Page 23 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

“Let’s just say Dad’s the guy you want to goalie for the other team.” I shook my head ruefully. “Love him, but he’s a sieve.”

Walker gave a lopsided grin. “It’s great that you’re close with them. They seem like the type of parents who’d do anything for their kids.”

“They are,” I agreed wholeheartedly. “Things are easier now that they don’t have to skimp and save every fucking dime. They finally get to do things for themselves—travel a little bit, spend time at the lake house.”

“The lake house,” he repeated, double-dipping his garlic ball into his sauce. “Sounds swanky.”

“Ha. I wouldn’t call it swanky. It’s cool, though.

My grandparents bought the cabin in the nineties.

It was going to be their weekend getaway, but it was a piece of shit with terrible insulation.

Fine for summertime if you didn’t mind the drive or the mosquitos.

We all loved it, but you’d freeze to death if you were dumb enough to go in wintertime.

Anyway, a couple of years ago, my dad and my uncle took the cabin on as a project.

They renovated it, top to bottom. Every family member put in some time painting, sanding, and hauling crap to the dump.

And now, the crappy cabin is the Czerniak family lake house.

I swear to God, the way my parents talk, you’d think it was like some Aspen lodge. ”

“Good for them.”

“Yeah, they love it. They say they’re too young to retire, but they deserve some chill time. They struggled like hell for years. They did their best to keep the worst shit from us, but…”

Walker licked his fingers, his brows knit. “What?”

I frowned, wondering why I’d started down this path. It was Walker. He was a good listener and he was easy to talk to. But still…I was pretty sure it was terrible “date” conversation.

He was leaning in now, though, gazing at me intently. I couldn’t help thinking that if he could share a piece of his story, I should too. It was only fair.

“They didn’t have any money. Like…they were always struggling.

I was a kid, so I didn’t know details, but I overheard tense whispers about overdue rent when they thought we were asleep or busy doing other things.

I noticed my mom patching holes in old coats, skipping meals or eating like a bird so there was more for the rest of us.

Something as simple as a birthday party invitation for a random classmate would stress her the fuck out.

I didn’t understand then, but how do you justify buying a gift for someone else’s child if you’re worried about feeding your own? ”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard,” he commented solemnly.

“That’s the point. It wasn’t. I had this great childhood.

Amazing, even. Sure, we wore hand-me-downs, rode cast-off bicycles, and played hokey board games from the eighties.

None of us cared that we ate a lot of boxed mac and cheese.

We loved that shit. We thought reading under covers with a flashlight was high entertainment.

We didn’t know it was a desperate attempt to entertain kids who wanted to watch TV but couldn’t because the electric bill hadn’t been paid.

We didn’t think twice about used equipment.

Playing was the only thing that mattered.

And I see now that the constant emphasis on staying positive was the whole idea. ”

Walker smiled. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, it is. Like I said, things seem easier now that we’re mostly out of the house and doing our own things, but whenever they have extra money, their big splurges are always family- oriented.

Two years ago, we had an out-of-town game the weekend after Thanksgiving.

My sisters weren’t coming home so it was just my brothers.

So they all drove three hours to see me and told me to invite my friends for dinner at some fancy restaurant they’d heard about.

It was outrageous and probably cost a fucking fortune, but they were so happy to do it.

I joked to my dad that he must have won the lottery or something and he laughed and said, ‘I did. Our family is my lottery.’ I’m sure I rolled my eyes ’cause that’s sappy as fuck, but he meant it. ”

“I know I’m repeating myself, but you’re very lucky.”

I raked my teeth over my lip and without thinking, opened my gob to share something I’d never told anyone.

“I have this goal to pay them back somehow. Not with money. They don’t value it the way other people do.

And the reality is I’m not gonna make much—at least not in the beginning.

Maybe never. A lot of hockey players have second jobs, coaching or whatever.

I’d be good at that. I worked at the rink back home and assisted my dad with Mighty Mites every summer.

The kids were funny as fuck and…whatever.

That’s not important. The only way to pay them back is to pay it forward. ”

Walker’s smile was soft and oddly tender. “Through hockey.”

“The details are fuzzy, but…yeah. And I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I guess I’m saying that hockey is more than an escape for me. It’s a foundation.”

He set the pizza crust he’d been nibbling on his plate. “I understand. Journalism is mine. Theoretically, hockey should be too, but I don’t think I inherited that DNA. Or maybe I’m subconsciously resisting it because I associate the sport with abandonment issues.”

Walker’s tone was light, but there was an opening there. I could ask what happened to Ketchum Clomsky. And damn, I was curious. How had an NHL giant faded to obscurity without anyone noticing?

My gut told me this wasn’t the right time.

I ran my thumb through the condensation on my glass, studying my “date.” Under his artfully mussed hair and pressed button-down shirt, Walker was a warrior. I admired him, and I felt small and petty for ever doubting his integrity.

“You’re a good guy, Red.”

His lips curled in amusement. “Don’t call me Red.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s perfect,” I cajoled. “There was a kid I played hockey with in elementary school who had auburn hair. I swore his last name was Strawberry, but it turned out that was a nickname he earned because he loved them so much that his lips and tongue were always red and he smelled like Strawberry Shortcake.”

Walker snickered. “That’s not so bad.”

“Not at all. I had a teammate in juniors who drank Coke all day, starting first thing in the morning.”

“Gross.”

“He smelled like Coke too, and yeah, he won every belching contest…hands down.”

“What does that have to do with you calling me Red?”

“I have no idea.”

Walker burst into laughter. “I didn’t think so.”

I made a face that sent him into a state of hilarity. His eyes crinkled and his cheeks went pink. It was cute. Which was funny ’cause Walker wasn’t cute—he was sophisticated and elegant and handsome and?—

Fuck.

I reached for my glass to hide my bewildered smile.

“Hey, I don’t know about you, but I think our date is going pretty fucking well,” I whispered.

Walker’s answering grin was blinding. “I do too.”

I blinked, suddenly feeling dizzy. If I wasn’t careful, I’d do something stupid…like link our fingers on the tabletop and gaze into his eyes and?—

Nope. Not happening. This was casual, remember?

“Want to get the fuck out of here?”