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I head to the shower, feeling physically better seeing the kids are okay, but feeling mentally worse about the way I parted with Faith. I didn’t even say thank you.
I’m an asshole, and I’m definitely not winning any Father Of The Year awards.
I’ll have a couple of hours when I wake up in the morning to talk to her. I’ve got her number now, and I owe her that much. Hell, I owe her more than that. After all, she looked after my kids when she didn’t have to, and all I’d done in return was act like a big fucking jerk.
Chapter 6
Faith
I can’t believe he did that. Came back, looked me in the eyes, and gave me no thanks whatsoever for looking after his children while he was out there being a hockey puck hero.
He may be sexy as hell, but he can’t go around treating peopl
e like that. Especially his children. He showed up well over an hour after he was supposed to. Did he honestly think we were just going to sit and wait for him that long at the concession stand?
Judging by his reaction toward me, I doubt he even cares what I might think of him.
The thing is, I don’t even know what to think of him. I don’t care that he’s a big NHL star anymore. He’s a jerk, that much is obvious. So, why, once he showed his true colors, did I want to turn around and go back to his room after it was clear he was about to be sick?
Maybe because, as upset as I was, and still am, I still wanted to make sure he was okay.
I shake my head, thinking about Darcy’s quick thinking. Dad was ready to call the cops. He’d had enough of the waiting when he realized that none of the team had come back to the hotel yet. Darcy, in all her mini-adult glory, dragged me down to the reception desk with her, pretending that I was Isobel. Luckily, we both have dark hair. The receptionist recognized Darcy and assumed that she was telling the truth about losing the room key. I came up to their suite with them after reassuring Dad that I would be okay to spend a few hours there until Tristan showed up.
Darcy even suggested I sleep in her suite, which was innocently adorable in its own right. That was where I found the note with Tristan’s number on it, meant for Isobel. Thank God, because the little girl fell asleep so fast I couldn’t bring myself to wake her up and ask for it.
So, I sent him a message telling him we were at the hotel. I should’ve known he and the team would be late, but when I wasn’t permitted into the dressing room areas, and really wanted to avoid causing a stir, what other choice had I been left with other than to take the kids back to the hotel?
I knew that if Tristan hadn’t shown up within a few hours, my dad would insist on calling the police. I could just imagine the big media circus that would result in. The last thing I wanted to be known as was the woman who accused Tristan Wright of abandoning his kids so he could play a game.
I sigh. My night will be spent being curious about him, letting him invade my thoughts. Right or wrong, I want to find out what I can about him. So, I do what anybody would do, I Google him. Google knows everything. As I start tapping away, I see all the headlines with his name in them. Details and speculation about his personal life, beginning about three years ago. There’s something about him going to rehab, too, just after his wife died tragically, but I don’t read it.
As much as I try and excuse his behavior, I can’t help but feel that there’s something wrong with this whole set-up. He came out of rehab and started playing right away, after being sold to Arizona. The same team that sold him four years before his trouble began.
Maybe there’s a story there. Maybe not. But I want to see more about him. Know more about him. But, apart from his less than stellar performances and his dead wife, there’s little more to find out in cyberspace. It’s as if he disappeared up until recently, turning from a ghost to a shining star after tonight’s game.
Let it go, I tell myself.
I close my eyes with Tristan still on my mind, frustrated by him, and angered by him. But also curious, and very much intrigued.
***
I wake up in the morning with my mind still stuck on him. I have a quick shower and put on the same jeans I wore last night. I hate doing that, but I don’t have a large wardrobe. At least the rest of my ensemble is freshly washed.
I run my fingers through my hair and tie it up, still damp. I shouldn’t want to, but as I close the door to my apartment, I hesitate. I have to drive to Dad’s place to take inventory of the concession stock we keep in his garage, but I have the overwhelming urge to drive to the Four Seasons instead. I tell myself it’s because I just want to make sure Darcy and Ferguson are okay, but I know better. I shouldn’t want to go there. At all.
And I continue to tell myself that as I drive in the opposite direction to the hotel. Tristan’s suite door looms before me. I idly wonder if he’s still asleep, leaving the kids to fend for themselves while he does so.
My mind’s telling me to head home. I’ve done my job. Hell, a lot more than that. But my feet stay planted in front of his door.
The door opens, and my heart leaps into my throat at the sight of him.
“Hey, Faith.” He sounds a bit surprised, but his mouth forms a perfect, dashing grin. “I was just about to call you.” His grin falters slightly.
He’s embarrassed. Good. He should be.
But he’s also freshly showered and not the mess that I saw in the early hours of the morning. He looks good, damn good, and even from here I can tell he smells good, too.
“Oh. Well, I just wanted to say goodbye to the kids.” Even to my own ears, it sounds weak and feeble.
