by Avery Flynn
“It’ll be quick.” He took a step forward as if to barrel past her. “Believe me, no one loves the little players like I do.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.” She took a quick step to the left, blocking his path forward. Ugh. She hated having to do this, but she didn’t have a choice or another option. There had to be a way to buy some time or distract him with another possibility—oh wait! “What if I could set up a dinner with the three of you for after the event? I mean, I can’t guarantee it or anything, but—”
“Aren’t you a doll to think of arranging a dinner between a father and his boys,” he said, a snide, patronizing timbre sneaking in under his tone. “I still need to get in there now, though. These reporters came all the way from Toronto to talk to the three of us.”
Ian plus a surprise visit from his dad and reporters? That would go nuclear fast. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
He shot a don’t-worry-about-it smile at the Canadian reporters, but when he turned back to her, his face was hard and angry.
“Which one of my sons are you fucking?” he asked, his voice quiet and mean. “Is it Ian or Alex? I hope you’re smart enough to snag Alex. He’s more talented by about a zillion and he’ll have the endorsements. More money to be had that way. You’re a smart girl; you can see what I’m leading to, can’t you?”
Like he was wearing a neon sign saying puck bunny, but it didn’t make sense. He was here to make amends, a little fatherly twelve-step program. That was the only reason she could even fathom for all of this. He was David Petrov. The hockey world revered him. He was a good man who’d made a mistake. That’s what he’d told the world and everyone had believed him—she’d believed him.
“Look, Shelly,” he said with enough emphasis on her name to broadcast that he was getting it wrong on purpose. “Walk me inside to my boys right now or I’ll work it so Alex breaks up with you.” His eyes narrowed. “Shit. It’s Ian, isn’t it? You’re not bright at all. That boy doesn’t have it. I told him when he was young, but he thought hard work would be enough. It isn’t. This league chews up and spits out players like him all the time. He’s not worth your time.”
And that’s what it took to snap her out of her shock that David the Great was a total and complete asshole. Not worth her time? Ian was worth that and so much more.
“How dare you,” she said, emotion pushing her voice up to the squeak ranges. “He’s your son.”
He snorted. “I’m in the Hall of Fame; he’ll be lucky to last another year. He’ll never be another me.”
Fury at this man’s absolute callousness toward Ian set her blood on fire and the words flew out. “Thank God, because that means instead of a narcissistic asshole, he’s a good man who holds babies when they’re fussy, who volunteers to drive down a snow-packed mountain rather than let someone with bald tires do it, and who thinks more about other people than himself. He’s a million times a better man than you could even imagine.”
By the time she was done, her face was hot, her chest was heaving, and her heart was going a million miles an hour, powered by adrenaline, love for a man she couldn’t have, and fury at the man who’d toss him aside.
“Nice speech,” David said, sounding bored. “Are you going to let me in or do I need to call up Jasper?”
She crossed her arms, never more confident in her life that things were going to go her way. “Go ahead.”
He took out his phone, as smug as only a complete jerk like him could be. “Jasper. I hate to tell you this, but I’m having a problem with one of your employees. I think you need to set her straight. Yeah, her name is Shelby… Yeah, that’s the one.” His face turned red. “What? Fuck me? Are you kidding? Do you know who I am?” He paused and then brought his phone down to look at the screen, jaw open in shock. “He hung up on me.”
Thank you, Jasper Dawson, for being the best former stepdad in the world.
David glared at her. “You no-good squeaky bitch, you’re going to pay.”
She didn’t think. She didn’t strategize. She just reacted, grabbing the water bottle and spraying one of hockey’s most revered players in the face—repeatedly—while photographers documented the entire exchange, their flashes going off in quick succession. Like he was a bad cat. The fact that he sort of hissed at her as he stomped off kind of helped with that mental picture.
And to think that Ian had grown up with that man and that people actually tried to compare him to that awful jerk. She sucked in a sharp breath as realization struck. The place was surrounded by press, and someone was going to tell him if he didn’t see it on the news himself. He’d hate that. There was nothing he hated more than being in the middle of a media feeding frenzy and she sure had just started one.
She had to go find Ian.
…
Ian was helping to show a player how he taped up his stick when he realized that at least half the kids and most of the parents were looking out the windows toward the park.
He looked down at Jorge, a ten-year-old version of himself—a little slower than the other players and slap shot not as hard, but with that same big-hearted love of the game. “What’s going on?”
“David Petrov is here,” the kid said. “Everyone’s going to see him.”
Ian looked out the front window, which gave him the perfect viewpoint to see his dad laying on the charm thick. Shelby was smiling. The two guys with his dad had the kind of cameras and microphones that only reporters have. He fiddled with the window and got it open in time to hear her offer up him and Alex as dinner dates for his dad.
His gut dropped. There wasn’t any point in listening to more.
He’d spent the entire night trying to work out why she’d kick him to the curb without explanation, but the pieces had fallen together nicely. He’d become a dead end in her quest.
