Page 17 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Dad winces. “And she’d want you to have something new.”

We both know he’s not talking about ties. It leaves something heavy in my gut, and as he walks away, I let the tears burn my eyes.

I barely have time to wipe them away before Shep finds me. “Have you seen Bender?”

“Um, no. Been kinda busy.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be fucking watching him? He went off with some rich woman.”

Bend? With a woman? “Um, I’m gonna hold your hand when I tell you this, sweet summer child?—”

He cuts me off with an eye roll. “I know, but I have two words for you: Lavendar. Marriage.”

“Oh my fucking god. Tell me you’re not serious.”

Shep shrugs. “Besides, anyone can have a fucking bisexual awakening at any time.”

They can, but speaking from experience, you don’t usually discover you’re Bi and then jump into marriage. Still, I’d better figure this the fuck out because there’s a first time for everything.

“Why do you care so much?” Those two are usually bickering about something or fighting over me.

“Why do you care so little?”

I leave it. He’s got some burr up his ass, and I’m not getting into it here.

It’s time for me to ditch this event anyway, but I go on a hunt for Bend before I leave and find him in the foyer. He and the mystery lady share a big laugh and cheers their wine glasses together. Okay, they’re having fun, I’ll give Shep that, but she’s clearly seventy plus.

“Ace, c’mere for a sec. I want you to meet Mrs. Chamberlain.”

Mrs. Chamberlain?

This university has over thirty libraries.

It’s not like Harvard with its seventy libraries, but it’s still a lot.

Chamberlain Library is named after Mr. Andrew Chamberlain’s daughter …

who must be this woman right here, all grown up.

I’ve heard of her, but have never met her.

Shit, they’re loaded. I think about what Shep said, because Bend could use the money, but nah, he’s not here for that.

Bend’s a bit of an old soul in some ways; he gravitates toward older people.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ace,” she says. “Your mother was quite the hockey player.”

“You followed my mom?”

No one ever seems to care about women’s hockey, not enough to recognize the big stars like my mom, anyway.

“Of course, I’m a big hockey fan. I followed her, and then I followed her son.” She winks.

Okay, I can see the vibe Shep was getting. Mrs. Chamberlain might be an older gal, but she’s still got game. She’s definitely pushing seventy-five, though. I’m sure Bender’s safe.

“I’m flattered, ma’am. Would it be alright if I steal my friend here for a moment?” I say, trying to mimic Dad’s smoothness. It works.

“Absolutely. I’ll be over by the beverage table,” she says in Bender’s direction.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss.

“Um, getting money for the team?”

“She’s flirting with you.”

“Duh. But it’s not … it’s hard to explain. I’m not gonna do it with someone three times my age, dude. She’s also not the gender I typically go for.”

“Shep thinks that’s what you’re doing.”

“What?” He laughs. “That’s wild and what I do is none of his goddamn business. What’s his deal?”

“Don’t know, and I don’t have time to figure you two out. Could you find him and tell him you’re okay?”

“He was … worried about me?” he says.

“Of course he is. You’re still hockey brethren even if you hate each other.

Jeez.” I know they only get along for me, and don’t like each other much, but it doesn’t mean they won’t go to bat for each other.

“Anyway, I’m gonna jet. I’ll see you at home.

Don’t let any old ladies take advantage of you. ”

He rolls his eyes. “See you at home.”

Wolf Daddy

How’s the party, McKinnon? I know you had it anyway, despite fundraisers. You’d better not be drinking—remember that I told you no drinking.

Huh. Oops. Forgot about that.

But does it count if I’m not at the party?

I’m way up. Waaaaaaay up. Back row of the Scorpions arena. So far back, the ice looks mini as if it was made for a team of hockey-playing mice. Ha! That’s hilarious. Hockey-playing mice. Tiny helmets. Little mouse jerseys. I’d pay good money to see that.

The Scorpions Arena is massive, with seating for over eight thousand angry hockey fans, meant to vibrate with noise, chants, whistles, big men bashing against the boards. Not this deafening silence that echoes with all my heartache.

I thought about breaking into the Zamboni storage and driving it around the ice.

Shep, Bend, and I did that once. Coach nearly killed us.

He’d be extra pissed if I drove it fucking drunk.

Instead, I planted my ass in one of the seats to drown my sorrows in peace.

I’d slipped away from the party an hour ago. Wasn’t vibing it.

Seeing Dad’s what did it. I miss him. Miss what we had. We were so close before Mom died.

Fuck.

All I could think about was him, Mom, and, for some reason, Dad’s assistant. What would Mom think knowing his hot younger assistant buys him brand-new ties in the wrong color?

And when I say hot, I mean smoking hot. I think he was a runway model before he started at Dad’s architectural firm. There’s only one reason a guy like that infiltrates a boring architectural firm.

Money.

Fucking gold-digging runway models, preying on lonely widows like Dad.

I take another swig of tequila, nose wrinkling as it burns its way down, leaving a putrid aftertaste. Some people actually like the taste of this shit. I’m drinking it to be drunk. To feel less.

As for being drunk, mission accomplished. But feeling less? No. Everything’s heightened. Tears stream down my face without my permission.

Isn’t there supposed to be a worm in this bottle? I squint, peer down the neck, tip it?—

Splosh!

“Shit.” Tequila all over my face and my letter jacket. Huh, but is it even my jacket anymore? Stupid VanCourt stole it. Somehow. Even though it’s on my body. I could have worn anything else—a hoodie, a sweater, whatever. But I had to have the jacket.

It means Luke to me now. Luke. He’s Luke. What would he do if I called him Luke to his face?

Probably kill me.

What a way to go, though. He’d probably put his bear-paw hands around my throat. It’d be so hot.

Wish he were here, but he’s not. All I’ve got is this jacket, which doesn’t even smell like him. Shouldn’t it smell like him? All the guys and gals I’d ever lent my jacket to said they liked it because it smelled like me.

I wanna smell like Luke.

I pull it tighter around me anyway, using it as a shield and a reminder that I belong to someone. Someone who, when he finds me, is going to rip me a new one. Ugh. Even my hazy drunken mind knows I’m gonna love that.

But will he even come for me?

He will.

No, he won’t.

Yes, he will.

I look around for a daisy, don’t they decide shit like this? But there are no daisies, and he doesn’t come. It’s just me in a stupid jacket with delusions, old ghosts, and a half-empty bottle of tequila.