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On the one hand, he knows I’d never do Joey wrong. On the other hand, he’s been more protective in the last year than I’ve ever seen him. And that’s saying a lot because he didn’t even want her to have a real prom date. He spits venom when it comes to Eric Larose. But Joey is thirty fucking years old now. She’s an adult. And she chose me.
Maybe I should just tell him now.
I don’t answer for too long, and the next thing I know, my cell is ringing.
“Yo,” I answer.
“I got practice in thirty,” he says. “Did you get my text?”
“Yeah. Course I did.”
“So did you talk to Jo about everything? I’m worried she’s not all right. It sucks not to be there and see for myself. What’s the verdict?”
“We talked about her job and the struggles with that… She’s feeling unsure, but I think talking made her feel better. We’ll keep an eye on her; she doesn’t want to quit but she knows we all have her back if she needs to.”
“Do you think she’s depressed?”
If she is, I don’t see that side of her very often.
My answer is diplomatic. “You should still reach out. The more people who care the better. I think she’ll be all right.”
He pauses. “So she didn’t say anything about Eric? Did you ask?”
“Why would I ask about Eric?” I try to keep the venom off my tongue. I can’t sound like I feel. Like I have no fucking interest in ever hearing the guy’s name again.
“Man, between me and you—the fuckbag is a manipulative user. I think Jo has been off him completely for a few months before she moved back, but the maggot has a way of wiggling in every once in a while. I was worried maybe she had that going on, too. I fucking hate that guy. He’s brought her to tears more than once, and you know Jolie doesn’t really cry. That’s how bad he is. I’ve only come across him on the ice a few times, and it took everything not to slam him into the boards… or worse.”
I want to ask exactly what he’s done but don’t. Was it the cheating? Or more? My blood boils, and I’m hot now, so I throw off the covers. “I’ll hang with her again tonight and see if he’s on the radar.”
“You don’t have to spend all your downtime with my sister. Just wondered if she mentioned it.”
“It’s cool. We’re catching up on old times.”
“Well… you’re a good brother.”
Brother.I don’t know if he means I’m his brother or hers. Guilt tangles my intestines. “I have PT in an hour so I’m going to get going. I think I’ll be cleared early.”
“That’s a relief. Last two away games we just squeezedby. We’ve got that winning streak so far, but I think we need some more muscle to keep it.”
I circle my ankle; it’s feeling perfectly fine. “Well, especially since we have the weekend off, I’m sure I’ll be back next week. Are you coming home this weekend or are you off galivanting?”
“I have an appearance in Vegas opening a new club.”
Logan is a high-profile hockey player who often dates—if you could call it that—actresses and models. The pair of us were two of the most photographed athletes at one point when he actually managed a two-month monogamous stint with one of Chloe’s A-list friends. Now, Logan has become a celebrity in his own right, endorsing sneakers, soda, and his agent is in the middle of a deal with a fragrance house now. That guy has only gotten better-looking with age. He’s the Canyon’s own David Beckham.
I remember Chloe being pissed at me for turning down a lot of those offers. After winning the Hart trophy my third year, I had endorsement deals, too, but I hated it. I play hockey because I love hockey. And without hockey, I’m just a country boy who likes the simple things in life and is always eager for time with the horses. Giving them up to go pro was a devil’s dilemma for sure. Any way I slice it, I don’t want to be a supermodel and I definitely don’t want to see my mug plastered on a billboard. How I didn’t think about the invasion of privacy when I plunged headfirst into a relationship with a media-hungry person like Chloe is beyond me.
We all make mistakes.
And I hope Logan isn’t about to make one soon. “So you’re in Vegas… not drinking? That’s impressive. And I’m sure Coach will believe that.” Sarcasm dominates my words.
“It’s work. I’m under contract. I have to be there, so he’ll have no choice but to deal with it.”
“You only do those stupid appearances to pay for what you spend there. It’s breakeven.”
He puts on an accent. I think he intends to sound British. “Aren’t I clever?”
“Yeah. Spending everything you earn doesn’t sound stupid at all.” I snort. “Well, I guess I’ll see you next week then.”
