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“I’m not that good at cards.”
Hunt smirked. “Now that’s your first mistake.”
An hour later Dex was six hundred bucks in the hole, but not too sad about it. The nerves had vanished, leaving in their place a feeling of contentment. Kind of how he felt with Ashley, minus the sexy.
“We need to handicap Banks,” Reid said. “It’s like the World Championships of Poker and he’s the only person playing.”
Banks looked smug. “You fuckers need to focus on your game instead of gabbing about your WAGs and your kids. Less domestic drama, more card counting.”
“Knew he was cheating.” Erik Jorgenson put his hand down. “Isn’t it time to eat?”
“You just had half a veggie pizza, dude. And three slices of the shrimp one that no one eats because fucking shrimp.” Kershaw gestured for two cards and eyed them hopefully. “Pity there’s no lasagna.”
“Lasagna?” Hunt looked up from his hand. “Where’s that coming from?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sly side-eye sent toward Dex. “Dex’s girl makes a mean Italian casserole. Or lasagna to the uninitiated.”
“Turkey and fennel, I heard,” Erik said. “Not the best combination.” Jorgenson was a major foodie, but no amount of food snobbery would get him a pass on casting aspersions on Ashley’s culinary prowess.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Dex had two queens, a king, and two cards under eight. Could he turn this into something decent? “It was amazing. She’s a great cook.”
And even better in bed. Just thinking of her gorgeous body, creamy skin, all that hair … Probably not the best time, given the cock-stirring situation down south.
Besides, she’d made it clear what they were doing. You should know I have no expectations. Was that because she wasn’t interested in more or because she doubted his sincerity? Women were so hard to figure out.
“Don’t bash a man’s woman’s cooking, Fish.” Foreman picked up a card, then put it down again. “Especially when you haven’t tried it.”
Kershaw chuckled. “Yeah, he might give you a Hughes special.”
That went over like someone had dropped a turd in the game pot. On the whole, people had been incurious about what happened in the Empty Net that night after the Pittsburgh game, assuming it was just another example of Dex O’Malley’s poor judgment. Now a door had been opened.
Hunt was first to kick off the proceedings. “How’s that going, O’Malley? You going to get off with a tap on the wrist?”
“Remains to be seen.”
A couple of quick exchanged glances followed that nothing-burger of a statement.
Just give them a chance to see you. The real you.
“Hughes and I go back to juniors. We’ve never really gotten along.”
Foreman discarded another card, then winced at what he got in return. “You played at Minnesota together, too, if I recall.”
But Dex had always been better. Hughes had never appreciated that, nor did he like the fact Dex came up with nothing but was still a success—and quicker, too, going straight into the NHL unlike Hughes who had to play a couple of years in the minors.
“His family fostered me as a kid. I lived with them for a year when I was fifteen.”
That Dex had been in care wasn’t exactly a secret. Most players’ paths through the juniors and college was public knowledge, and with that came details of players’ personal lives. A couple of the gossip rags had picked up on his, crediting his current behavior to his tricky past. But he had never mentioned the F-word to anyone he played with. It drew too many questions, and he was done answering those in his teens.
He waited, his heart in his throat, for someone to dig deeper.
How did that happen?
Where are your parents?
No wonder you’re so fucked up.
“Hughes took his time getting called up from the AHL.” Hunt tilted his head, looking at his hand like it had insulted his wife. “That what he was chippy about?”
