by Kate Meader
Zzzz. He cast a glance at the phone’s screen. A text message from Theo Kershaw.
YTD. Definitely.
What did that mean? Kershaw was known for his off-tangential thinking, so it could be anything.
Cal ignored it and went back to business. Those pouting lips came into focus along with hazed-over eyes, stoked with desire and fury. But in their depths was an acknowledgment that they could overcome their differences with pleasure.
“Mia,” he murmured, and just saying her name boosted the fantasy from zero to sixty. It was so damn wrong and so damn good and so—
Damn phone! “Kershaw,” he muttered, not liking a teammate’s name on his lips when he had a delivery of handsy happiness in mind.
Zzzz. “Fuck!” He checked again, but this time it was from Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie. Completely, Foreman. Hands down, yes.
What the hell—another message came in almost immediately, this time from Vadim.
Yes, you’re the dick.
Now wait a hot second. It was as if they knew what was happening in his head right now. If anything was likely to douse the flames of forbidden fucking fantasy, it would be a text message from the brother of your forbidden fucking fantasy.
Taking a deep breath to extinguish the image of a gorgeously-aroused Mia Wallace, Cal hit Vad’s number. The man answered on the first ring.
“You need to hear this in a Russian accent?” he barked.
“What the hell is going on?”
Vadim chuckled. “I am answering the question you posed to the world.”
Cal rubbed his eyes, though he wished he could rub his ears. Or his brain cells. Or his dick, back in the before times. “Come again?” Because it looked like Cal wouldn’t be any time soon.
“On the “Am I the Dick” forum. Online. You asked and your peers are answering. I am merely delivering my judgment in person.”
He didn’t sound pissed, or like he had any idea that Cal had recently been imagining the sweet, ruby lips of the man’s sister wrapped around his cock.
“Petrov, I’ve put up with some of your twisted word play over the years but it’s much too early for this.”
“Are you not SkaterBro?”
“SkaterBro? Who the hell calls himself SkaterBro?”
“The person with a story very similar to yours. It’s on that website.”
He tried to parse the words. “Someone’s pretending to be me online?”
“It sounds like your situation …” He broke off. “I have sent you the link.”
A text popped up on his screen and Cal tapped into the “Am I the Dick” forum where people went to be judged by their online peers for all sorts of social faux pas and tricky situations.
“Gimme a second to read this.”
* * *
r/AITD
Throwaway_SkaterBro
* * *
AITD for forcing my girlfriend to dump me at a wedding after she got upset about not catching the bride’s bouquet?
* * *
So hear me out. I know that title doesn’t sound good, but I have my reasons. I’m sort of well-known in my field which means I have women all over me. I’m okay looking but really it’s my pots o’ green and abs for days that keeps the ladies coming back for more. I’ve been dating this girl—let’s call her Lara—for a while. Gorgeous, blond, legs, the works. She was my plus-one at the wedding of one of my bros and started getting notions. You know where this is going, right? During the wedding reception, she huddled down in a group of chicks and tried to catch the bouquet. But someone else got there first. The catcher—let’s call her Tia—tried to give it to Lara but my girl wasn’t having any of it. Then Lara blames me because I wouldn’t take her side over the bouquet. She tells me that we’ve been getting serious and that she thought I was about to propose. At my bro’s wedding after four dates. Really?
So here’s where I need a pronouncement from you, my dick-knowing peers. I might have taken Tia’s side in the bouquet dispute because it was more to my advantage. As I could see where this was going, it made sense to play it up a little. I don’t want to get married because my bro lifestyle is totally bangin’ and why would I want to interfere with that? So I said to my girl that it was just a bunch of flowers and to give the bouquet back to Tia. Lara got wicked ripped and told me to take a hike into traffic.
Maybe I could have handled it better but my experience is that most chicks like to exit the relationship feeling they have the upper hand. I’m not the kind of guy who needs to do the dumping for a power trip. Who cares? If it’s over, it’s over, and if I can make my ex-lady friend feel she had more say in the matter, I’m all about giving her this as a parting gift. It’s easiest on everyone.
