"Who?" No, wait, that was the wrong part of her line of questioning to focus on. Whoever Cyrano was, whatever he was known for (and Scott suspected he would know it, if he hadn't applied himself most to skating by), it wasn't as important as making it clear to her that he had no play. He held up a hand and shook his head, dismissing his own question before she could attempt to answer it.
Not that she'd be so inclined, if the iciness that had settled between them was any indication.
"Look, there's no--" he started, but allowed her to cut him off with her plea for straight talk. And that, he realized, was where things had gone wrong: Natasha thought he was still playing the game, when all he'd really wanted was some information about Clint from someone who wasn't likely to sugarcoat things. He settled back in his chair, forearms resting on the edge of the table to keep his cards obscured, and frowned over at her again.
"There's no play," he started again, after taking a moment to choose his words carefully. "I wasn't trying to talk around anything. I was just saying.. he has an opinion, whether you think he gets to or not. And I think it was less about who you were sleeping with and more about you being hurt." Not by much, but still. Scott was fairly sure the visceral reaction he'd witnessed was because Natasha was imperiled, and not because there might have been sex involved. He shrugged, put another card into the discard pile. "Nobody wants that, by the way. It isn't a Clint-specific sentiment."