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“Sorry, sorry. I know you’re better than that.” He takes a breath. “Okay, lay it on me. What about the girl from Vancouver?”
Look, I’m not a pussy. I’m a big guy with a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Not much scares me, but when Garcia loses his shit—hell. This could get ugly.
Poking at the button that controls my mirror, I mumble, “She’s his little sister.”
There’s a beat when I’m not sure he heard me, but then I wince as a string of angry Spanish fires through the line so loud I have to pull it away from my ear. I’m not fluent, but my guess is most of it’s swearing, possibly with a few pleas to a higher deity thrown in. Definitely some threats.
When he finally comes up for air, I’m slumped in the driver’s seat ready for the English translation.
Instead I get a disappointed sigh, and shit, that might even be worse. “Does he know?”
“No.”
“You mean,no, not yet.” Another deep breath and I can practically see him shoving that hank of black hair from his face, head shaking as he mutters at the ceiling. “Because you know he’s going to find out. The only question is whether it happens before or after your season is up.”
He doesn’t need to remind me what happens if it’s before the season ends. Sleeping with the team captain’s sister would definitely fall under the heading of confrontational bullshit. I’ll get scratched from the lineup. I won’t play. I won’t even dress for games. Which could mean I don’t get picked up by Oregon.
And Garcia wants me there.
“If Baxter hasn’t found out yet, he’s not going to. I’m not going to tell him, and you better believe Natalie doesn’t want him to know.” O’Brian knows there’s something between us, just not exactly what. But I’m confident he’ll keep his mouth shut, so no need to give Garcia something else to worry about.
“You believe that?” he asks hopefully.
“Yeah, man, I do.”
A heavy sigh sounds through the line. “Okay. And you’re staying away from her, no eye contact, no conversation? If she walks into the room, you walk out?”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out how to explain what I don’t totally understand myself.
“Oh fuck, man,” he sighs when I still haven’t said anything. “Guess we had a good run. Hope you enjoyed your career while you had it.”
Jesus. “Garcia, it’s not like that. I talked to her a couple of times just to make sure we were on the same page. That she was okay.” I mean, that was mostly what it was about. “But it’s not like we’re together.”
She told me herself she could never sign up for the uncertainty and lack of control a relationship within the NHL meant. She wanted a life where she came before hockey. A life that she got to choose.
“Forgettogether. You sticking your dick in her or not?”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growl, the threat in my tone unmistakable.
I’m answered with silence from Garcia and the slow popping of my molars grinding together as I suck a breath through my nose.
“You’re still into her,” he says, frustration coating his words. “Of course, you are. Six years and you never so much as ask a woman on an actual date. But Baxter’s little sister gives you a couple of hours and she’s all I hear about for a month.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not in the cards for us and we both know it. And after the season, I’ll be out of here.”
“You hope.”
I know.Whatever happens or doesn’t with Oregon, Chicago is the last city I’d ever stay in.
Chapter 8
Vaughn
It’s been a week and a half since I saw Natalie, and yeah, sure, the road trip helped, but even when we touched down in Chicago, I held strong. No stopping by her place to check on how she was. It’s none of my business. No asking if she’d seen the games—of course she has, and probably more than once—or what she thought of that play in the third against the Sharks. Nah, I went straight home like a good little NHL player and slept coma-deep until I had to get up for morning skate.
But now I’m edgy again. We’ve got a game tonight, but with all the hours in between, I ought to be grateful for the book drive scheduled this afternoon. But I can already feel the muscles along my spine ratcheting tight. It’s not the event stressing me out. It’s having a camera trained on me for the two hours I’m scheduled to be there. I fucking hate it, but I’m going anyway because it’s for a good cause.
I park in the back and it’s a short walk to the square brick building where the door is being manned by a kid wearing a Slayers cap and an awed look in his eyes. I shake his hand and bite my tongue about the fact that he’s wearing Baxter’s jersey. I’m used to it by now. And who gives a shit. Once I get out to Oregon and I’m playing with Jesse again, this sea of number twelve jerseys will be nothing but a distant memory.
