Page 4 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER THREE

SEAN

“ T here he is!”

My dad yells this the second I walk into my family’s bar.

And the rest of the bar cheers.

Regulars and friends rush over to give me a hug. I accept ‘em while trying to graciously push past so I can reach my parents.

My boots land softly on the wooden floor, masked by the sounds of celebratory voices, clinking glasses, and scraping utensils.

The bar is a blend of Irish pub and Southern honky-tonk, and while I’ve known the inside of it my whole life, it’s the subtle differences that make me wonder if I’m really at home.

The old brass fixtures have been replaced with smoother, matte black ones that don’t catch on sleeves or wrists.

The heavy, creaky bar doors are gone, replaced by automatic push-button ones—both sleek and functional.

My brother’s guitars hang on one dark-paneled wall, while some of my jerseys hang on another, including an Arsenal jersey that sends a wistful pang to my heart.

They’re all arranged so neatly, framed with polished wood trim.

Like a proud parent hanging their kids’ artwork on the walls.

The old neon beer signs have been replaced by backlit Celtic designs—a tree of life, a twisting knot, a silver harp etched with the bar’s name: Donegal’s.

I take a beat to marvel at just how much better the place looks in the month and a half I’ve been gone. And how much more accessible, too.

Everything’s been adjusted, streamlined.

Lowered countertops at the end of the bar, the shelving restructured so Dad doesn’t have to strain to reach a single thing.

The narrow back hallway widened just enough to fit his wheelchair without the constant threat of scraping his knuckles against the drywall.

Even the bathroom door has been upgraded—one of those soft-closing, touch-sensitive kinds that barely makes a sound.

It’s amazing what money can do.

And love.

I just wish I’d been the brother able to afford it all.

No, don’t say that. Pat needed this. And it doesn’t mean your family doesn’t need you.

I clear the pain of my regret from my throat to make room for the swell of excitement as I finally reach my parents.

Mom throws her arms around me in a tight hug, first. She and my dad have been through the wringer together, but after years of her making choices that hurt our family, a couple of months ago, she decided it was time to make amends, and she’s been doing her part to make up for the hurt she caused every day.

“I’m so proud of you, sweet boy!” she says. She pulls back to look at me. “You did your team proud. And your family.”

When she beams, I can’t help smiling back. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Stop hogging him,” Dad says from behind her. Mom laughs and moves out of the way, and I lean down to give my dad a hug in his wheelchair. He squeezes me tight and pats my back. “You did good, son. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I’d be prouder if I hadn’t let in the series-losing goal,” I say wryly.

The three of us go back behind the bar, and judging by how busy it is, my parents could use the help.

Mom’s cooking—a job that used to belong to Pat, but he’s on tour with the famous Lucy Jane.

They flew out for two of my playoff games, and their presence was a bigger deal than the Arsenal making it to the second round of NHL playoffs for the first time in team history.

I’m not sure the coach loved that, but I can’t control that my brother and his girlfriend are more famous than any of the rest of us will ever be.

Especially me.

“You can’t blame yourself for letting in a goal,” Dad says, pouring a Guinness for a customer. “Do you blame Hughes for missing so many goals?”

I strap on an apron. “No, but that’s understandable. No one can make every shot.”

“No one can save every shot, either. You did good. Accept it.”

“Yes sir.”

In no time at all, Dad and I are back in a familiar rhythm. It’s incredible to see him serving so comfortably.

“When did the surgeon clear you to be back at work?” I ask.

“He said I’m clear for light activity.”

“That doesn’t look light, Pops.”

Dad spins a bottle with surprising dexterity, pouring a perfect measure of whiskey into a glass without a drop out of place. “You’re only saying that because you’re jealous.”

I laugh. Dad has been a wheelchair user since an accident eleven years ago now.

He’ll be one forever. But last year, we found out one of the rods in his spine from the surgery that saved his life had slipped.

He had a second surgery a couple of months back to adjust the rod, and mercifully, it was a success.

One of my old Blue Collar teammates, Robert “Red” McAllister sidles up to the bar with a smile. He’s in his late-20s and has short red hair (hence the nickname). He’s a career AHL player, like I’ve been, and he’s a solid presence on the team.

“You looked good in the playoffs,” Red says after a quick fist bump. I pour a Guinness and slide it across the counter to him. “What’s the plan with the Arsenal?”

My smile falters. I’ve been expecting this, obviously, but I’m still not sure how I feel saying it out loud. Or thinking it. Or staying up all night stewing about it.

