The diner was surprisingly empty. Or maybe not so surprising, considering it was early Saturday afternoon, well past the normal lunch time. If Charles had known how empty it would be, he would have picked a different place.

Like maybe the busy airport. Or a train station. Or hell, even the food court in the mall. At least then, there'd be noise and conversation. Not theirs, of course, not with the way Taylor was sitting across from him.

Toying with her food.

Not saying a word.

He reached for the glass of soda and took a quick sip, then sat the glass back on the table. Maybe a little too hard, because the thunk echoed around them. Taylor glanced up, raised her brows in silent question, then moved her attention back to her nearly-empty plate.

Still not saying a word.

For a lunch date, it was less-than-successful. Failure was actually a more appropriate description. Not that this was really a date but still—

"How was your food?"

Taylor glanced up, her eyes carefully blank, and shrugged. "Fine. For the dozenth time."

Had he asked her that already? He must have, but damned if he remembered. Trying to draw her into conversation was like pulling teeth—from a lion. Or maybe lioness was a better word.

He pushed his cleared plate away, ran the napkin over his mouth, then balled it up and tossed it on the table. "So what's going on with you and Woodhouse?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing to me. I thought you were getting ready to flatten her on the ice."

"Nope."

"Maybe I need my eyes checked, then."

"Probably." Taylor pushed her plate away with a soft sigh then looked to the left, her gaze darting out the large plate glass window next to their booth. Traffic on York Road was busy, filled with cars moving north and southbound. He glanced out the window, his eyes squinting against the bright sun.

The day was too nice to be spent inside. Crisp and clear, the air tinged with the scent and feel of autumn. In another week or two, you'd need a jacket to go outside. Maybe—October in Maryland could change in the blink of an eye. But today was one of those rare days, filled with sun and a clear blue sky and no hint of humidity. It was a day to be spent outdoors, not inside a mostly-empty diner trying to have a conversation with someone who obviously had no desire to talk.

"So what do you normally do on the weekends?"

Taylor's gaze shifted from the heavy traffic to him. Impatience flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by resignation. "Practice on Saturdays. Family dinner on Sundays. Then get ready for work during the week."

"I don't think I realized you worked."

"Of course I work. Why wouldn't I?"

"I just didn't think—"

"Newsflash for you, Chuckie. We all work. Everyone has another job. This hockey thing? It doesn't pay squat. It's, like, one step up from a beer league."

"That could change, you know."

"Really?" The disbelief was clear in her eyes. "Excuse me if I don't hold my breath."

"You know, for someone who wants to play hockey more than anything else in the world, your attitude pretty much sucks."

"My attitude does not suck!"

"Yeah? Then what do you call it?"

"Being realistic."

"Your definition is obviously different from mine."

"I have a feeling your reality is a bit different than mine."

Charles leaned back and studied her for a long minute—maybe too long because she shifted on the bench and looked away. He released a sigh and took another sip of his soda. "Listen, it's the first year. Hell, the season hasn't even officially started yet. And I know the pay isn't exactly the greatest—"

"The greatest? Do you even know what we're getting paid?"

"Well, no, but—"

Taylor propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, interrupting him with the force of her whiskey-gaze. "A couple hundred a game, at the most. And that's not even everyone. We don't get paid for our two practices a week. We have to pay for our own equipment and jerseys. So don't sit there and try to put a sunshine-and-roses marketing twist on it, okay? It's not going to work, not when I know damn well you don't have to worry about a second job to make ends meet."

Charles looked down, wondering if the surprise he felt showed on his face. Yes, he had known the girls weren't making a lot of money, but he hadn't known the extent of it. Guilt crept over him and he pushed it away. "I didn't realize—"

"Yeah, no kidding."

"Taylor—"

"Just drop it, okay? You said you wanted to run something by me. What was it?"

He started to brush her off, to tell her he wanted to keep this particular conversation going. An idea was already forming in his mind, one that might help. But he snapped his mouth closed, thinking better of it at the last minute. It was just a small idea, one that wasn't completely formed. And it wasn't something he could manage on his own—he'd need some outside help. No sense in even bringing it up, since he wasn't sure it would ever come to fruition.

He drained the soda then leaned across the table. "I'm trying to work something out with the Banners. I had a nice conversation with the head of their marketing group yesterday."

Taylor watched him through narrowed eyes filled with suspicion. A long minute went by, filled with heavy silence, before she finally spoke.

"This isn't going to be like that fiasco from Thursday night, is it?"

