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“We’re just friends,” I insist.
“I can see that.”
“Then get that look off your face,” I growl.
“What look?”
“As if you know a secret about me. There’s nothing to know.”
Bain nods and takes a long pull of his beer. I think the subject is dropped but then he says, “There’s no bro code in effect.”
That makes no sense and I turn to him with a scowl. “What?”
“Mitch is dead. She’s single. You’re single. There is no bro code in effect.”
Bro code.
That unwritten rule everyone understands. You don’t ever, and I mean ever, move in on a teammate’s woman. Even if they’re broken up or divorced, you steer clear. Coen broke the rules on one drunken night when he thought a teammate was broken up with his girlfriend and crossed a line. Before he could rectify it, the plane went down and he was burdened with some serious guilt because he couldn’t even apologize.
I’m sure the bro code applies to widows as well.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
“I’m only saying, if you had an interest—”
“I don’t.”
“Sure looks like you do to me,” Bain retorts and I don’t miss the mischief in his eyes. “I think it’s evident you both have a connection. Anyone in this bar could see it tonight.”
My eyes zip wildly around the room, expecting everyone to be staring at me with the same knowing look Bain has on his face right now.
But no one’s paying me any attention and I figure he’s pulling my leg.
“We’re only friends,” I insist and before he can say anything else crazy, I walk away.
We’re. Only. Friends.
Nothing more.
CHAPTER 11
Camden
Travis is playingin a nine-and-under youth league, and while the kid is an amazing skater and has great hands, it’s his confidence that needs the most work. I figured that out the day I took him to the rink for drills. While praising him, I noticed that he had a hard time believing the affirmations.
I’d say, “You have a fantastic transition,” and he’d automatically assume it wouldn’t be good enough to play for his current team. I’m convinced that is because he sat out this past year after Mitch died and needs his confidence rebuilt once he starts playing with a team again.
I meet Danica and Travis at the facility where his league practices. They only practice twice a week—Monday and Saturday—and their games are on Sundays. If Travis sticks with this, those commitments will increase year after year. I know the kid’s got enough talent to play at the top tier when he gets older and they practice five nights a week. Travel hockey means he’ll be flying to other states for games and tournaments, and it’s a hugely expensive commitment.
That’s the biggest credit I give to my dad. He might not have known how to show me love, affection and support after Mom died, but he made sure I was able to pursue my passion for hockey. It’s the big reason I’m a professional athlete today.
I arrive early, wanting a few minutes to talk to Travis before he goes out on the ice. Danica texted me this morning that Travis was excited I was coming to watch. He has no clue it’s to check out the coach so I can give Danica some peace of mind, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give him a last-minute pep talk.
Waiting by the entrance door, I spot Danica pulling in. Travis sees me through the rear passenger window and waves with a broad grin on his face. He barely waits for his mom to bring the car to a full stop before he throws open the door and bursts from the back seat.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Danica calls as she opens her door. “Watch for cars.”
Travis stops, looks left, then right and deems it safe to cross the throughway. Danica steps out of the car, rolling her eyes at her son. She’s wearing jeans with a red pea coat and white lace-up boots with fuzzy fur around the edges. On her head is a knit cap in the same shade of red as her coat with her long chocolate hair spilling down her back.