So AITD for forcing my ex’s hand even though we were over and this lets her think she dumped me?
tl; dr: I did my ex a favor by forcing her to dump me at a wedding after she didn’t catch the bride’s bouquet.
* * *
Mary Mother of Christ, that’s what happened, described to a fucking T as if he was the villain here.
“Cal, you still there?”
“Yeah. Listen, I didn’t write that. Someone’s playin’ me.”
Vadim laughed. “I didn’t think it was your style. This is Tara?”
It didn’t sound like her. Far too sneaky. “No, I don’t think so.”
“One of the guys is yanking your chain?”
Maybe. “I need to make a couple of calls.”
“Sure, okay.”
Due diligence would be necessary before he starting bandying accusations right, left, and center. He forwarded the link to Tara. Is this you?
Sixty long-ass seconds later, she responded. No! Then, Is that true? You forced my hand?
Damn, damage control needed. He dialed Tara’s number. He had planned to check in with her this morning anyway.
“Calvin.”
He gripped the phone tighter. Not. His. Name.
“I wouldn’t say I forced your hand. I didn’t think we had a future, so I wasn’t opposed to you ending things.”
She shrieked. “But you might have manipulated the situation so I stormed off in a huff looking like the hysterical wannabe bridezilla while you look like the poor, put-upon frat bro.”
“That wasn’t my intention, Tara. I didn’t mean to upset you but things had definitely run their course. I thought you might feel better taking the lead on the breakup.”
“When underneath it all, you’re the puppet master pulling the strings?”
He hadn’t given Tara nearly enough credit. All he wanted to do was not cause a scene. “I’m sorry I did that. Truly.”
“I’ll have to think on whether I want to accept your apology, Calvin.” She hung up.
Fuck.
This was not good. He didn’t want Tara pissed at him. He didn’t want anyone pissed at him. He always made sure to land in a good place with his exes because a conflict-free life was eminently easier. Even with Bethany—and no one would have expected that if the truth of it came out.
Who else would set him up like this? A teammate, like Vadim suggested? Kershaw was the first person to text. Maybe he didn’t want to wait too long for his handiwork to be appreciated. But he couldn’t imagine Theo calling Cal out like that. There was something a little preachy about it. Smartass, too.
An image of that smiling prick, Tommy Gordon, popped into his head for a visit, but he quickly dismissed it. That fucker had no reason to be mad at Cal, who was definitely the aggrieved party in their twisted history. Even if he was annoyed with Cal, Gordon wouldn’t waste his energy on this.
If not him or one of the Rebels, then, who?
4
Mia dropped her gym bag to the floor in the entryway of Vadim and Isobel’s house and exhaled a satisfied breath. She’d had a good practice at the Rebels facility and could say with confidence she was keeping her skate in. Truly, she was blessed to have the resources to devote so much of her time to training. Most professional women playe
rs weren’t so lucky, having to work other jobs to make ends meet. Not Mia. Vadim had settled half their father’s money, a tidy sum numbering in the millions on her when she turned twenty-one.
Guilt payments, really.
He shouldn’t feel so bad. After all, he hadn’t known of her existence until she was fifteen and their mother—estranged from her husband and son after a bad divorce—had reached out to him for help. After her cancer diagnosis, Mia needed a bone marrow donation and that’s how Vadim found out he had a baby sister, a strange and shocking way to learn of your sibling.
Their father had died a few months before that reunion, so Mia never had a chance to meet Sergei Petrov. According to her mother, who had left Russia in the dead of night to escape him when she was three months pregnant with Mia, he was a manipulative man, an emotional abuser. In leaving him, her mother had been forced to leave ten-year-old Vadim behind.
That first year getting to know Vadim had been rocky. Her brother needed time to forgive their mom, deal with a new sibling, rehab his knee, and fall back in love with Isobel, his teen sweetheart. Not that he’d ever fallen out of love with her, but nothing was ever easy with Vadim. He eventually made up with their mom and now they were all close, forever in each other’s pockets and business. Her mom lived in Brooklyn with her second husband, a Russian who adored her. Victoria Wallace obviously had a type.
