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Me and the five guys behind me gasp, watching her go down in a tangle of blades, sticks, and pads.
“What the fuck, man?” someone mutters, because there’s nothing accidental about that shove-down or how his knee and elbow land.
“I know, right?” O’Brien says, a dark edge to his usual chill tone. “Apparently, this douche has been mouthing off at her most of the game, talking trash. Full disclosure, she probably started it.” And that’s pride. “But I guess while he’s sort of on her here, he gives this kind of ‘oops, my bad. Maybe you should stick to playing with the girls,’ comment and—” And she springs off the ice like a freaking spider monkey, jumping on this guy’s back and raining down holy hell on him.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” He’s grinning now. “Watch for it.”
Suddenly, some lanky guy in sneakers is sliding all over the ice, prying her off the player. And he’s not alone.
From above my shoulder, Vassar coughs. “Are those—”
“Herbrothers.” O’Brien’s grin cranks up like he’s watching his kid’s first steps, only he’s watching the fucker who pushed his wife around in a very unsportsmanlike way trying to crawl free of the barrage of fists her brothers are delivering on the ice.
Damn.
Her family’s got her back.
I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until O’Brien nods, rubbing a finger along the break in his nose with a sort of nostalgic smile. “Yeah, they do.”
The video cuts off, and the guys start joking about Static picking up some pointers. The big guy laughs, flipping them off over his shoulder, before getting back to his own stack of shit to sign.
It’s entertaining as hell. The kind of back-and-forth I’ve intentionally isolated myself from in the past. But somehow this thing with Stormy has changed more than just who I go home to at night.
My phone goes off, and distracted, I don’t even look before answering.
Mistake.
“Liam.” It’s a voice all too familiar, but the last one I want to hear. I jerk to my feet, the chair screeching as it shoves back. “I’m glad you picked up.”
The guys stop talking, wondering what my malfunction is. Shooting varying looks of concern, and that fast, I’m wishing for that wall of isolation again.
Taking a breath, I wave them off and walk over to the far corner by the fruit, snacks, and drinks. As far away as I can get from everyone else.
“Jess, why are you calling?” I’ve told her not to. I’m not the guy who’s going to save her from this mess.
“I— I just wanted someone to talk to.” Her voice is small. Fragile.Manipulative.“You’re the only one who understands what he’s like.”
I close my eyes. Refusing to remind her that she’s the one who married him, and she knew plenty about what kind of asshole he was before she did. Or that she’s every bit as bad if not worse.
“I told you before. I’m not the guy to talk to.”
“But Liam,” she pleads, and I can practically see the tears welling in her eyes. “I really need a friend right now.”
“It can’t be me.” I can’t be her anything. After what happened, I feel sick just hearing her voice.
I look around to the guys shooting the shit together while they sign swag and the staff who keep us running, the building that encompasses the only dream I ever let myself have, the fucking band on my finger—
Every second I engage with this woman puts that at risk.
I can’t block her or tell her she deserves whatever bed she’s made for herself.
Because I know exactly how vindictive she is, and I can’t risk the slight.
“I’m sorry, Jess. I’mmarried. I can’t be the one you call anymore.” I never should have been.
It’s not what she wants to hear, and I can almost feel her simmering hostility through the line. I pinch the bridge of my nose and hold my breath, waiting to find out how she’s going to take my words.
