Page 93 of Breakaway Goals

Pushing up his sunglasses, Jacob shot him a look. “You and Morgan.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course. Um. Yeah, I suppose.”

“And he’s been around quite a bit since the season started. He’s only had good things—great things, really—to say about you and the way you’ve mentored Finn during his rookie season.”

“I didn’t have to do much,” Hayes protested. “He has you, and he has his father. I’m just here as a last resort.”

“Not true,” Jacob said steadily.

“Alright, well, it’s what I’d do for any rookie on this team. Not just rookies with famous hockey players as fathers.” Did he sound a little bitter? Hayes thought it was possible, but he couldn’t help it, not entirely. Besides, what could Jacob possibly extrapolate from some bitterness? Maybe he’d guess that Hayes was actually bitter that all the stupid talking heads kept saying that he was a really, really good hockey player but that he’d never be Morgan Reynolds’ caliber.

Lots of people would be plenty pissed about that. Nevermind everything else.

“I get it, you know? Morgan can be a total dick,” Jacob said in a low voice as Barty crushed his third White Claw and tossed the empty into the trash. Hayes had a feeling he was going to have to confiscate Barty’s keys if he kept up this pace. “But his heart’s in the right place. If you needed help—he’d help you out.”

Hayes’ tongue felt too big for his mouth. What would he even say to that? Maybe it was true. But it would kill Hayes’ pride to ask.

“We don’t need him,” Hayes said firmly.

Jacob nodded. “Sucks that they’re low-balling you,” he said. “That’s bullshit, honestly. You’re wonderful for this team. A great player and a great leader. I told Finn the other day you’re going to win him a Cup.”

“Finn’s gonna be part of that,” Hayes said honestly. They’d needed goalie help last year. But Finn was putting togethera Calder-worthy season for a rookie goalie, and that hadn’t happened since Dustin Wolf.

“I sure hope so,” Jacob said with a nod.

They finished up their eighteen holes, returning to the clubhouse, Jacob actually the one to pluck the keys from Barty’s fingers and drive them back, ignoring his whining.

“I need a drink,” Barty announced when Jacob pulled them up in the shaded roundabout in front of the clubhouse entrance.

“Do you really?” Hayes asked skeptically.

Barty nudged him. “You’re gonna need something more than that iced tea, for what we need to talk about.”

“Ugh,” Hayes said.

“And that’s my hint to duck out,” Jacob said. He turned to Hayes. “I’m not Morgan, but I’m happy to do what I can.”

“No, no need,” Hayes said, shaking his outstretched hand. It meant something that Jacob, who was fairly private, would be willing to talk publicly about Hayes’ position on the Sentinels. But Barty was—annoyingly—probably right. If anyone was going to move the needle, it was probably Morgan, and Hayes would rather die than ask him.

“And if you need me to play interference with Morgan, you just say the word,” Jacob added, smirking. “He sort of listens to me now.”

“Kind of like having a rabid dog on a leash,” Barty observed.

Hayes laughed because he was supposed to. Not because he wanted to.

Ten minutes later, they were in the bar, ceiling fans swishing above them, a beer in front of Hayes and another one of those godawful espresso martinis in Barty’s hand.

“So, how bad is it?” Hayes asked. It had only been a few weeks since they’d talked last—surely Barty had been able to work some of his magic.

“They’re dragging their feet,” Barty said succinctly.

Hayes groaned under his breath.

“Doesn’t mean theywon’tbudge, just that they’re trying to prolong this whole thing, like they believe that’ll give them the upper hand. That you’ll just take what they give you.”

Hayes made a face. “Can’t I just do that?”

“No,” Barty scoffed.