After college, Mia worked with a youth hockey team in Boston, but now that she was in training countdown for the Olympics, it was better to be here at the center of the action. Her sister-in-law Isobel was a renowned coach and co-owner of the Chicago Rebels franchise. Her brother was the team’s captain. Which meant she had access to a pro hockey team’s resources, a perk she was determined to take advantage of.
She wasn’t sure how long she could live with Vadim and Isobel, though. Oh, they made her more than welcome and this 3000 square foot, glass-walled palace in Winnetka just north of Chicago was spacious enough to allow them to carry on relatively independent lives. Only, whenever she walked into the living room and found her brother with his hand down his wife’s shirt, she felt it might be time to get her own place. But the real reason she wasn’t moving out immediately was because of access.
Namely, access to Tommy Gordon.
Her brother’s agent was stopping by today for lunch and she planned to be on site to demonstrate her … wit? Charm? Sexual magnetism? (Mighty hard to achieve in the presence of an older, scowling brother, but she had to take her shots where she could.)
Alert to her arrival home, her funny little Pomeranian came bounding around the corner on stubby legs. “Gordie Howe! Who’s a good doggo?” She hunkered down to give the toast-colored bundle a rubdown, then led him upstairs. “Come on, buddy. Mama needs fashion advice.”
Thirty minutes later she walked into the living room to find her brother shirtless, revealing his many tats, in his usual king-of-all-he-surveys position on the sofa. This was made all the more annoying by the fact everyone had to attend to him after knee surgery. People told her she resembled him, with their coal-black hair and blue eyes, but she couldn’t quite pull off the moody supermodel look, Vadim’s bread-and-butter.
“Where’s Isobel?” What she really meant was “where’s Tommy?” She was sure she’d heard the doorbell and the low rumble of his sexy voice.
Her brother narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“This?” She waved at her outfit, a cute sundress that showed her bare shoulders. So she didn’t wear dresses much—or at all—but she wouldn’t call it that unusual. Gordie gave a yelp of approval. He’d sniffed at it earlier, signifying it was the one. “This old thing? It’s just a dress, Vad.”
“You are always in sweats. That is what I am used to.”
“Well, God forbid I dress in something you’re not used to. Again, where’s Iz?”
“She’s still over at Harper’s.”
“Is everything okay?”
He eyed her. “There is discussion of a new franchise. A new women’s hockey franchise. In Chicago.”
Her heart leaped. She sat, practically on her hands to cover her excitement. The National Women’s Hockey League had undergone significant birthing pains from the start and only now seemed to be gaining traction. Expanding to Chicago, a huge sports town, was a good move. “That would be amazing. Are they going to invest or something?”
“Perhaps. Or do a co-host with whatever team starts here. Why? Are you interested?”
“You know I am. I took a break for a while but now I’m working my way back to form. So you didn’t like my choice but it made sense for me at the time.”
“I worry that you have delayed when you could have already won the Cup. Twice.”
She smiled, glad that even when he was mad at her, his confidence in her abilities never wavered.
“There’s still time, Vad. I’m only twenty-four. You didn’t win until you were almost thirty. Practically drawing social security!”
“So insolent. And I was twenty-seven. Hardly old.” Vad returned her grin all the same. Things had been a little tense between them—Vadim didn’t approve of her career choices post-college and Mia couldn’t tell him her exact reasons why she’d gone that route—but it seemed to be easing now that she was refocused on her hockey career.
“Whose voice did I just hear?” She cast a glance toward the kitchen as the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floors increased in volume. Her heart sped up, recognizing that tread, knowing she would see him any moment now. Her beautiful Tommy.
Her gaze clashed with a pair of stunning eyes the color of … fall leaves? Now hold on, there was no good reason for this blatant insult to her fantasies.
“What are you doing here?”
