Page 59 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
Maverick
“So we get to make either paneer, queso fresco, or ricotta,” I said to Gabrielle as she stirred the full-fat milk on the single burner and I added the fresh lemon juice. “Which one would you prefer?”
“Is there much of a difference?” I loved that she was trying to not let the eyes on us bother her.
Because there were certainly some eyes. A few people I recognized from the grocery store and pub were taking the class with us and glancing at how close she and I stood beside each other.
Or, rather, how close I stood beside her.
Staking my claim so to speak. And also, she just smelled fucking fantastic, and after our sexy morning, all I wanted was to just touch her—all the time.
“Ricotta is looser, I think. Paneer is tighter. Queso fresco is somewhere in the middle.”
Glancing up at me, still stirring, she hit me with those sexy amber eyes, and immediately, I was transported back to this morning with her on her knees, my cock in her mouth as she took me straight to heaven. “How about queso fresco, and I’ll make pulled chicken tacos tonight.”
My mouth instantly started to water. “Perfect.”
“All right, everyone, once you see the curds and whey begin to separate, we’re going to take it off the hot plate and let it rest for twenty or thirty minutes to fully separate,” Fred said.
“So go … sit on a tuffet like Miss Muffet, or you can wander into the barnyard where you will absolutely be mauled by attention-whore goats.”
Snorting, I placed the cover over the pot and removed it from the heat, setting it on the rough wooden work bench. “Shall we go get mauled by goats?”
Her eyes glittered, and she nodded. “Lucky for me, I brought my goat-proof jacket— and it’s not raining.”
“It’s like the goat mauling was meant to be.” I reached for her hand, and to my delight, she let me take it. I led her out to the barnyard with the rest of the cheese making people, where we brushed and pet the goats for half an hour.
By the time the cheese making class was over, Gabrielle seemed much more relaxed to not only be seen with me, but also be with me. She even introduced me to Shelley Diamond, who I recognized as a clerk from the grocery store.
With our bellies gently rumbling, I started driving us back to the vineyard with the intention of dropping her off and heading to my cabin for a few hours.
Only, her suggestion that we head back to the cabin had me cranking hard on the steering wheel at the junction and going right, rather than left.
Any chance to get this woman alone, and I was going to take it.
We reached the pub property, and I actually had to drop my visor down since the afternoon sun was so bright and blinding.
The air was still cool, but we could all feel the hints of spring in the air.
The first daffodils of the season were already beginning to poke their heads out of the dirt to join the snowdrops and crocuses that littered the side of the road like nature’s confetti.
The parking lot for the pub was full. So I slowed right down, taking the grassy roadway to the cabins at a snail’s pace. What I wasn’t expecting to find parked in front of my cabin was a rental pickup truck, very similar to mine—only red.
“Are you expecting someone?” Gabrielle asked as I pulled the truck over to the side as best I could, since the truck was taking up both parking spaces in my small little driveway.
“No. Maybe it’s a guest in one of the other cabins and they just got confused which parking spaces were theirs?”
“I love that you’re giving this person the benefit of the doubt.” She smiled at me. “I think I see someone in the cab. It should be easy enough to ask them to move.”
Nodding, I kept the truck running, just put it in park, and hopped out, walking around to the driver’s side door of the red Ford. I lifted my fist, preparing to tap on the window, but froze when I came face-to-face with my father.
And he did not look happy.
Seeing me standing there, Kirby Roy—Hockey Hall of Famer and former defenseman for Nashville—climbed out of the truck, attempting to intimidate me the way he always did.
He was a big guy, and until I started going to the gym and hit my growth spurt at sixteen, he was bigger than me.
Not anymore. I was the tallest and biggest of all the men in my family. And they all knew it.
But that didn’t stop them from still trying to look down at me. Or should I say, look down on me?
“Son,” he said, dropping his voice low.
“Hi, Dad,” I greeted, refusing to let my voice quaver or my knees shake. He was here to “knock some sense into me.” I knew he was. But I refused to let that “sense” penetrate, because he was wrong.
I didn’t even have to dig “deep down” inside myself to know Kirby Roy, my brothers, Henderson, and so many other hockey players in the league were wrong.
“Let’s talk inside,” he said, not offering me any kind of affectionate greeting.
