"That sounds so gross coming from you." He makes a face. "But suit yourself. See you later, Squeak."
"I hate that nickname!" I call after him as he walks away.
"I can't even begin to care!" he quips, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
Why in the fuck is he like this?
Is it dislike of teammates' siblings? A genuine dislike of redheads?
Or is it hatred for me personally?
When Thorne disappears into the tunnel, I heave out a breath and follow, moving extra slowly so I don't cross his path again. I emerge just as he is crossing the parking lot to his white SUV.
God, just look at him, his dark hair scattered across his forehead, his tatted biceps jumping as he throws his hockey bag in the back seat.
I made a rule for a reason. No hockey players. They're selfish and charming, and they'll use you up and move on. I watched my mom become a supporting character in my dad's story, and I swore I would never do the same thing. I know what hockey players are. I know what this world does to the women in it.
Alexander Thorne is my brother's teammate and co-captain and the absolute last person I should be thinking about.
And yet? I'm going to ask him anyway.
Chapter Two
Thorne
At what point does occasionally following Mollie around just to make sure she’s okay turn into outright stalking? Because I’m pretty sure I’m not that far off.
I've been past her building three times this week. I know which window is hers because the light stays on later than the others. Also, she has a plant on the sill that looks like it's barely surviving.
“Gordie!” My mangled, 120-pound mutt bounds ahead, gleefully chasing a fast-food hamburger wrapper.
I pull gently on his leash, and he continues to ignore me, snuffling and whuffing. It takes all the muscle and dexterity I have to wrestle the wrapper from his maw and drop it into a trash bin.
Gordie looks at me, his expression mournful for all of three seconds. Then he starts pulling toward the park like he’s hauling a weighted training sled instead of leashed to me. Luckily, I’m a big guy and not about to be swept off my feet by a dog, no matter how big and drooly he is.
My dad gave three quotes to a journalist about my playoff performance this week. We've spoken twice this year. Both times he called me champ, gave me a lot of old-fashioned and unsolicited advice, and asked if I was taking care of myself. Both times I said that I was fine and he seemed satisfied with that.
My dad is a famous athlete who destroyed every woman who loved him. I know this as intuitively as I know my own skating stats. It comes from memories of my mom sitting at the kitchen table at eleven at night, still dressed, waiting for a call that doesn’t come until five days later. Covering for my dad at Christmas, her voice perfectly steady, her hands not quite as still. Shrinking, year by year, into someone who existed only in relation to him.
I watched her do it. After a lifetime of that, I swore I would be nothing like him.
But I still have his voice in the back of my head, the devil on my shoulder.
Gordie pulls on the leash, jerking toward a young couple that eyes me as if they know me. They might; I’m the face of the latest Seattle Havoc hockey ad campaign. But instead of approaching me like the fanatics they might be, they look at Gordie and decide bothering me is not worth risking their potential deaths.
His adoption fee is paying dividends right now.
Is it my fault that my sweet dog looks like a hellhound? He’s black as coal, has a big smile full of nasty-looking teeth, and his bark is more of an echoingbellow. All that, and he melts at the merest thought of a belly rub. Win. Win. Win.
Gordie barks and a woman with a little yippy dog crosses the street. See? Better and better. My cell phone rings as she gives me the evil eye. It’s an unknown number, but I have been expecting this call.
“Hello?” I answer as I start a timer for ten minutes. That’s all the time I have to offer.
The journalist asks about my summer, asks about my dad like they always do, and drops the trade rumor question at the end. I give her the standard answers and hang up feeling like I’ve aged a thousand years.
I check my notifications and find that my dad has posted on Instagram. A photo of himself at a charity event, arm around some former teammate I vaguely recognize, caption reading something about legacy and the next generation. He's tagged me. Rolling my eyes, I lock the screen.
“Thorne!”
