Bruiser (Seattle Sharks 7)

Shea’s mouth dropped open at the same time mine did, and Wilma just threw me a wink. “If I were only forty years younger, darlin.” Then she shut the door in our faces.

We both burst into laughter.

We ate dinner with easy conversation, Elliott leading most of it. The kitchen table fit the three of us perfectly, and even though I could tell Shea was nervous, she tried like hell not to show it.

The kitchen was the exact opposite of mine. Not that I didn’t love my sleek design, modern appliances, and general view, but Shea’s kitchen had something mine didn’t: a heartbeat.

There were pictures of Shea and Elliott taped to the fridge and framed on the walls, hanging beside artwork that never would have passed with my interior designer, but definitely got my highest marks. Sitting here felt like living within their history, with stories all around me.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Elliott said as she carried our dishes to the butter-yellow sink a few feet away.

“Hmmm?” Shea asked, leaning back in her chair and narrowing her eyes slightly. Apparently, the wait-until-Mom’s-fed trick had been played before.

“So, I looked at the website, and I’m honestly a little old to start, but there’s a rec team—house level—”

Oh shit, she was going for it.

“That starts in two weeks. Some of the kids have been playing for a couple of years already, but I know with Porter helping me, I could catch up.” She looked at Shea with expectant eyes, but her little fingers turned white with the death grip she had on the back of her chair.

“Rec for what?” Shea questioned, her eyes narrowing.

Elliott’s eyes flew to mine in an obvious plea for help.

I flashed her a half smile but gave her a look that she was on her own with this one. I’d help her with whatever she wanted, but only with Shea’s permission.

“Hockey,” she finally squeaked out.

Shea sighed and rubbed the skin between her eyebrows. “You know how I feel about this.”

“Yes, and you’re wrong.” Elliott’s eyes flew wide as she realized what she’d said. “And by that, I mean...misinformed.”

Shea’s lips pursed, and her posture stiffened.

“You know, I love an awkward family dinner as much as the next guy, but maybe I shouldn’t be here for this,” I suggested, backing my chair away from the table.

Shea’s hand snapped out, grasping my arm. “Oh, no. You’re the reason she’s decided hockey is the end-all-be-all, so you’ll be staying.”

“I need you for backup!” Elliott added.

I was fucked.

“To be honest, she told me she loved hockey way before I ever showed up on scene,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

Shea shot me a glare.

“Right. Okay, so you think hockey is too dangerous? That I’ll get hurt.”

Shea started to open her mouth, but Elliott kept right on going.

“Hockey is actually the tenth most dangerous sport a kid can play, according to the Seattle Journal of Pediatric Safety.” Elliott put a printed article on the table.

Where the hell had that come from? Was she a practicing magician, now, too?

Shea didn’t even glance at it.

“I’m honestly safer on the ice than I am on a basketball court, or a soccer field, or in a swimming pool. Don’t even get me started on trampolines. Those things are death traps, according to that article.” Elliott bit her lip nervously.

Shea didn’t look away from her daughter. Not for one second.

After what felt like the most awkward eternity ever, she finally spoke. “It’s not the injuries. I’ve always worried about you getting hurt, and I always will. That doesn’t mean I’m going to wrap you in bubble wrap and hand you a dollhouse. I know that’s not the girl you are.”

“But…” Elliott shifted her weight from side to side.

“But hockey teaches...violence. It teaches you to hurt your opponent. To hit them the hardest you can. To knock them down. It encourages fighting, Elliott, conditions its players to beat people to the point that they pay millions of dollars to someone who knows how to fight on the ice, and that’s just...I can’t condone that.”

My spine stiffened. With one sentence, she’d summed up why she was afraid to be with me, afraid I’d take it too far, that I wouldn’t stop when she asked. She thought I’d been taught, conditioned for violence because of hockey. Like I didn’t have a choice anymore.

“Porter’s not like that.” Elliott shot me another pleading look.

“Looks like your mom has already decided what I’m like.”

