Page 50 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

LOGAN

“ H ey, man, you good?”

I startle from where I’m watching Robbie getting red lipstick carefully applied to his lips by an adorable five-year-old who can’t stop giggling.

Glancing at Dallas as he sidles up next to me, I’m forced to bite back a laugh; his hair is in pigtails like fucking Boo off Monsters, Inc.

, he has pink lipstick everywhere but his lips, and he’s wearing a long pearl necklace wrapped around his neck.

As I look at the guys around me from the team, it seems I got off easy with only purple nail polish, a few glittery hair slides, and a face mask that smelled like cake.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I face forward again, looking out at a bunch of big, tough hockey guys as they’re given makeovers by a bunch of cute kids.

“You usually love this shit,” Dallas says.

He’s right. I usually do love this shit.

I live for this shit. Visiting kids, especially kids having a bad time in hospital, is one of my favorite things about being a professional athlete.

But today, my mind is elsewhere, working overtime with how the hell—in less than a few hours, by the way—I’m supposed to tell the hulking giant next to me that, not only am I hooking up with his sister, but that I am head over heels in love with her.

Millie invited Dallas and Emily over tonight to hang out, under the guise that it’d be just the three of them, and I wouldn’t be there. I’m going to be there. We’re going to sit down like adults. And we’re going to tell Dallas that we are, officially, in love.

“Yeah.” I shrug a shoulder. “Just tired.”

“You hear Millie got a new job?”

I rub my chin, still staring at Robbie and the little girl in charge of his makeover. “Yeah, she mentioned something.”

“She’s going to tell us about it tonight when we come over for dinner,” he continues. “Where’re you going tonight?” He nudges me with a chuckle. “Hot date?”

A muscle in my jaw ticks but I ignore it, instead offering a dry laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Hey, man.” It’s his serious tone that causes me to look at him, meeting his eyes, and when I do, I see a flash of uncertainty, something that almost resembles worry.

My brows tug together.

“If Millie’s outstayed her welcome, just tell me,” he says on a resigned sigh. “I feel like there’s some awkwardness between us, and the only thing I can drum it down to is Millie.”

Oh, fuck. A thick swallow works its way down my throat. I shake my head, but before I can speak, he continues.

“This is what I was worried about. My sister coming between me and my teammates. It’s why I’ve never wanted her hooking up with anyone on the team.”

I grit my teeth. Coming between me and my teammates .

Hooking up with anyone on the team . The thought alone makes my fucking skin crawl, because firstly, Millie and I aren’t hooking up, we’re in love, and secondly, Dallas Shaw was not so long ago the biggest fucking man whore; the least he could do is not talk about his sister hooking up with anyone like it’s some unforgivable, deplorable act .

Dallas continues. “But the problem is, it’s happening anyways. Millie living with you is coming between us, and I don’t like it.” He sighs. “Look, I’ll talk to her about finding a place of her own.”

I swear to God, the last thing I want to do right now is cause a scene in the children’s cancer ward at the hospital, but telling him the truth is on the tip of my tongue.

Thankfully, before I can say something I know I’ll regret because Millie and I made a deal that we’ll tell him together, my phone rings.

And as I pull the device from the pocket of my jeans, my heart sinks into the pit of my gut.

Treetops .

“I gotta take this,” I mutter to Dallas, turning and finding the quietest nook, answering the call quickly.

“Hi, Logan. My name is Sharon Jones, and I’m calling from Treetops. I’m the accounting manager.”

“Oh, hey.” My racing heart eases a touch, assuming my mom is okay. But why the fuck is the Treetops accounting manager calling me. “How can I help?”

“I was calling to discuss your mother’s account, and perhaps arrange a payment plan.”

Moving farther into the corner, I’m forced to stick a finger into my ear when someone behind me does something that makes the kids go nuts. “I’m sorry, what was that? I think I misheard you.”

“Your mother’s account,” the woman, Sharon, says. “When an account falls ninety days past due, we need to work out an arrangement to catch up.”

I shake my head, confused as shit. “Her insurance pays.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Sharon says. “However, the monthly gap hasn’t been paid since… January third.”

I rack my brain with what the woman is telling me, blinking hard. “It’s um, I think my dad normally, um, pays that…” My stomach rolls as realization settles like a brick in my chest.

“Yes, it was being debited from an account we have on file, but the payments have been declined or rejected. Unfortunately, I-I’m not privy to that information.

” Sharon continues. “We have your father on file as the next of kin and the responsible person on the account, but he’s been… difficult to get in contact with.”

My molars grind together painfully, and panic surges through me.

I reach up and rub at the tension knotting in the back of my neck.

“Okay. Um, let me talk to my manager, and I can get the ongoing payment sorted. And in the meantime, just send me an invoice with what’s due right now and I can send through payment straight away. ”

“Of course,” Sharon says. “But, Loga—” She pauses, and there’s an obvious hesitation.

“What is it?” I push.

“Treetops is one of the more, um, expensive centers in New Jersey. There are state facilities. Other more affordable?—”

“Money isn’t an issue,” I interject, probably a little arrogantly, but I don’t care.

“I’m not relocating her anywhere because—” I stop myself.

I can’t tell this stranger on the phone that the reason my mother is at Treetops isn’t just because it’s the best. She’s there because it’s right down the street from the cemetery where her son is buried, and I make an effort to take her to see Levi every year when his birthday comes around in August. Clearing my throat, I say, “She’s happy there. ”

When I get off the phone with Sharon, my heart is racing a million beats a minute, my hand trembling as I glare down at the black screen. I take a few steadying breaths, glancing around the room, my eyes landing on Mel, the team’s PR manager.