“No news. I was called up for the playoffs. Far as I know, I’ll be back in the minors next season.”

His girlfriend joins him. Delia’s a short, pretty, pistol of a woman with strong opinions about everything from potlucks to politics.

She sidles up to the bar, eyes sharp. “No trophy, eh, O’Shannan?” she says. “The Blue Collars didn’t win, either. All ’cause you left for greener pastures.”

“He got called up to the NHL, Delia,” Red argues. “What’d you expect the man to do, turn it down? Again?”

“He turned it down once because his family needed him. Why couldn’t he do it again? The Blue Collars haven’t been this close to winning the Calder Cup in years. He wanted something bigger and better and ran at the first chance. I just want him to be honest about it.”

The words hit like a jab. I’ve been a fixer in this town since I was born.

Right before my dad’s accident, I was drafted into the NHL.

But then my mom left and my brother was on tour—I couldn’t stand the idea of letting nurses and friends be the ones to take care of Dad.

So I turned down my dream so I could help him recover, learn his new normal, and run the bar.

I’ve never regretted that decision for an instant.

But no one has thrown it in my face like this before. Like my finally chasing a dream was abandonment instead of opportunity. Like I’d betrayed everything I stand for—loyalty, community, sacrifice.

Is that how the town sees me now? As the guy who’s only in it for himself?

“Sorry to disappoint, Delia,” I say, my throat thick. “Now, what can I get you?”

“I’m still nursing the one I got,” she says, narrowing her eyes like what she’s really nursing is a grudge. “And what’s this about you not getting a contract? So you went all that way for nothing?”

“It’s not for nothing,” Red says. “He got the team to the second round of the playoffs.”

“His team needed him!”

“The Arsenal is his team, too. You know that’s how minor league affiliates work.”

The two are always fighting and making up, but this time, their bickering leaves me weighed down with a mixture of guilt and regret.

Maybe I shouldn’t have left. The Arsenal were never expected to advance past the first round, but who’s to say that was actually me and not the rest of the team over-performing?

I’ve played on my minor league team for ten years. Been team captain for five. They were counting on me. Our backup goalie made some sloppy, costly mistakes that hurt the team.

And as good as my dad looks, as happy as he and my mom looked together, this is still my place. I’m the one who picks up the pieces. Who am I if I let them scatter and fall?

“Why don’t y’all catch me up on what I’ve missed?” I say, as they show no signs of moving from the bar. I pour a fresh Guinness for Red and top off Delia’s, while I’m at it.

“Apart from the Blue Collars losing?” Delia asks, taking a long drink and putting her glass back down on the counter.

“Delia,” Red says quietly.

If she wanted to find a way to make me feel out of place in the only home I’ve ever known, she’s doing a bang-up job.

“Darla Hampton brought spoiled deviled eggs to the covered dish last month. Half a dozen people got sick. Eunice and Loretta said she’s on ice duty for the rest of her life,” Delia says with a snort.

“Poor Darla,” I say. Gossip ain’t my style, though I hear a lot of it in my line of work.

“Oh, and the Mudflaps are winning, for a change. No thanks to that new owner.”

I’m wiping a bottle with a bar rag when I feel it slip through my fingers.

The pint glass tips and sends a wave of Pabst Blue Ribbon across the counter—and right into Red’s lap.

He gets up in time to avoid most of it, but not all.

“Shoot, sorry, Red.” I throw him the rag and wet another from the sink. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

Red waves me off. “Don’t get yourself in a tizzy. But I’ll take the free drinks.”

When he finishes wiping his arms and face, he tosses me back the rag, and I mop up the counter and get him a fresh drink.

“What was it y’all were saying about the new owner?” I ask, trying to sound calm. Cool. Casual.

Not like someone who’s thought off and on about her and that big, radiant smile for months.

Red shrugs. “Oh, Kayla Carville bought the team, and half the town thinks she’s runnin’ it into the ground.”

“How do you figure?” I ask with a hint more challenge than I should. “Don’t the Mudflaps have a winning season for once?”

“It’s not the games,” Delia says. She takes a long drink. Too long. “It’s her . Some snobby New England billionaire comes in and thinks she knows our town? Please.”

“The Carvilles are from Atlanta. Y’all know she’s Tripp Carville’s cousin. Her grandpa owned Sugar Maple Farms. She’s got roots here.”

