you’re mocking. It’s okay,” he added when she started to laugh. “I’ve earned it. I do this mentoring thing a lot with the guys. I like it. Love it,” he inserted, as if correcting himself. “Love it. I love catching the guys before they make mistakes you hear about on the news. And it’s good for me too.”
Holy shit, this guy… He was either the most genuine, good guy she’d ever met in their crazy world of professional sports, or he was in the wrong profession and should be working a stage somewhere. “That’s… nice. That sounded weak.” She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “I meant it though. It’s nice. Good that you do that. It can’t be easy.”
“Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not. But I see it as self-serving, to a degree. What helps the team, helps me.” He shrugged. “Not the point. When Sawyer told me he was sending me this brat of a tennis player, I expected some nineteen-year-old kid.”
She settled back. “Didn’t want to Google me?”
“Nope. I like meeting people where they’re at. So we’ll just say I had the wrong idea. Not that Sawyer helped. He gave me a few basics, and that was all. Then you showed up, surrounded by my teammates.”