Their conversation when they’d been on the team jet about a staged dinner replayed in his head. He’d been crystal clear about the fact that he wasn’t going to do that. Ever. Now she was making the suggestion to his dad, who was the bigger media get. Part of the allure of David Petrov was his unwillingness to speak to the press. The regular fans thought it was because he was one of them, a no-bullshit everyman. The truth was because even his old man knew he couldn’t keep up the pretense of being a good person if people started asking questions. That made an interview with David Petrov—especially the first one with both his sons—the ultimate career maker.
Shelby had ambition and smarts. It wasn’t just anyone who could create a hockey juggernaut like The Biscuit from nothing and then make a deal with hockey’s biggest club to make it the cornerstone of their media empire. He was twelve kinds of an idiot for not seeing it until now. Even the fact that she never brought it up was a clue—she wouldn’t want him to think of her as a member of the press.
With what felt like battery acid sloshing around in his stomach, he shut the window and went back to skate around the ice with Jorge. Needing the distraction and tapping into that coaching side of himself that always leveled out his emotions, Ian showed the kid a few tricks to get his speed up a little.
Jorge had a ton of heart. That tended to be just as important as the talent once a player got to the more elite levels. There were plenty of great players out there who didn’t want to put in the work or got burned out. Those heart players, though, they kept the team together.
After finishing up with Jorge, he made his way to the locker room, determined to get the hell out of here before the closing press conference that would only lead to questions about his dad, their relationship, and every other personal thing that he tried to keep private while living under the microscope he’d grown up beneath.
He had most of his stuff in his bag when the locker room door flew open and Shelby hurried in, relief clear on her face the moment she spotted him. It was a kick in the gut and it took everything he had not to flinch.
Oh yeah, wou
ldn’t want to miss out on your chance to make reservations.
“Ian,” Shelby said, hurrying over. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He just bet she had.
“To ask me to go to dinner with the old man?” he asked without bothering to look up as he loaded his stuff faster, zipping it with more force than necessary. “Did you manage to work out that you’d get to publish the post on The Biscuit?”
She jolted to a stop, concern bringing her eyebrows together as she twisted up her mouth. “What are you talking about?”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and took a long look at the woman he’d fallen for. He really was a class-A fool. She looked exactly the same—like the woman who’d made him think things could be different. But she was the same as everyone. It was all about his connection to David the Great.
“I heard you make the plan with him,” he said, starting toward the door.
She clasped her hands in front of her belly and exhaled a long breath. “I was trying to buy time, to keep him from rushing in here with those two reporters because I knew you wouldn’t want to have to deal with that.”
He stopped walking. Best to get this all out now. He’d spent too much of his life covering for other people’s shit motives.
“Yeah, never mind that a story like this could help you renegotiate your contract with the Ice Knights,” he said, the words coming out raw from that part of him that made him a heart player on the ice. It was the part that hoped, that believed, that burned for more—at least it had been. “Really, getting the three of us together—well, David the Great who never gives interviews for sure—would help solidify your career trajectory and your importance in the Ice Knights media plan.”
It all made perfect sense, but he still didn’t want to believe it. There was no other explanation, though—after all, she’d been the loud mouth who leaked the story about his parentage in the first place.
“That is so much bullshit,” Shelby said, her voice shaking with anger.
All of that show was probably a mix of guilt and shame at getting caught. He had no time for it.
“You’d have the one story no one else could get and all you had to do to get it was worm your way into my life.” He white-knuckled his grip on his bag at the realization that hit. “Tell me, the cabin. Was it really an accident? Did you give the house marker a little extra kick to have it read six instead of nine? You were there before me. You easily could have done it for the hockey story of the year.”
She jerked back as if he’d slapped her. Then she straightened, her chin lifting as she looked at him as if he was the one who’d betrayed her.
“Are you ever not the victim in a situation?”
That was fucking laughable. As if he was just feeling sorry for himself. “Excuse me?”
She marched over to him, her steps eating up the distance at a sharp, quick clip. “I understand your life hasn’t been easy, but when are you going to stop assuming that the only reason anyone wants you or thinks about you is because you’re David Petrov’s kid?”
“That is the only reason people are interested.” He’d accepted it years ago. It was what it was. There was no point in fighting it.
“You are so full of shit.” Her hands were on her hips and her face was flush with emotion. “Hundreds of thousands of kids hit the ice thinking that maybe they can make it to the NHL one day. Only a few hundred actually wear the professional jersey each season. Do you really think you got your spot because of your last name?”
“It got me a look.” Coaches had told him exactly that straight to his face.
Shelby let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. You had an advantage for sure, but it’s not the only reason you’re here. There are a lot of hockey players’ kids out there who never made it to this level.”
“They weren’t David Petrov’s kid.” His dad was a legend. A hockey god. The kind who kids everywhere pretended to be.