Hurt, unexpected and unwelcome, flashed through him. For a brief second, he was the lonely, awkward kid again, uncomfortable and completely out of his league. Fiasco? Is that what she thought Thursday night had been? Then he realized she was talking about the news piece that had aired, not about what had happened between them.

They hadn't talked about what happened between them at all. Should they? Should he bring it up? He hesitated then gave himself a mental shake as he made his decision: he'd take his cue from Taylor, and right now, she didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"Well? Is it?"

"No." Charles shook his head. "No, it won't be anything like what happened Thursday night. Trust me."

"Trust you? After what happened?"

"I had no control over it. And if I had known what was going to happen—"

"You wouldn't have shown up at my place, right?"

"What?"

Taylor shook her head and looked away, suddenly focused on the smooth edge of her thumbnail. "Nothing."

"We're talking about the news piece that aired, right?"

Her gaze darted to his then slid away. "Yeah. Of course."

"Okay. Because if we're talking about something else—"

"There's nothing else to talk about."

"Are you sure? Because I thought—"

Taylor sliced her hand through the air with an impatient wave. "So what about the Banners?"

"It's too late for next weekend, but we're talking about setting up a small demonstration. Maybe for the beginning of November."

"What kind of demonstration?"

"The Blades would play a quick scrimmage on the ice during one of the intermissions. We'd set up an autograph session afterward, try to tap into the Banners' market and increase interest."

A thoughtful frown crossed Taylor's face. "A scrimmage? You mean, like the Mites do sometimes?"

"Well, yeah. I guess. Something like that." Charles watched her, trying to gauge her thoughts on the idea. But her face was carefully blank—too blank. He held his breath, wondering what faults she might find with the idea.

Another long minute stretched around them. Taylor's face relaxed as a gleam of interest flashed in her eyes. "I think that might be fun. Maybe. I mean, it certainly couldn't hurt, right?"

It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but he'd take it. Charles smiled and sat back. "Great. I'll call them on Monday and get things set up."

"Why didn't you just set it up yesterday while you were talking to them?"

"I wanted to run it by you first."

"Why? It's not up to me. You're the PR Director or whatever."

"Yeah. But you're the team Captain. I wanted to make sure I had your support first."

"Why?"

"Because whether you realize it or not, you have some influence over the ladies. If you decided to have a major attitude problem over this, it would have made my job a lot harder."

"I don't have a major attitude."

Charles laughed, the sound quick and deep. "The hell you don't. What about all the grief you gave me the last few weeks?"

"That wasn't attitude."

"What do you call it?"

"I call it not liking being used. Me or my family. And that whole thing didn't exactly turn out great, did it?"

His amusement quickly faded. "I told you, I had no control—"

"Yeah. I know." Taylor leaned across the bench seat and grabbed her backpack. "Want to know what would be really impressive?"

"What?"

"Set up an exhibition game between the Blades and the Banners. Now that would be awesome."

"I'm not sure—"

"Yeah, I know. Whatever. Just an idea." She slid off the bench and tossed the backpack over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I have stuff to do."

"But we're still having lunch."

"No we're not. See? Plates are empty."

"That doesn't mean you have to run off. I thought we could—" His voice drifted off, the words dying in his throat at the questioning look on her face. He glanced away, cleared his throat, then looked back at Taylor. "Did you want to grab dinner tonight maybe?"

"Can't. I'm babysitting the twins."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Can't do that either. A few of us are going to RennFest tomorrow." She hoisted the strap of the backpack higher on her shoulder then offered him a quick smile. "Thanks for lunch, Chuckie. I'll see later."

Charles turned on the bench, stunned at her abrupt departure. What the hell had just happened? He thought about calling out to her but it was too late, she was already pushing her way through the diner doors.

Charles watched her leave, wondering if he had missed something. Should he have brought up what happened between them? Is that why she had left so quickly? Did she really have plans, or was she just making excuses?

If it had been any other woman, he would have known exactly what to say or do. How to romance and wine-and-dine and sweet talk her. But it wasn't any other woman—it was Taylor. And even now, even after being with her, she still managed to tie him up in knots and confuse the living hell out of him.

He turned back around and signaled the waitress for the check, his mind sorting through options on how to deal with Taylor LeBlanc. He wanted to see her again. Be with her again. But he had no idea if Taylor was even interested. He had thought she was, but now he wasn't so sure.

Then again, when it came to Taylor, he was never sure about anything.