Centered (Gold Hockey Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  Charlotte Harris and her assistant strode back into the room, pulling out chairs sitting down across the table from him, getting organized again. Charlotte was small and curvy with a laser-eyed focus and hair the color of autumn leaves turning from red to orange to brown.

  But it was her smile that stole everyone’s breath.

  Wide, unfiltered, Hollywood-esque.

  And incongruously, she flashed it at him right now.

  “Thanks for coming in, Liam,” she said. “We wanted to do this in person and since Mr. Barie is flying out tomorrow evening, we appreciate the last-minute meeting time.” She shuffled through the papers in front of her, pulled out a stapled set. “I know your agent isn’t here, so you’ll need to take this and discuss—rest assured we’ve emailed him the details”—her eyes flicked to the side, caught her assistant’s, who nodded in agreement—“you can take your time to look over the offer, but we’ve spoken with Bernard and the rest of the coaching staff. We’re liking what you’re doing for us on and off the ice—filling in for that charity event, putting in the extra time in the weight room and after practice.” She passed the papers over to him. “You’re a team player. You have a good attitude and are well-liked. We want to find a way to keep you around.”

  There was that smile again, stealing his breath.

  Except . . . this was his father’s doing.

  No matter the pretty words dressing up the situation, this wasn’t anything to do with him.

  This was a Williamson issue.

  He opened his mouth—

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder and startled, he glanced up at Pierre. The owner gave the slightest shake of his head, and Liam relaxed.

  Charlotte didn’t know. But that was one person. Who else had his dad influenced or reached out to or bullied? He loved his family, but they were complicated. They pushed and prodded and . . . demanded.

  They could have easily twisted someone else’s arm.

  Charlotte’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping into the corner of the room and answering it.

  “Just me,” Pierre said quietly. “And I’m not a pushover. If you didn’t earn it, the offer wouldn’t be on the table, no matter who your father is.”

  “I—” He stood, dropped his voice. “I cannot believe he—” A shake of his head. “I’m sorry. That was absolutely uncalled for.”

  Pierre’s mouth tipped at the corners. “Fathers sometimes do inexplicable things.” A buzz of his phone and he glanced down. “I’m sure you’ll have a chance to set him straight, sooner or later. That’s my Diane. Charlotte!” he called and hitched his head toward the door, letting her know he was leaving. “Deep breath,” he said, returning his gaze to Liam’s. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Let the rest of it be background noise.”

  “I promise I’ll talk to him—”

  “The great thing about email,” Pierre said, “is that there’s such a thing called filters. He can email all he wants, and I won’t see it.” With that and twinkling blue eyes, he left.

  Liam stared after him for a long moment, the air frozen in his lungs.

  Then he heard a voice raised and tuned back into the room, realizing he was beyond done with wasting time and energy and emotions on things he couldn’t control. Charlotte was still talking on the phone and by the urgency and volume of her tone, Liam knew it was going to be a while. He stretched across the table, picked up the packet, and glanced her way.

  She shot him an apologetic smile, but when he pointed to the chair, silently asking if she needed him to stay, she waved him off, covering the receiver with her hand. “Sorry,” she called. “Thank you for coming in. Look that over and get back to us.”

  Liam nodded, said a quiet goodbye to her assistant, and left.

  Oh, he intended to look the offer over.

  Just as much as he intended to call his father and ensure that he would never—fucking never—intrude on Liam’s life like that again.

  His dad seemed to have forgotten Liam was a Williamson.

  Strength. Stubbornness. A fiery fucking temper when provoked.

  And let it be known, he had damn sure been provoked.

  Fury still in every cell, but wanting to reassure the woman he loved, Liam dialed Mia’s number as he walked out of the rink then glanced at his watch, realizing she was smack dab in the middle of her bank of classes, so he hung up, figuring he’d go back to his place, change, and head to her studio for a rousing edition of mat cleaning, contract reviewing, and phone calls to tell his father to never intervene in his life that way again.

  Except, it didn’t end up working out that way.

  First, when he made it to his car, it was to see his tire had gone flat. He spent an inordinate amount of time trying to dislodge the lug nut but not ruining his suit before he managed to get it off, the tire changed, and back on his way.

  In fact, he was so impatient to get to Mia that he couldn’t even appreciate all of the innuendos and euphemisms inherent in the tire changing process—hello, dislodging nuts and getting off. Though, he did make a mental note that he was going to tease Mia with them later, if only to get her to glare at him. Then he’d give in to the temptation to kiss that glare away and . . .

  “Focus, Liam,” he muttered.

  He needed to change. He needed to call his father. He needed to see Mia.

  But, of course, by the time the tire was changed—he really should have just called AAA—it was now a weekday during rush hour, and he ended up inching his way along the freeway.

  Way too fucking long later, Liam parked in the garage, took the elevator to his floor, and stepped off.

  Then nearly stepped right back on.

  Because his father was standing outside his condo, huge grin on his face. “I heard through the grapevine that you’d have good news today, son!” he boomed, striding toward him and squeezing Liam into a hug that stole the air from his lungs.