“I don’t care about her roots,” Delia says, slamming her now empty glass on the counter. “I care about her bringing a store-bought pie to a covered dish.”

Red scoffs. “Hon, you don’t even go to church. What do you care about some church potluck for?”

“Because it ain’t about church. It’s about the community. I go to every one.”

“And so does Kayla Carville,” Red argues.

“But that was her first time. And she had dessert, of all things.”

“So she bought a pie?”

“Red McCallister, you don’t know nothing about nothing.”

“Give her a break,” I tell Delia, more emboldened on behalf of Kayla than I ever would be for me. “She’s traveling in from Atlanta. It’s not like she has a kitchen here.”

Delia taps her glass for a refill. I pour her a second glass, but even though it’s just Guinness, I’m this close to cutting her off already.

“Nah,” Red says. “She’s staying at her cousin’s mini mansion in Sugar Maple with all those yankees.”

“The ‘Janes,’” Delia says in a mocking tone.

“Easy, Delia. One of those ‘Janes’ is dating my brother.” I wipe my hands on my rag and fold my arms. But my insides are twisting themselves into knots.

Sugar Maple is ten minutes away.

Kayla is staying here?

“Besides,” I add. “It sounds like she’s trying to fit in, if she’s going to a church potluck.”

“She’d fit in better if she cared enough to make a dessert,” Delia grumbles.

“She’s trying hard enough,” Red says, ignoring Delia. “The stadium looks better, at least.”

Delia shakes her head. “Money like hers doesn’t settle here well. We’re not impressed by a facelift.”

Red mutters something under his breath, and Delia curses him out, but their familiar bickering can’t carry my attention any longer.

Because just then, the bar door swings open, and a tall, lean woman with long auburn waves and warm, hazel eyes stands in the entrance with a tentative smile on her face. She’s effortlessly beautiful in wine red slacks and a white sleeveless blouse that shows her pristine, pale skin.

And that hair …

It almost makes her glow.

Her eyes sweep the room. Is she meeting someone? Or hunting for allies in a town hostile to outsiders? Whatever’s going through her head, that undaunted spirit cuts right through me, like the first bite of cold air when I skate out onto the rink.

I’m tempted to cross the bar and greet her. I wring the cloth in my hands as I watch her spot Mayor Kent and walk over to his table.

And while I serve drinks and ignore Red and Delia chirping at each other, my eyes keep returning to her.

Her smile could stop a man’s heart, yet Mayor Kent seems unmoved.

I suppose that makes sense, seeing as he cares more about tradition than things like giving a chance to an intelligent, engaging woman.

“Speak of the devil,” Red says, following my eyes to Kayla. “That’s Miss Carville. She comes here every night after work.”

Something in my chest pinches.

“What for?” I ask.

“She’s trying to act like she’s one of us,” Delia says. “She talked to me for twenty minutes the other night, asking me question after question. What’s she need to know about my family for?”

“She was being nice,” Red says in a patient, but teasing voice. “That’s a thing people do when they care about other people.”

I glance up and over heads—not hard, considering I’m six-four—and see Kayla talking to someone else now.

She’s easy to spot, considering she’s probably five-ten, herself, but the people she’s talking to are sittin’ down. I move my head, peering around the crowd, and see?—

Oh no.

It’s the church ladies.

I put down my rag. “Excuse me,” I say and start walking from behind the bar.

“Everything okay, son?” Dad asks.

“Just thought I’d say hello to an old friend,” I say. “Mind covering for me?”

“You’re not even on the clock,” Dad says with a chuckle. “Take your time.”

I smile and push past patrons and old friends, trying not to get sidetracked. Kayla has no idea the landmine she’s about to step in.

“O’Shannan!” someone says, and I turn my head to see another of my teammates from the Blue Collars. “Hey man,” he says, getting around a table and pounding my back with his fist.

“Good seeing you, brother. But I can’t talk right now. I’m needed. Catch up later?”

He gives me an easy smile, the lack of judgment (or envy) a welcome relief. “Yeah, sure. Just watch out for Serena, okay? She’s been on one since she heard you’re back.”

Serena?

I hold back a sigh. Serena’s always had a short fuse. But there was a time where those sparks were the most exciting thing in the world to me. Until I got burned. “Thanks for the heads up. Let’s practice at the barn Monday. Nine still work?”

“You know it.”

I put my friend (and my ex) out of my mind immediately and wind around the last few tables until I reach her.

Kayla Carville.