The Wingman

by Cathryn Fox

  I don’t talk about my past, ever. The only one who knows the shit I’ve been through is my brother and while I’ve only just met Jules, for some unknown reason I want to open up to her, and that is just all fucked up. I can’t make sense of it. Then again, nothing about us makes sense but perhaps it’s the easy understanding between us, the fact that she doesn’t want anything from me, and I can just be me. Rider, the guy who’d do anything for those he cared about, not Rider the hockey player who is known for his wild ways.

  “I never really knew my dad,” I begin as I pull four slices of bread from the bag in the basket. I butter them and add a dollop to the pan.

  She stands. “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s okay. We’re friends, right?”

  “We are.” A small palm settles on my back, between my shoulder blades and the heat and warmth that comes with her touch is…everything. She presses her thumb into my muscle and it’s only then that I realize I’m tense.

  “Dad left when I was young, and Mom. She liked her drink. It prevented her from holding down a full-time job.”

  “Not easy for a kid,” she says and I nod, grateful that she’s not apologizing or saying she’s sorry. I want her friendship, not her pity. “Pass the spatula?” I ask.

  She grabs one from the drawer and hands it over. I wave it in the air. “That’s how I learned to cook.” She moves beside me and leans against the counter, but her leg is touching mine, like she needs the contact. Or maybe it’s because she knows I do.

  “And now I’m reaping the rewards,” she says and I laugh at that. “Although you were probably too young to use a stove. Then again, you are a thrill-seeker, so maybe you liked the risks that came with doing something dangerous.” I grin at that. “By the way, even if you hadn’t told me you were a thrill-seeker, I would have figured it out.”

  “How?” I ask.

  She gestures to the pan. “You’re melting butter in a hot pan with no shirt on.”

  I laugh as she teases me, and as tension drains from my body, I say, “Child services removed me from the home when I was around seven. I was pissed off, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We were checked on a few times and I was doing a good job of holding it all together. I used to keep boxes in the cupboards to make it look like we had food.”

  “Smart,” she says. “I like that in a guy.”

  Man, and I like her.

  I toss two slices of bread into the hot pan, add the cheese, and place the other slices on top.

  “But the worker caught on when the boxes never changed. Apparently, I wasn’t that smart.”

  “Yeah, you were. She just wasn’t about to be outfoxed by a seven-year-old.”

  “Apparently.”

  She frowns. “Was it better for you afterward? In the foster homes?”

  “Some places were great.” I shrug, and rub my hand over my right temple. I fought back when I was eleven, trying to protect my foster sister, who’d got caught sneaking in after curfew. Her old man was an abusive asshole, and I had inserted myself in between them. I was a scrawny pre-teen who couldn’t do much, other than give her time to run and lock herself in her room until her father could cool down. The boot he threw at me…yeah, I’d do it again. But after that, I started weight training. “Some weren’t.”

  “Then you found yourself with Kane’s family?” she says, injecting a cheery note into her voice.

  I nod. I’d gone into the home with a chip on my shoulder, expecting the worst. I take a breath, and try not to think about the first time Marion hugged me. “Yeah, at fourteen.”

  “I’m guessing you and Kane must have hit it off right away, which is why they kept you.”

  I flip the sandwiches and laugh. “We were oil and water, babe.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Really?”

  “But we worked it out. I never expected to stay as long as I did.” I finish grilling the sandwiches and Jules sets two plates on the counter. I slide the sandwiches onto them, she cuts them in half and carries them to the table.

  “How come they kept you so long?” she asks as she takes a bite of the cheesy goodness.

  “They discovered I was good at hockey.”

  She stops chewing, and her eyes narrow. It’s easy to tell her mind is racing from the way her eyes are blinking.

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” I say and can’t for the life of me understand the skepticism in her eyes. I was good at hockey, I got to stay. It’s really just as simple as that. I exhale a slow breath, and honest to God, it felt good to share that with her, but now I want to talk about something else, want to know more about her. I reach for my sandwich and take a big bite. “This is good,” I say and wash it down with her poisonous elixir known as kombucha, which isn’t half bad, really.

  “Really good,” she agrees.

  “Tell me something about you,” I say.

  “Not much to tell. This is my home. I like plants and restoring things. Later, I’ll take you into the garage.”

