“Thanks, Dad,” I reply, my ears a little hot from the pointed reminder I really hurt my parents.
“When will you be home?” Dax asks.
“I’m set to fly into Phoenix,” I reply. “It’s a full twenty-four hours of travel with my connections. I’ll text you the details.”
“Regan will pick you up,” he confirms. “I’ll be at the arena getting ready.”
Nothing from Dominik. He has remained silent, so I have to wonder why in the hell he’s even on this call.
“Honey,” my mom pipes in. “We’ll be in town for the game. Maybe we can have breakfast the morning after and talk.”
“Can’t wait,” I reply in an overly bright voice that has Dax snickering.
The line goes quiet, and no one breaks it. For some reason, I want Dominik to speak up—to give me some clue as to what he’s feeling right now. He called it quits, yet here he is now, part of a familial intervention into my career choices.
I’m so confused.
“Okay,” I finally drawl. “I better get going. I have dinner plans tonight.”
Not really, but whatever.
Everyone starts talking at once, saying goodbye and sending me their love.
Everyone except Dominik.
He doesn’t utter a single word.
When I finally hang up, I have no idea how I feel about him at this point.CHAPTER 15DominikI take a sip of bourbon on the rocks. It’s my second of the night and just the start of the third period, but I can breathe a little easier, at least as far as the game is concerned. We have the Vancouver Flash well in hand with a commanding 5-1 lead at this point. Of course, anything can happen, but my men look like the champions I know them to be so far.
I can’t say for sure what caused the disconnect on the ice during game one, but it seems to have been a fluke. Tonight, they’re skating better than ever, making crisper passes, and seem to be thinking five moves ahead of the other player in one-on-one situations.
Doesn’t mean I’m not still filled with pissy feelings, though, and they have everything to do with the fact Willow isn’t in the owner’s box with me. Not that I expected her to accept my invitation given the fact she thinks I ratted her out to her family, but fuck… I just want to see her.
Want to be able to confirm for myself that she’s okay.
I want her to acknowledge I didn’t intentionally tell her brother in the hope to gain something from it. If I’d known it was a secret, I’d have taken it to my grave for her.
Most of all, I need her to know that despite the fact she has an extremely dangerous job, I won’t let that come between us. When I broke things off, it had been pure, unadulterated male ego doing the yammering.
It wasn’t the real me, and I need a chance to tell her that.
I thought it would be tonight, here at the game, but it appears it won’t be.
“Team is looking really good,” Tom Solomon says from beside me. We’ve been standing right behind the four rows of seats in the owner’s box for most of the game. The seats are always filled with business associates, guests of those associates, and even friends of friends. There’s a popular country music star and her date in the front row, compliments of a friend of a friend who asked for the seats.
I never sit down, though. Always too nervous.
“They’re definitely looking strong tonight,” I reply. Tom is an old friend of mine from my internet radio days.
“You seem distracted.”
I give him a sharp look. Is it that obvious that despite the fact I’ve had my eyes glued on the ice, I’ve been thinking about something—or rather someone—besides my hockey team?
“Just wound tight about this game,” I reply smoothly, swirling the bourbon in my glass.
Wound super fucking tight, actually.
I lift the glass to my mouth, downing the rest of the liquid in a gulp so large I almost choke on it. My eyes water and I turn toward the wet bar, intent on making another. I took a car service to the game tonight, so there is no issue with me getting shitfaced. In fact, it sounds like a grand idea, especially since the game is going so well.
Movement from the corner of my eye has my gaze moving over to the door of the owner’s box. It swings open, wide and fast, and then Willow Monahan strides through. Going by the look on her face, she’s not a happy woman.
I take a brief moment to appreciate her, even though I’m sure that expression is for my benefit alone. She’s stunning—dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, minimal makeup, and a baggy Monahan jersey with black leggings.
She scans the box and when her eyes land on me, they flash with fury and something else I can’t quite identify. I set the glass down and start toward her, meeting her before she can advance too far in. By the looks of things, I’m in for it.