“Yes, but unlike them, I know the difference between a subject and a verb.” A trickle of blood was running down his wrist. She grabbed a paper towel and gave it to him but decided not to mention the dab of mud still lodged in his chin cleft. “You’re a big celebrity in Chicago now, but how long will that last if you don’t keep pumping the social media machine? You only played for the Stars for three years, not like Bonner or Tucker or Robillard, who built their careers here. Fame fades, and if you want your business to grow, you have to keep your edge.”

He didn’t like that. “I always play at the top of my game, something you need to remember.”

She was trying to pacify him, not insult him, and she steeled herself. “For the next few weeks, I’ll also monitor and respond to the club’s online reviews.” This was exactly the kind of work she thought she’d escaped. “And that, my friend, is totally worth a few muddy potholes.”

He pulled out a set of tweezers. “Keep talking.”

“You want more?”

He shrugged.

“Give me those.” She snatched the tweezers from him.

He didn’t seem to believe in holding a grudge, and as he handed them over, he appeared more contemplative than angry. “You’re pretty much a train wreck, you know that, right?”

“Only around you.”

“Why is that?”

Because he controlled her future. “Because you’re a legend.”

“Try again, Esmerelda.”

“I’m human.” She swabbed the tweezers with one of the disinfectant pads. “You’re... superhuman.”

“You’re not seriously going to give me that ‘you’re a god’ bullshit again, are you?”

Exactly what she’d been about to do. “Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that I get nervous around you because I’m a regular person and you’re larger than life.”

“A viper pit wouldn’t make you nervous.” She brightened at the compliment, but he went on, oozing satisfaction. “You’re sucking up to me because I sign your paycheck and because you need that paycheck to stay in business.”

She set her teeth. “A bitter pill to swallow. Now hold still.” She began to clean the gravel from his hand. It had to hurt like hell, but Captain America was built of vibranium, and he didn’t wince, nor did he take his eyes off her.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, as if he really wanted to know. “The nonbullshit version.”

She probed as gently as she could. “Only child. My mother was killed in an armed robbery when I was four, which left me with a father who alternated between treating me like the son he really wanted and being overprotective. Talk about schizophrenic.”

“Explaining your personality disorder.”