Caspian (Carolina Reapers 8)

Three weeks with only a pick-up game the week of London’s wedding had me irritable. Itchy. Restless.

“Six bags of the chicken feed, please,” Mom told Jake Sidwell, already taking out her credit card.

A knowing look passed between Jake and me before Mom could catch it, and once the receipt was in my hand, I ducked out of the double front doors, spinning the truck keys around my fingers. I’d put enough money on Mom and Dad’s tab that they wouldn’t be paying a bill for a few years, or decades. Mom would throw a shit fit when she found out, but it was the least I could do. Pretty sure my secret would be out the second she opened her credit card statement and saw that there weren’t any new charges.

The air inside the truck was stiflingly hot, so I blasted the air as I drove it around to the loading docks at the back of the store. Hopefully it would cool off before Mom finished checking out.

I handed the receipt to a gangly-kneed kid who looked like he was working his first summer job and smacked a bug that made the unfortunate decision to land on the back of my neck.

“Six bags?” the kid verified.

Another truck pulled up, backing into the space next to me against the platform.

“Yep. Six.” I lowered the tailgate as the kid struggled with the first fifty-pound bag. “I got it,” I told him, jumping from the bed to the platform and managing to catch the bag just before the feed slipped from his hands.

“Sorry, I’m new this year.” His eyes widened when he got a good look at me under my ball cap. “Holy shit, you’re Caspian Foster, aren’t you?”

“I am.” The weight of the feed barely registered as I tossed it into the bed of the truck, which meant I hadn’t suffered too much loss in the weightlifting department.

“And he makes sure that everyone knows it,” came a snide comment from the other truck.

I looked over my shoulder as Chuck climbed out of the cab, dressed in a polo and a pink-pair of fuckboy golf shorts. He looked like one of those guys who proclaimed they’d never get arrested because Daddy was a lawyer.

Was this really the kind of guy that Ryleigh was attracted to?

“Nice to see you, too, Chuck,” I said, grabbing another bag from the pile so the kid didn’t have to struggle.

“My brother said he went to school with you, but I never thought I’d get to meet you,” the kid stammered as I tossed the second bag into the bed of the truck with the first.

“Who’s your brother?” I asked, taking the third bag directly from the kid as he managed to get it from the pallet.

“Todd Fredericks.”

The bag landed next to the others, and I stood, taking in the kid’s features. Sandy blond hair, brown eyes and a wide grin. He looked just like his older brother. “Yeah, I know Todd.” My brain went into overtime, digging into the rolodex of my memory. “That would make you Tim, right?”

The kid beamed a smile at me. “Yeah! I’m Tim. I play hockey, too! I’ve watched all your games, even when you were in college.”

“That’s pretty cool, Tim.” I couldn’t help but smile back. “You play in Des Moines?”

He nodded. “It’s hard on my parents, the ice time. Sometimes we’re on the road at four a.m.”

“Who do you play for?”

“The Jr. Bucs,” he said with chin-lifting pride. “AAA. Just like you. That’s why I’m working this summer, to help cover the cost.”

“That’s pretty responsible of you.” I blinked. If the kid was playing AAA hockey, he should have been in clinics or playing summer league to keep up with his competition, but hockey was one of those sports that could eat a family’s finances. “Lifting all the bags will be great for your shot.”

“That’s what my dad says.” He manhandled another bag, and I let him carry it half the distance before taking it back to the truck. “Any advice?”

Chuck snorted, leaning back against his truck. I noted the flower hanging from the dash. His mother’s truck.

“Spend as much time working your off-ice as your on. We’re too far away from the rink to make that your main focus,” I told Tim, letting the fourth bag fall into the bed.

“How about, make millions of dollars so you can only come home to fuck with everyone else’s plans?” Chuck snapped.

My head jolted his direction. “If you have something to say to me, Stewardson, then just say it.”

His mouth went tight as he narrowed his eyes at me. “You know what? Fine.”

I took the next bag from Tim and tossed it into the bed.

“You’re gone for years, only showing up at holidays, and then suddenly you’re spending most of a summer here?” He folded his arms across his chest.