  He’d liked it as a ten-year-old.

  Fifteen years later and pissed at the interference in his life, Liam wasn’t nearly as sanguine.

  He pushed out of the embrace, resisting the urge to snap at his father, to control his boiling fury and not unleash on his father, who was looking proud, like he’d done something good, instead of intruding on Liam’s life and making a fucking mess. His temper might be frayed, and he might be closer to that famous Williamson temper as he had at any point in his life.

  But that wasn’t him.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  The firm order in Mia’s voice had him doing just that.

  This wasn’t all his dad’s fault. Liam had let his father interfere plenty of times over the years—too many times. Same as he’d spent too much energy and mental headspace letting his dad get him so twisted up with insights and help and suggestions that he’d barely been able to function. He’d never set any boundaries, so it probably didn’t even cross his dad’s mind to think that Liam would be anything less than grateful.

  Hell, if he hadn’t finally pulled his head out of his ass, thanks to Mia, he might have indeed been grateful. Embarrassed, but secretly glad that his dad had saved him once again.

  But the thing was . . . Liam didn’t need saving.

  He could handle his own life, his own game, and that more than anything, was the most important thing he’d learned since coming to San Francisco.

  Many years too late, but he’d gotten there anyway.

  “Is that it?” His dad snagged the paper Liam held, as he let them into the condo, held the door for his father to trail him inside. “Let me see.”

  And Grant Williamson began reading, his face screwing up into a scowl as his eyes moved across the page. Liam ignored him, pushed the door closed, and peeled off his suit jacket.

  “The money is shit,” his dad said, tossing the paper down and pulling his cell out of his pocket. “I’m calling that lousy agent of yours right now—”

  “Stop.”

  “—he should know better than to—”

&n
bsp; “Stop.”

  “—fuck with a Williamson. Two million a year. Your brothers got four times that, for fuck’s sake.”

  Liam grabbed the cell from his hand, the contract from the other, and then he did something that had also taken him far too many years to do. He held his ground against his six-inch-taller, his fifty-pound-heavier father, and ordered him to, “Sit the fuck down, shut up, and listen to me for once in your fucking life.”

  And then while his dad stared at him in bewilderment, Liam started talking.

  “I’m not you. I’m not Luke or Laich,” he said. “I’m just me. I don’t play hockey the same way as you, or them, or Grandpa. I probably will never be as good as you all were. I won’t ever pull the same game numbers as Laich. Have the big hits like you and Luke.” He sighed. “And until recently, I thought that made me weak or bad or . . . like I shouldn’t be allowed to carry the name.”

  “Li—”

  “No, Dad,” he said. “Let me finish this. I know I should have said this sooner, but I always felt so damned inferior, and frankly, I was acting like a scared child when I should have been an adult. That’s on me. But,” he added when it looked like his dad might interject again, “what’s on you is your inability to step back, to let us kids make mistakes.”

  “Why?” his father said. “Why in the hell would I want to let you make mistakes when I could make your life easier?”

  Liam tossed his suit jacket on the back of the couch. “Because you didn’t make things easier. You handicapped me, had me second and third and sometimes fourth-guessing what I should be doing on the ice. I was listening to my coaches, to my teammates, to you and Grandpa and Laich and Luke, and all the specialists you hired that I didn’t ask for. I know you were trying to help, but I was so tied up with what everyone was saying that I couldn’t play my game.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, began rolling up his sleeves. “I should have told you to back off, but I was desperate, too. I wanted to be as good as the other Williamsons. But . . . I’m not.”

  “You’ve always been the best of us,” his dad said stubbornly. “The best hands, the best skater, the best stats in peewees all the way up to juniors.”

  “And yet none of that matters in the big leagues. None of it matters now.”

  “You used to want my help.”

  “Did I?” Liam asked. “Or in that first season, when I was struggling with the pace, with the physicality, did I ask you to back off and let me figure things out on my own?” He hadn’t stuck by that request, of course. His dad had pushed, Liam had been desperate to meet everyone’s expectations . . . and he’d caved. He’d wanted to get better, to do well.

  It was just that there were too many hands in the pot.

  “I—”

  “Dad,” he interrupted. “Please. This is important. Think before you brush me off.”

  “You needed me.”

  A curl of disappointment wove through him, and Liam sighed, reaching for his jacket, tucking his dad’s phone into his pocket. The last damned thing he needed right now was for his dad to start making further demands. This had to end, and if it meant launching multiple cells out of windows, or hacking into email accounts, then he’d do it.

  “Please, listen to him.”

  The female voice had him glancing up to see Mia standing in the doorway, her face drawn, her eyes sad.

  Liam must not have shut the door all the way.

  He moved toward her, but his dad beat him there.

  “Who are you?”

  It was terse, snapped out, rivaling Mia’s own tone from several weeks before. And Liam knew, instinctively, it was too terse, too sharp, to slicing for the Mia of today. Her steel was thinner after the memories, the conversations, and that fluff was too exposed.

  It needed protecting or it would be destroyed.

  She needed him.

  That was the easy part.