“For someone who is so fucking concerned that everyone only sees him as his father’s kid, it sure looks to me like the only one who does is you.” She crossed her arms, challenging him with her straight-on glare. “It’s time for you to grow up and decide. Are you David Petrov’s kid or are you Ian Petrov, your own man?”
The punch landed harder than a check against the glass, laying him out right there for the world to see.
“I’m gone, that’s who I am.”
And he walked out the door, got into his car, and kept driving until Harbor City wasn’t even a glimmer in his rearview mirror.
Chapter Eighteen
Ian hadn’t meant to end up back at the cabin, but here he was. He didn’t have any bags. He’d driven up the snow-free mountain roads, the wildflowers starting to peek through the spring grass, and had pulled into the driveway just as the Morgans were adding an Airbnb rental sign to the brand-new address plaque.
He parked and walked over to Mrs. Morgan, who was supervising Mr. Morgan as he used the post hole digger. “Can I rent it today?”
Mrs. Morgan smiled in recognition. “You betcha, especially since you’re a big reason why we decided to list it.”
Ten minutes later—after he’d helped Mr. Morgan finish putting up the sign—he was touring the cabin with Mrs. Morgan as if he hadn’t been there before. He’d sat at that table eating his oatmeal when Shelby had told him about how the news that Alex was his brother had slipped out. He’d walked up those stairs to the bedroom the first night and had found Shelby armed with a Taser and ready to take on a burglar. That rug was the one she’d lay back on, gorgeous and naked.
What in the hell was he doing here?
Mrs. Morgan looked up at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to smile. Judging by the way she scrunched up her face and took a half step back, he didn’t quite make it happen. “Thanks for letting me rent the place.”
“And your friend?” Mrs. Morgan asked. “She’s not coming?”
He shook his head. Just the idea of her being in Harbor City while he was here should be a relief. It wasn’t. Instead, it hurt like a motherfucker.
“That’s too bad. I liked her.” Mrs. Morgan made a tsk-tsk sound. “Well, the electricity is back up and the cell people brought a new tower online, so service is a lot better. Oh, and we found that bottle of scotch of yours in the bedroom. I meant to send it to you but just kept forgetting. Looks like that worked out, though.” She started walking toward the door, still talking a mile a minute. “Our granddaughter is acting as the maid for the foreseeable future after what she pulled with using this as a party house, so if you need any messes cleaned up, you let me know.”
“I’ll be fine on my own.”
The words came out harsher than he meant, and Mrs. Morgan jerked to a stop, giving him an assessing look. “I’m sure you will be, but there’s no harm in changing your mind.”
He nodded as if those were some deep, prophetic words and walked her to the door. As soon as the SUV with all the Morgans packed inside pulled onto the highway, Ian opened the bottle of scotch and poured two fingers’ worth into a juice glass. He carried it over to the couch and stared at the unlit fireplace.
He was three drinks in, still sitting in silence staring at the empty grate, when his cell rang. Like an asshole, he answered without checking the caller ID first.
“Where in the hell are you?”
“Hello to you, too, Dad.”
The other man grumbled something under his breath. “Where are you?”
“In Buffly County.” It was a big place and he had no intention of giving his dad any more specifics than that.
“What in the hell are you doing way up there? Are you with that woman?” He let out a long sigh. “Ian, you can find a woman anywhere. There is no reason to deal with one who doesn’t have your best options in mind.”
He s
et his half-empty glass of scotch down on the coffee table, unease taking away that soft fuzziness the alcohol had given him. “What are you talking about?”
“She wouldn’t let me in to that stupid event with the dumb kids. She wouldn’t guarantee a dinner. She just wants to interfere, to come between us. You’re better off without her.”
For as much as he wanted to believe his dad was lying, he knew deep in his gut that he was actually telling the truth—not about being better off without her but about her actions at the rink. She’d tried to tell him. He hadn’t listened. His brain had automatically gone to that place it had always gone. Years of his dad comparing Ian to him had left a mark so deep, he hadn’t even realized just how bad it was.
You’ll never skate like I did.
That kid only wants to hang out with you because of me.
That coach was doing me a favor when he called to see if you were interested in playing.
You’ll never be the player I was.
All of it had never been about Ian. It had only been about his dad and his ego. Without realizing, Ian had fallen into that habit, looking at every part of his life only in comparison to his dad’s.
The mental locks he’d built up over decades of having to deal with his dad were hanging useless and busted. He braced himself for that explosion of rage. It didn’t come. Oh, there was anger and annoyance and the kind of fuck-me-are-you-serious irritation that had him clamping his jaw shut tight enough to give him a headache, but no lights-out rage. Whatever was coming for his dad, none of it mattered anymore.
Oblivious to Ian’s silence, David kept talking, “No son of mine will…”
The rest of his words faded out, replaced by Shelby’s question. Who was Ian? He sure as hell wasn’t this man’s son. He didn’t have to live up to David Petrov’s scoring records or on-ice skills. He never had. He was Ian fucking Petrov and he had better shit to do than to listen to an egomaniac rant about how he was done wrong.