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“I’ve heard of it.”
“It was always Dalton and Carson’s dream to play for the Lakers and go pro. But then Carson got injured in his senior year, and it was enough to take him out of the draft. Coach Tucker didn’t want to lose him, so he offered him a job.”
“I’ve never really understood hockey.”
“Oh, my goodness, how’d that work out for you during hockey season?” Mom asked, and he frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, this one is a huge Blue Jacket fan.”
“Mom,” I hissed, giving my head a little shake.
“Dayna, what are you—”
“There wasn’t a lot of time for all of that in Boston,” I said, hoping she would drop it.
Hockey had been my life here; after Dalton died, that light inside me had blinked out. I’d thrown myself into other things at college—less painful things.
Of course, whenever I came home—and it hadn’t been all that much in the last four years—I was thrust right back into the heart of it. But in Boston, it was different.
I was different there.
Maybe a little too much.
“I’m more of a baseball guy.” Josh smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Back in Boston, it had been easy to get lost in him, in his plans for the future. But from the second we got in the car, our differences only grew more and more apparent with every passing mile.
Now it felt like there was an ocean between us, and I wasn’t sure what to do.
Carson came back inside, and I immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”
He blew out a strained breath and ran his hand down his face. “Coach needs a favor.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
His expression tightened as he said, “He wants Aiden Dumfries to stay with me for the summer.”
“Aiden Dumfries?” I blanched. “The Lakers hotheaded center? But isn’t he from Detroit?”
“He ran into some trouble and needs to lie low for a few weeks.”
“Surely that’s not your responsibility, Cars.”
“It’s not. But Coach knows I have plenty of room at the house, and I’m someone Aiden knows and trusts.”
“Aiden Dumfries… why does that name sound familiar?” Josh asked, glancing between the two of us.
“He was in the news,” I said, my stomach sinking. “His father is Dawson Dumfries.”
“Dawson Dumfries.” He blanched. “The con artist from Detroit?”
“One and the same,” Carson said tightly.
“Well, you know what I always say,” Mom interjected. “You can’t judge a son by the sins of his father.”
“Pretty sure the Bible said that and not you, Mom.” I smiled despite the uneasiness I felt.