  Because she had him, and there was absolutely no way he was going to let his father bully the woman he loved. Even if her shoulders were straightening and she was gathering her armor. Even if she could protect herself.

  This was his family. His dad. And he would not allow his woman to be hurt.

  “First of all,” he snapped, stepping between his father and Mia. “Absolutely fucking not.” His dad opened his mouth, but Liam glared him into silence. “You will not speak to my woman that way.”

  A soft gasp, fingers wrapped around his arm, a slender female body pressing into his back.

  He sensed what she was telling him, that it was okay, that she didn’t want to start any trouble.

  Well, fuck that.

  Liam had had his head in his ass with regards to his family for far too long.

  His father narrowed his eyes. “I’ll speak however—”

  “I just told you everything I did, and you’re still going to push?” Liam sighed, the disappointment heavy. “I just explained what I was feeling, now and in the past, and you’re going to keep going along this path?”

  “Liam,” Mia said softly. “He’s your dad.”

  He slipped his arm around her. “I know, J.B.,” he said. “But this is important. This is my future, our future.”

  “Our?” his dad asked. “You’ve been here how long?” It was another snapped out question. “She’s just after—”

  “Stop right there if you ever want me to talk to you again.”

  It was said in a tone colder than Liam had ever remembered using, but fuck, he felt iced over, dissatisfied his dad wasn’t listening, coldly furious that he’d dare discount what Mia and Liam had.

  He was twenty-fucking-five.

  He could make decisions about his life.

  “You haven’t bothered to pick up the phone as it is,” his dad muttered. “Not since you came out here.”

  “And why do you think that is?” Liam asked.

  Finally, finally, a slice of understanding seemed to cross his father’s face, but before he could say anything, the phone in Liam’s pocket rang—the one he’d taken from his dad.

  He pulled it out, saw it was his mom calling, and put it on speaker.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said when it connected.

  A sigh was his only response.

  “Oh, Liam, baby,” she said. “Tell me your father did not fly out there when I expressly told him to leave you alone.”

  “I—” his father began.

  “No,” she snapped, and his mom didn’t get mad easily. For all the steel wool and brass balls, she was easy-going, usually let the boys do their own thing—it had been impossible in some ways to do anything aside from riding the tidal wave of Williamsons, he supposed. But she also definitely didn’t use this particular tone unless shit was going to hit the fan. “We talked about this. I told you to leave him alone.”

  Terror chased away understanding, because his dad too knew that sparks were going to fly.

  “Baby—”

  “Grant.”

  That was it. Just Grant.

  Then a sigh, her tone going frigid. “We talked about this after I spoke with Liam a few weeks ago, after you spoke to Liam and he asked you to give him space.” A pause. “You promised me you’d respect that.”

  “Baby—”

  “Get your ass on the next plane home,” she snapped, “and leave Liam to his life. You can’t control the world or the goals that go into the net, or your son.” A beat, voice warming. “Love you, Liam. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Then she hung up.

  And left silence in her wake.

  Twenty-Two

  Mia

  She stood next to Liam, watching the man she’d wanted to despise upon meeting him. But now he was there, family plain in his striking gray eyes that were the same as Liam’s eyes.

  The same pain that had been in Liam’s when she’d first met him.

  “I failed you,” his dad whispered.

  “What?” Liam frowned.

  “I wasn’t there much when you boys were growing up, even less so for you.”

&n
bsp; Mia’s breath caught, and she tried to slip away, intending to go down the hall to the bedroom to give them some privacy, but when she shifted, Liam just held her more tightly against him.

  So, she stayed.

  “You can’t control where you were traded, Dad.”

  Sad gray eyes. “I know.”

  “I also never resented you playing,” Liam said. “You loved it, and when you were home, you were fun.” He chuckled, the tension leaving his body. “Why do you think my friends were always at the house? You were always driving Mom crazy with your antics.”

  “I had to make up for it,” his dad said.

  “There was nothing to make up for.” Liam played his fingers through her hair. “It was your job, and it was undoubtedly cool to have a hockey player dad.”

  “I spent more time with Luke and Laich.”

  “I was fine,” Liam said. “I didn’t need that extra time.”

  “And the pressure?”

  “Well, that’s always been there,” Liam said. “We’re Williamsons, riding Grandpa’s legacy, riding yours. That pressure isn’t going away, so I’m going to do my best to figure out how to manage it better.”

  Another flash of sad. “And I’m not helping.”

  Liam stiffened. “Dad.”

  A sigh. “Is this your way of telling me to mind my business?”

  “No,” Liam said. “This is me telling you to mind your own business. Again.” He shook his head. “This is me telling you not to worry if I have a bad game. Demanding that you let me make my own way, whether it’s a spiral downward or a climb upward.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  Mia couldn’t be quiet any longer. She didn’t quite understand the man’s guilt or get why he was pushing this so hard. But she understood her own guilt, her own loss, and she didn’t want these two men to not be able to find a common ground. “Do it,” she said. “Find a way. Be the father your son deserves, not the one that your guilt is pushing you to be.”

  Cool gray eyes on hers. “And what do you know about guilt, little girl?”