Snaking my way through the maze of hospital staff, parents, children, random toys, and dolled-up teammates, I tap Mel on her shoulder.

“Hey, Loges.” She smiles up at me.

I force a smile I know doesn’t meet my eyes. “Hey, I’ve had a family emergency come up.” I hold my phone up as if that’s evidence enough. “Is it okay if I take off early?”

Mel glances around the space, looks down at her phone and, nodding once, she juts her chin toward the door. “Go on. I’ll cover for you.”

“Thank you.” I squeeze her arm and turn, hurrying out before anyone can notice my speedy departure.

Red: Where are you?

Red: Logan?

Red: Dallas and Emily are on their way.

Red: When will you be home?

Red: Baby, I’m worried.

Hunched low in my car, I chew on my thumbnail as I read Millie’s text messages.

I hate that she’s worried. I hate making her worry.

I never want to be the cause of her worry.

I should reply. I should let her know that I’m okay.

But I can’t. Because I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be here, and I know if she knew where I was right now, where I’ve been for the last forty minutes, and the mental state that I’m currently in, it’d only cause her more worry.

I glance out at the sprawling colonial, with its immaculate gardens, taking it in.

The front door my mother painted red is now black, the welcome sign long gone.

The elm tree that Levi and I hung a tire swing from has been cut down, the stump removed.

The place I grew up is long gone, and nothing but a house remains.

I should leave. Should . But instead, with a fortifying breath, I hop out of my car and head up the stone path to the front door, pressing the button for the doorbell, my hands balling into fists at my sides while I wait .

A few long moments pass before the black door opens, and my father appears, dark gaze landing on me, face stoic and expressionless. Not a hair out of place, he’s dressed in a pair of khakis, a quarter-zip sweater, skin tan even after a long, cold winter.

“Son,” he says by way of greeting, voice flat.

I stare at him long and hard, fists clenched.

Dad steps out onto the porch, arching a brow, gaze flitting from me to my car and back to me, arching a brow. “Do you want to come in?” he asks slowly, almost sarcastically.

“No, what I have to say won’t take long.”

The hint of a malicious smirk ghosts his lips, but he suppresses it, clearing his throat as he folds his arms across his broad chest, looking down his nose at me, waiting.

I lick my lips, considering my words. There is so much I want to say.

So much I need to say. But staring at him, at the man I once looked up to, idolized, the man I used to try so damn hard to make proud all while wondering what the hell I did wrong, why he didn’t love me the way he loved Levi, it’s as if all the words I’ve been desperate to say fail me.

“You stopped paying Mom’s Treetops bill.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I told you that place was too expensive.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Business has been slow.”

I make a point of looking up at the house he lives in. The house that’d have to be worth at least a few million. I glance at the shiny Maserati parked in the drive. The guy owns five car dealerships in the tri-state.

“So what? You just decided to stop paying?” I grit. “You could have told me.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugs again, completely unapologetic, and that’s what does it.

His absolute disregard for my mother, for me.

I can’t help myself, and I launch at him, my fist connecting with his jaw and knocking him backwards.

The only thing stopping him from falling to the floor is the door he grabs hold of, steadying himself.

He grabs his jaw, clutching it, moving it side-to-side as he glares at me.

I lift a finger, pointing at him. “You… you stay the fuck away from my mother.”

His brows drop causing his hairline to shift, his stare hard.

“You stay the fuck away from her and from me,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want nothing to do with you. You got that?”

He says nothing, just stares at me still holding his jaw, indifferent and completely unaffected. Text book sociopath.

I shake my head at him, offering him one last glance before turning and heading back to my car.

“She’s going to die, Logan.”

I stop in my tracks, fists balling so hard my knuckles crack.

“You can’t save her.”

Turning slowly, I narrow my eyes as he steps down off the front porch.

“She doesn’t even know what day it is,” he scoffs bitterly.

“How would you know?” I spit. “It’s not like you’ve been to see her in over a year.”

He rolls his eyes, huffing a humorless laugh. “The sooner you let her go, the easier it’ll be on you, Son.”

“Don’t you fucking call me that,” I warn, stepping up to him so we’re chest to chest. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re a goddamn disgrace. I’m no fuckin’ son of yours.”

The air between us is thick and stifling, with an unsettling heaviness. And I know I should turn and walk away. I should leave. Leave and never come back here. But before I can, he speaks.

“No,” he says, smirk playing on his lips as he stares hard into my eyes. “My son died.”

With a self-deprecating laugh, I nod. “Yeah. He did die. And you wanna know why? You kept asking all these years. Wondering what could have possibly caused your golden boy to end it all.”

With a bored expression, he waits, blinking once, the silence between us deafening.

“You.” I shove my finger into his chest again. “Levi killed himself because of you .”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head once. “You don’t know what?—”

“He sent me a letter,” I interrupt him, watching his face pale, his mouth snapping shut. “It came here, addressed to me, about a week after he died.”

The steely indifference on my father’s face makes way for something else. Resignation perhaps? Because I’m sure deep down he’s always wondered, maybe even assumed. Well, now he knows.

“He wrote down exactly why he did what he did and—” I clap my hands together, applauding him. “Congratulations, Dad. You killed him. You killed your own son. Levi’s blood is on your fucking hands.”

And with one last look at him, I turn and walk back to my car. And as I hop in and start the engine, I don’t even cast a glance back at him or the house as I tear off down the quiet street, leaving him in my past.