If my mother had been here, she would have hugged me, and it would have been a struggle to get her to let go.
Not Kirby Roy though. Affection for your sons was a sign of weakness—or at least, that’s how he saw things.
He showed his love when we made him proud.
But if we didn’t, then we may as well not exist.
“Uh … sure. Hang on.” I ran back to the truck.
The look of concern on Gabrielle’s face eased some of the tension that knotted below my ribcage. “Everything okay?” she asked as I turned off the ignition.
“It’s my dad.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“Yeah. Obviously here to knock some sense into me.”
“Are you … what … do you need my help? My support? What can I do?”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if having her there would make things easier or worse.
While I loved her offer of support, I kind of wanted to protect her from my dad.
He could be such an asshole. “Maybe … uh, you could go sit at the pub for a bit? Or take my truck home and I’ll figure out how to get it later? ”
The corners of her mouth dropped, and a flash of hurt rushed across her face before she banished it with a big, fake smile. “Sure. Um, maybe I’ll head to the grocery store to pick up what I need for dinner. Text me when you want me to come back and get you?”
I reached across the bench seat of the truck for her hand, and she gave it to me. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just … don’t let your dad railroad you, okay? Stay strong.” Then she playfully pounded her chest with her fist before unbuckling her belt and scooting over behind the steering wheel.
I reached up and grabbed her chin, bringing her mouth to mine.
“I’m going to channel my inner Gabrielle Campbell badassery.
” Then I shot her a wink, and closed the door, only to spin around and find my father standing there, watching us both with the most disapproving look on his face.
As if I just told him I wanted to give up hockey and become a mime.
Gabrielle mouthed, “Good luck” to me before reversing into an empty cabin driveway and slowly rumbling away.
“Was that who I think it was?” my father asked, condemnation in his voice.
“Who do you think it is?” I chose to play dumb as I went to unlock my front door.
“Gabrielle, the woman who you used to live with when you played for the Spokane Chiefs.”
“Yes, that’s her.” I let us in and toed off my Blundstones. My father didn’t bother removing his shoes and ventured deeper into the cabin as I hung up my jacket. “What brings you out all this way, Dad?”
Wandering into the kitchen, I filled up the electric kettle and brought down two mugs, knowing full well he wouldn’t drink the tea I planned to offer him, but plagued with obligation to offer it anyway.
“Don’t play dumb, Maverick. You’re smarter than that. I’m here to knock some sense into you.”
“Yeah? About what?” I leaned against the galley-style kitchen counter and crossed my arms over my chest, feigning a calmness I absolutely did not feel. Inside, my pulse roared in my ears and my heart hammered wildly against an immovable ribcage.
Anger flashed in my father’s blue eyes. “About this stupid podcast bullshit. You’re ruining your career.
You belong on the ice. Everything we worked so hard for, you’re just going to throw it away for what?
” He gestured toward the door. “A piece of May-December ass, and an over-corrected moral compass?”
I reared back a little. “Watch how you speak about Gabrielle.”
All my father did was lift his dark-blond brows.
“Is this new? Or did you guys just pick up where you left off? Was it going on when you lived there? Because if the media gets wind of that …” He shook his head.
“And here I thought you were the smartest of my three sons. The one with the most promise, both on and off the ice.”
Insults disguised as compliments. As was the Kirby Roy modus operandi. It was the way of my childhood.
With my jaw set tight, I glared at my father. If we’d been standing closer, I could have glared down at him, since I had nearly three inches on him. While I rarely used that to my advantage, now seemed like the perfect time to remind my old man just who was the “bigger” man.
“Nothing happened between Gabrielle and me when I lived with her. I came to the island to see a physiotherapist my doctor recommended and found out that she and her children live here now. I’ve started spending time with them—helping her with some issues with her fourteen-year-old son—and we’ve grown closer. ”
“We worked so hard,” my father said with a slightly gentler tone, like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast trying to coax Belle to come down for dinner.
He was trying, but there was still a lot of anger laced in each syllable.
And as someone who grew up with this man, I could tell exactly where he was on the Kirby Roy anger scale.
He was at about a five, color: burnt sienna.
A slight simmer, but not ready to boil over.