Page 23 of Something to Prove

“You wound me.”

“Well, if the shoe fits, wear it. No one can claim I haven’t tried to be nice, but I’m done apologizing for something that amounted to nothing more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. So…stuff it.”

“Damn, you’re feisty,” he said, clearly amused.

“And you’re a…”

“Go ahead. Give it to me.”

“You’re a blockhead,” I blurted. “And jerk face and a…a…real asshole.”

Ty’s eyes widened comically before he burst into laughter. “Ouch.”

“Indeed,” I huffed as I stumbled to perch on the edge of the desk. “Shall we start over?”

He lifted his brow imperiously. “Only if you can be civil.”

Civil? Me. Really?

Ooh, I wanted to wring his neck.

“That would be easier to do if you’d quit attacking me,” I replied haughtily. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You’re like a mini villain, though. Someone with the power to fuck things up on a whim, and acting like you don’t would be naïve. And that’s why I don’t like this situation.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Ty puffed out a frustrated breath. “Even the field. Give me some dirt on you.”

“That’s ridiculous, not to mention childish. And sadly, I don’t have any good dirt. I vote, I pay taxes, I haven’t had a brush with the law—not even one parking ticket. I haven’t dated anyone seriously in two years, I have good friends, nice neighbors, and?—”

“And a famous family,” he finished, moving to the door. “Maybe I’m being an idiot and maybe I need to get the fuck over myself, but you have way too much power here. I don’t like it and I?—”

“My father is Ketchum Clomsky,” I blurted.

Ty swiveled toward me, his brow creased in confusion. “What?”

“You heard me.” I dusted my hands and folded my arms across my chest. “That’s my dirt. It’s not something I share lightly so…there you go. Please keep that information to yourself. I’ll check in with Robin and get back to you to set an appointment. Let me show you out.”

He caught my arm, blocking the door with his huge body. “Wait up. Are you serious?”

“Very much so.”

I sidled around Ty and hustled down the stairs.

He met me in the foyer, frown lines etched in his forehead in deep grooves. “I don’t believe you.”

“That’s fine.” I shrugged nonchalantly.

“You’re telling me that Ketchum Clomsky, one of the greatest players in NHL history is your dad?”

I doubted my father was ever considered the “greatest ever,” but okay… “Yes.”

Ty scratched his temple and shook his head. “That’s kind of a big fucking deal.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, Clomsky’s my hero. I slept in his jersey when I was a kid, and I had a poster of him over my bed. The one where he’s shaving ice, staring at the camera like a beast. I think my mom moved it to my closet after I left home for college. She wouldn’t throw it away. She knows my hockey collection is sacred and?—”