Shea sucked in a breath. “That’s...that’s not what I meant, Porter.”

I locked my jaw to keep the words in, because there were some things kids didn’t need to hear, and anything going on between Shea and me—good or bad—couldn’t spill over onto Elliott.

I pushed away from the table and stood, tucking the chair under it. Fuck. Was I supposed to leave now? Help with the dishes? What did someone do in this situation?

I’d never had this problem with...her. Natalie had always wanted me because I wore a jersey. She hadn’t just accepted it, she’d encouraged it, supported it, because it was that jersey and the status it gave her that she’d wanted.

How ironic that the very first thing that attracted me to Shea was what would keep us at this impasse.

“Porter, please,” Shea stood. “I…” Her eyes searched mine, wide and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Honestly.”

“Do you think I’m violent?” I asked softly.

“Sometimes,” she answered just as quietly. “I’m sure during games, you’d have to be.”

“I’m aggressive. Yes, I’m paid to end fights, or even start them, but there’s no malevolence. Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s...sport. I’m not just some dumb oaf who beats people. Have you ever been to a hockey game?” Sure, it was rough, and fights could get mean, but I couldn’t see how she’d honestly think we were giant monsters on skates if she’d ever been to a game.

She shook her head, her eyes dropping to the floor.

“Then don’t you think you’re judging something you know nothing about?”

Her gaze flew to mine, narrowed and challenging.

“You always tell me not to knock something until I try it,” Elliott jumped in.

Shea and I continued our stare-down, neither of us budging.

“Look, you have every right not to let her play hockey. She’s your daughter. I don’t even need to tell you that. But if you’re not letting her play because of some misconception, then that’s what I take issue with.”

She finally sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “All right. Tell me what I’m missing.”

Elliott bounced in excitement but wisely kept quiet.

“Hockey at Elliott’s age is regulated for safety, pure and simple. I’m not just talking about the injuries that can happen with any contact sport—broken bones, concussions, sprains, all that—”

“Remember, hockey is number ten!” Elliott interjected.

/> “I’ve got this,” I told her with a wink.

She grinned in answer.

“What kind of regulations?” Shea asked, folding her arms under her breasts.

“She’d most likely be a Squirt. That’s like one level up from the level where they just chase the puck around. She can’t even check—hit people against the boards to get the puck. It’s all about skating, skill, shooting, and teamwork. Just like any organized sport, it’s about working together, listening to your coach, moving the ball, puck, whatever. We just do it on skates. You can’t hit people from behind. You can’t trip them. Can’t hook them with your stick. Can’t haul off and hit anyone. It’s a bunch of kids out there learning how to play the game.”

Shea bit her lip, her eyes flickering toward Elliott.

“It’s a great game, honestly. Can it get rougher at the higher levels? Sure. But we’re talking about nine and ten-year-olds, not college players, or even high schoolers. If you want to see a pro game, I’ll give you my family seats any time you want them once the season starts, and that will give you a good idea of what the sport grows into, but that’s also like judging elementary school soccer with the World Cup.”

The doorbell rang, saving us all.

“I bet that’s Charlie!” Elliott exclaimed.

Shea nodded. “Right. Grab your bag, and I’ll answer the door,” she told Elliott.

Elliott shot me a smile and raced from the kitchen, around the corner, and into the hallway that led to her bedroom.

Various car ride conversations had told me that Charlie was Elliott’s best friend whose mom worked with Shea.

Leftover energy from my quasi-fight with Shea left my hands jittery. If I’d been at my own house, I would have shot pucks, or gone for a quick run to release the tension.

Instead, I started on the dishes, not that there were many. Shea was a clean-as-you-cook kind of girl, and damn did I like that about her. I honestly liked everything about her except the fact that she didn’t like everything about me.

Then again, neither did I.

I made quick work of the dishes as Shea carried on a conversation in the living room, just out of sight of where I stood. As I placed the last plate in the dish drainer, I heard a gasp behind me.

“Oh, hi,” a woman said, obviously startled.