Chapter Fourteen
Shelby was in a world of shit. She was smelling a hotel pillow. Also, she was wearing the hoodie Ian had left behind when he’d hurried out of her room shortly after dawn. Okay, shortly after round three and right before the team’s morning skate.
After finally setting the pillow aside, she reached for a leftover room service chocolate croissant and scrolled through the morning hockey headlines on her phone. Maybe there was some sort of My Strange Addiction episode she should apply to be on—pillow sniffers anonymous. That had to rank right up there with the one about the people who ate their own couch cushions.
A text notification popped up on her screen accompanied by a picture of a sparkling emerald green Mustang Shelby GT350 with a crisp white racing stripe down the middle of the hood.
Damn, it was the truth. Who knew orgasms and midnight room service could do that for a woman?
She’d gone to a church basement meeting in Denver and another in Vegas. Both had the same bad coffee and stomach-settling coming-home feeling. Even after six years, that sense never went away. Meetings may not always be a comfortable place, but they were always a safe place.
She wasn’t about to explain the mess that was whatever it was with her and Ian to her sponsor. She loved Roger, but she really needed to get better girlfriends. Talking about sexy times with him really just felt all sorts of wrong.
Not that anyone would guess it from looking at him. Wiry. Flinty. More likely to yell at someone to get off his lawn than buy Girl Scout cookies? Yeah, that was her sponsor. But underneath it all? Total teddy bear. Sorta like someone else she knew.
After sending a goodbye text, she did not take one more sniff of the pillow that smelled like Ian—okay, an extra-deep inhale, but that didn’t count—and got in the shower. Then she headed out of her room for the rink and the afternoon face-off. It wasn’t until her alerts dinged on her cell phone that she checked the latest hockey news again. When she did, her belly dropped faster than an elevator with its ropes cut.
There wasn’t much of a story to go with the headline beyond a short clip of David Petrov standing outside the Vancouver arena signing autographs and giving the reporter a curt “no comment” when asked about his sons. Her gut sank anyway. David the Great was in Vancouver. This was not going to end well. Not even a little.
…
It was the first question a reporter asked Ian about in the post-game interviews. Not about Stuckey’s massive hit on Eggleton. Not about Christensen’s breakaway goal. Not about Blackburn’s call to arms in the locker room before they came out in the third period and came back from a three-to-one deficit to win in a shootout. No. The first thing everyone wanted to know about was what the great David Petrov had said about the game.
Ian exhaled a deep breath and the locks went down one by one. Click. Click. Click. “I haven’t talked to him.”
“Your dad rarely comes to games. Do you know why he is here tonight?” One of the reporters shoved an iPhone in Ian’s face. “Have you guys cleared the air? Seems like you and your brother have mended fences.”
“I’ll talk about the game.” Ian looked around at the locker room. Players were mostly dressed, packing up their stuff, and the vibe was good. Winning did that for a team. “Any questions there?”
“Oh, come on,” another reporter called out. “You gotta give us something.”
He could practically hear the metal whine as those mental locks were tested. The cool was his thing. He’d always done it. Cold. Unemotional. Robotic. But a man could only take that for so long. Eventually, the screws holding the locks in place would get stripped and break free. Then all hell was going to break lose.
That couldn’t happen, but the urge was there, dark and growing.
But before it could explode, Christensen appeared by his side out of nowhere, dressed but still dripping from the shower. He slung his arm around Ian’s shoulders as the cameras zoomed in on the first public showing of brotherly love.
“He gave you one helluva game,” Christensen said, his tone friendly and open. “If it hadn’t been for his perfect pass, I wouldn’t have been able to make it down the ice for that breakaway.”
One of the TV reporters asked, “Have you talked to your dad?”
Ian tensed, unease swirling in his gut like radioactive battery acid.
Christensen snorted. “Not since I took some very bad advice from him.” He jerked his chin over to where Lucy stood shooting electric dirty looks toward the scrum of reporters surrounding them. “Now, it looks like Lucy is calling you guys over. Trust me, she is not a woman you ever want to ignore.”
The reporters let out a collective groan and turned like a group of fourth graders headed to the principal’s office.
The farther they moved away, the more the muscles in his shoulder loosened. “Thanks, man,” he said to Christensen.
His brother grinned. “Let’s go get on the bus before we’re stuck with the shitty seats.”
They walked out of the locker room and down the hall leading to the parking garage. They made it a third of the way through before a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
“My boys together,” David Petrov said, looking at the two of them as if they’d welcome him with open arms. “This is quite the sight.”
“Why are you here?” Ian asked, not bothering to pretend to make it sound pleasant.
Dave gave them an easy grin. It was like seeing Christensen’s smile out of an older version of Ian’s own face. “Fucking creepy” didn’t even begin to cover it. Nor how he never noticed it before.
“I wanted to talk,” he said.
Of course.
Ian cut a glance at Christensen, who rolled his eyes. At least they were on the same play. This wasn’t about anything other than what David Petrov wanted at the moment. How fucking typical.
Christensen crossed his arms. “So say what you need to say.”
“How about if we go grab some food or something? I can get you to the airport instead of you having to take the team bus.” He took a few steps away, as if they were going to follow him. “I was always starving after a game.”
Neither Ian nor Christensen moved.
“I’m fine,” Ian said.
His brother nodded. “Me too.”
David’s steps stilled and he turned, the dear-old-dad easiness gone from his stance, and he pointed at the two of them. “Look, I know you’re upset, but we’re a team. You two have to move past what happened before.”
Ian and Christensen looked at each other.
Christensen raised an eyebrow: The fuck?