Cal Foreman—even worse, Cal Foreman in a Red Sox tee—took a seat on the sofa and handed off a bottle of water to Vadim. “I’m here for lunch.”
“I mean—I thought—” She jerked her gaze back to Vadim. “Aren’t you supposed to be having lunch with your agent?”
Vadim unscrewed the cap of the bottle. “He had to meet another client who won’t be in town long, so Cal came over instead.” Said as if this was a perfectly normal substitution for Tommy. It was not!
“Wait, your agent is coming over?” Cal sounded annoyed. “You never said that.”
“The point is that he is not coming over. He will be here this evening and we will have dinner.” Vadim cocked his head at his friend. “You need a new agent?”
Cal made a sound of disgust, and while it wasn’t clear what exactly he was annoyed about, Mia could think of a reason.
Five hundred comments and counting reasons.
The first rule of pranking is that if you don’t have the stomach for it, you shouldn’t spend time with your victim in the immediate aftermath. She hadn’t expected to be confronted with the results so soon. After all, she rarely spent any time in Cal Foreman’s presence and she had assumed that state of affairs would happily continue.
Last night she had been so annoyed with him at the wedding, especially at his high-handed inclusion of Mia in his scheme to dump his girlfriend. So Foreman’s ex might have gone gaga over that bouquet but any decent guy would have resolved that in private. Instead this jerkwad decided to put on a show for his buddies and use Mia as the foil for his plan.
What an ass!
So there wasn’t much she could do about it after the fact except take to the Internet for a ruling. She’d kept it as anonymous as possible, though the names of the innocent might have been largely unchanged. Imagination often fell by the wayside when beers were added to the wedding champagne haul.
Lara. Tia. Not her best work.
Since it was posted, it had attracted a healthy interest and the judgment she’d sought: ‘You’re the Dick.’ But it was still anonymous, and no one she knew had figured out the identity of Skaterbro—either the real or fake version. Not even Cal himself, who seemed to be cranky for another reason entirely.
Vadim let
it go and switched his focus to Mia. “Isobel is not here to serve lunch—”
“As if she would,” Mia muttered.
“And as you can see, I cannot stand.” Vadim gestured dramatically at his knee in a brace and resting on a footstool, but then he was incapable of gesturing undramatically at anything. “Perhaps you can earn your keep, sestra, and help Cal put it together in the kitchen. We will eat on the patio. Okay?”
Mia shot a glance at Cal, who was grinning, all traces of his earlier bad humor gone.
“Come on, Mia, let’s serve the king his banquet.”
Mia shot a glare at her brother, who didn’t even notice because he was too busy petting Gordie Howe. (Vadim called her puppy “the little dog with big shits” and claimed indifference, an absolute lie.) She followed Cal into the kitchen through the house’s big sprawl, the walk giving her time to enjoy his butt in jeans.
That’s not right.
Not the butt. The man couldn’t help how it filled out the denim. No, the enjoyment was all wrong.
She shook her head, annoyed at herself for ogling him, and raised her gaze to the back of his head. That skin at the nape of his neck looked touchably soft and her fingertips tingled with …
N to the O. What was happening here?
She scrambled for neutral territory. His T-shirt was emblazoned with World Series Champions 2018. This was more like it, a grudge she could appreciate. Damn sign-stealers, despite Major League Baseball pronouncing their so-called innocence.
In the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, wearing that dumb T-shirt and an even dumber grin.
“Great help you are,” she muttered.
“This isn’t my kitchen. I don’t know where anything is.”
Mia opened the fridge and removed ingredients, making enough noise to convey her annoyance with Vadim, not that he could hear her mood from forty feet away. Sort of passive-aggressive, and she owned it.
Tommy wasn’t here. How the hell was she going to make any impression? Though the bigger problem wasn’t so much his absence, but the fact that she had no game. What did she know about seducing a sophisticated guy like that? She had zero experience when it came to men—or quality men. The only ones she’d spent any time with were dumb jocks like Cal Foreman.