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“No. Come on in, you’ll just have to wait while I get ready,” Isla tells him, stepping aside to open the door wider.
“We can stay in. You know I don’t mind,” the man says at the same time I see who it is.
Tyson Murphy, star forward for Vancouver. He played for Coach before he moved up to the NHL. He was a hotshot even then. Made enough noise for us all to take more than passing notice the year he became eligible.
“Can you give us a minute,” she asks him. He raises his chin and presses a kiss to her forehead.
“Wylder,” he greets me on the way to Isla’s bedroom.
“Murph.” I attempt the same casual acknowledgment as he has. This is awkward as all fuck, to say the least. He’s not surprised by me at all, not like I am by him being here. As soon as he’s out of sight, I charge at Isla, backing her up against the wall. “Tyson Murphy is your date?”
Her defiance shows with her raised chin, a sinister smile playing on her lips.
“Unlike some, I don’t go slumming. I looked for better after you. Or did you think my vagina has been a haunted house collecting nothing but cobwebs and the ghosts of my past?”
I burst with laughter; her snark compares to no other woman I’ve ever known. Her smirk gives way to a full smile, and she starts laughing, too. Another trait I remember, she succumbs to emotional contagion easily. She’s the girl who needs to laugh when she hears a baby giggle, and she cries at videos of puppies giving sad eyes.
Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong. Battling her is a gut reaction, but I know better ways to get under her defenses. She hasn’t changed that much.
“No, that’s not what I thought. Though I didn’t expect you to be in a relationship with one of the biggest up and comers in all of hockey.”
“It’s not a relationship. I don’t do relationships with professional hockey players.” Just like that, her humor vanishes.
“Good, you shouldn’t,” I agree, turning the dig at me back around. “They can’t be trusted.”
It’s a lie, and she knows it. Of all professional sports, hockey is probably the most family oriented. So many of the players are husbands, and fathers who take their roles seriously. We don’t have the same ‘player’ stigma as some of the other leagues. Yeah, every team has its share of puck bunnies or whatever the hell you want to call the more exuberant female fans that make their presence known. It’s almost exclusively the young single players that partake in their company. Most of the women don’t even try to fuck the married guys. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve witnessed.
And I don’t know any married player that gets his dick wet by random strangers in every city we visit. It’s not part of our game.
“Don’t I know that all too well.” That hurt is back in her voice. It’s the last damn time I want to hear it.
“You do, Cole. Again, I’m sorry. I’ll keep saying it until you know you can trust it and me. All I’m asking is for a chance to be the man I’m supposed to be to our daughter, okay?” She doesn’t answer. I imagine all the thoughts swirling in her head. It’s fine, because I’d rather her confused and contemplative than pissed off. That’s the new game, keeping Isla on her toes. Tracing my palm firmly up the column of her neck, I still it just beneath her upturned chin. “Okay?”
Her hard swallow presses against my hand, but she still doesn’t verbalize her answer. I see the answer in her eyes though, she wants to give me this chance. She’s fighting that desire, and that’s okay.
I steal a quick, but deep kiss to her lips.
“I’m leaving Monday for Boston. The owners of the house I’m buying here are letting me rent it until the sale closes. I’m going back to get the movers going and drive my car back. I’ll be gone for about a week. Tomorrow night, I’ll stop by to say goodbye to Sadie.”
“Okay,” she says, dazed from that kiss.
“Have a great date, Isla,” I say before leaving, wanting her to have a nice time but knowing I’ll be on her mind the rest of the night.
* * *
The following day, Isla is in a fantastic mood. The kind of mood you’re in after you’ve had an amazing fuck. It sours my already bad mood. I was up all night racking my brain and scouring my memory for the truth in this whole sordid mess, and I’m exhausted from it. But what really does me in is Sadie telling me all about the brunch she had with Mommy and Ty.
“I ate booberry pancakes that were this big,” she says excitedly, spreading her hands out bigger than her head.
“Those are one of my favorites,” I tell her, trying to keep the conversation on us and not Murphy.
“Ty loves them too.”
Of course, he does.
“Did you have coffee to drink with your pancakes?”
“No.” She laughs. “That’s for old peoples. Ty brought me a new puck. Do you want to see?”