Ian tilted his head to the left: Fuck if I know.
Christensen rolled his eyes: What a dick.
Ian snorted: Agreed.
Conversation complete, Ian dead-eye stared at their dad. “How are we a team?”
“You’re my boys.”
As if that made a difference.
“So you donated DNA,” Christensen said. “What’s the point?”
The man everyone thought they knew, the beloved scoring machine disappeared completely. “I was there for you from the beginning,” he said, his top lip curling. “I provided for both of you. Neither of you wanted for anything.” He tossed up his hands in frustration. “And what do I get in return? Both of you acting like petulant children. That reflects badly on me.”
“And there it is. The real reason you’re here.” Ian laughed. Loud. Hard. Without a single ounce of joy. “So your legacy’s taking a hit, huh?”
David stiffened. “My records still stand.”
“For now,” Christensen said with all the cockiness a future Hall of Famer could deliver. “Is there anything else?”
“Just cut the poor-me-my-feelings-are-hurt shit and toughen up, boys.”
Christensen looked at Ian and shook his head. “Damn, can you believe I used to dream about getting life advice from my dad?”
“Really?” God, Ian had spent his life trying to get the advice to stop. “He’s total shit at it.”
Their dad let out an angry huff. “You two take after your mothers.”
He and Christensen looked at each other, relieved grins on their faces. “Thank fucking God,” they said at the same time.
And that’s when he spotted Shelby walking straight toward them, a hesitant slowness to her step as if she wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome. He was halfway to her before he thought about it and realized what that would mean. By the time he reached her, it was too late.
His dad transformed as soon as he spotted her. Gone was the snarl and the palpable disgust, replaced with that easygoing charm that had always been David Petrov’s costume.
“Hi there.” He stuck out his hand. “David Petrov.”
The fake-humble attitude had always been his dad’s go-to—but Shelby didn’t know any better. For her, he’d always be the great David Petrov, king of the ice and holder of multiple scoring records.
“I know who you are, sir.” She shook his hand. “I’m Shelby Blanton.”
“With The Biscuit?” His dad’s eyes lit up with what would look like sincerity to someone who didn’t know him better. “Wow. That site is great. Huge fan.”
She nearly melted into a puddle right there. “That means a lot.”
“Well, I know you guys have a flight to catch. Good to see you again.” He turned to Shelby. “Wonderful to finally put a gorgeous face with a kickass site. Keep up the good work.”
Then he walked away down the tunnel—in the direction of the reporters, of course. No doubt, he’d pull his usual no-comment routine that always seemed to drive up interest.
“So you guys are talking again?” she asked, practically beaming with hope. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried. He seems like he’s really making an effort to fix things.”
“Yeah,” Ian said, grinding out the word through clenched teeth. “He’s quite a guy.”
Years of training, of knowing that to tell the truth about his dad would only mean more scrutiny from the press, more second-guessing of his every move, and more ridiculous think pieces purporting to be a deep dive into his private life, kept him from saying more.
All he was, sometimes all it seemed he would ever be, was a reflection of his dad. It was easier to keep it on lockdown, to let the world believe the lie—especially when it came to Shelby, because letting her see that part of his life, that would be admitting too much about him and about how he felt about her.
…
A half hour into the flight back home and Shelby had run out of small talk. It didn’t help that Ian had gone back into cabin grunt mode. Sitting next to him, she searched for anything to maybe draw the moment out a little more. As soon as they were wheels down in Harbor City, everything changed. No more dinners. No more ice-skating. No more devouring a midnight bowl of room service ice cream while sitting naked in the bed.
She wasn’t ready for that yet.
The anticipation of landing had her fiddling with her six-year chip, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the plastic ridges to ground herself to the here and now. In a moment of desperation, she grabbed hold of the first thing she could think of that they hadn’t talked about so far. “So that’s pretty cool about your dad coming to see you guys.”
The muscle in Ian’s jaw twitched as he continued to look out the team jet’s window.
“Maybe we could have a dinner with the three of you.” The words rushed out. Another dinner would mean more time with Ian. An excuse to see him, spend time with him. Pathetic? Yeah, but desperate times and all. “I could include it in the final post for the series about you and Alex.”
He let out a short huff of breath. “Not even if it meant getting traded to the Rage.”
“What is going on, Ian?” Everything had seemed fine this morning. Beyond fine, really. Now? It was like he’d gone back behind that wall he used to shut people out. “Talk to me.”
“Why?” He pivoted in his seat, keeping his voice low. “For the clicks?”
She flinched. “That’s a low blow.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then waited a few beats while clenching his jaw closed so fiercely, she worried the team dentist was going to have a new client.
“Nothing with my dad,” he said. “That’s nonnegotiable.”
“I understand.” She reached out and gave his leg a quick squeeze, then drew back before anyone saw. “You’re still getting used to everything.”
It was hard for a person to find out that their family wasn’t exactly what they thought it was. She still remembered the drop in her stomach when she’d found out that the man she’d thought would never leave had. After that, everything had changed.
“Not every story has a happy ending, Shelby,” Ian said, his tone resigned. “Some things are best left alone.”
Her stomach sank. Was he just talking about his dad now, or was he trying to tell Shelby something more?
Ian fell asleep—or more likely pretended to—and she stared at the movie playing on her iPad screen while not taking in a single moment of the plot. So this was just what they’d said. A fling. As long as they weren’t in one of the Harbor City zip codes, the clothes could come off. The emotions, though, stayed covered. That was the deal. But fuck if she wasn’t starting to feel naked as hell right about now.
Shelby, what have you done?