  I go still. “Wait, that’s not where you harvest organs is it? Dammit, I knew it.”

  She laughs out loud as I glance at her fridge.

  “What, you think I keep organs in my fridge?” she asks, loving the easy comradery between us, not to mention the smile she always gifts me when I tease her.

  “Actually, I was wondering if you had any mustard.”

  “Eww, you can’t be serious.”

  “Unfortunately, I am.”

  “Ketchup I can understand, but mustard?”

  “Don’t diss the mustard.” I shake my head. “I’m starting to rethink this friendship, Jules.”

  “Yeah, me too.” She stands and pulls a bottle from the fridge. I take it, pour a generous amount on to my plate and dip my sandwich in before taking another big bite.

  “Yuck. That’s disgusting.”

  “Try it.” I dip it again, and hold it out for her to taste.

  “No thanks.”

  “Do it,” I say.

  “Rider—”

  “Fine.” She reluctantly bites into it, and surprise resisters in her eyes. “Okay, that is good.”

  “You have a little…” I lean in to her, wipe my finger over the corner of her lip and bring it to my mouth. I slide it in and taste her on my tongue.

  “Rider,” she says, her voice breathless.

  “Yeah?” My dick swells in my pants. Christ, you’d think I’d be sated after burying myself balls-deep earlier, but no. I want more.

  “I like that we’re friends with benefits,” she says, her lashes blinking rapidly. “But I’m not sure of the rules.”

  “The rules are whatever we want them to be,” I say and stand. A little gasp catches in her throat when I tug her chair back and scoop her up. “And what I want right now is you, back in bed, my mouth between your legs.”

  8

  Jules

  Sitting at Nelly’s bar, I stare at the big screen along with everyone else in the place, and practically leap from my chair when someone slams Rider into the unforgiving boards. How dare they! I wince and want to look away, but keep my eyes glued to the TV, desperately needing to know if he’s okay. My God, hockey is brutal, and in my line of work, I see enough broken bones and blood as it is. Is it any wonder I don’t watch? Rider picks himself up, shakes his head and skates back toward center ice. I let loose a breath I’ve been holding.

  “I don’t like this game,” I say to Lindsay as cheers erupt in the crowd.

  She chuckles and arches a brow. “Really? Then why are you on the edge of your seat?”

  I give her a look that suggests she’s dense. “Because Rider just got hit.”

  “It’s called checked, and yeah, he took a good one there,” Lindsay says, toying with the paper straw in her daiquiri.

  “At least he’s okay.” I glance down and fiddle with the edges of my napkin, needing something to do with my agitated hands.

  “Last October, he got knocked out,” Lindsay
says. “He missed a few games because of a concussion.”

  My head snaps up. “What?” I ask. That must have been why he was in the hospital. I wonder why he didn’t want to tell me it was a concussion. “How long was he laid up?”

  She wraps her lips around her straw and glances up at me. “Not long and speaking of laid…”

  “What are you getting at?” I say and flick my ponytail over my shoulder. But when I do, the memory of Rider tugging on my hair stirs the needy juncture between my legs. At least the bar is dark and the flush creeping into my cheeks won’t give me away.

  Lindsay’s expression is entirely too knowing when she states, “What I’m getting at is, it’s nice to see you finally got some, girl.” She snaps her fingers and tosses her hair back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on. You’re sleeping with him.”

  “I am not,” I blurt out, my first reaction is to go on the defense, even though Lindsay can read me like an open book. Why again is it I’m keeping it a secret? Oh right, it’s just a fling with a friend, and I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

  She snorts. “Oh, yeah, okay, sure,” she says and rolls her eyes. “I knew it the second you walked in here. After a whole week, you’re still walking funny.”

  “Ohmigod, Lindsay.” My cheeks flare hot and she simply chuckles. But my mind revisits the night he spent in my bed, and how he was gone come morning.

  “Rider must have given you one hell of a…ride.”

  Fine, two can play this game. “Well, you’re sleeping with Kane.”

  “So I was right then?” Her green eyes sparkle. “You’re admitting that you got some?”

  “Oh crap,” I say, and she leans toward me.

  “Spill.”

  “There is nothing to spill.” In a move to bide my time, I take a slow sip of my wine.

  “I’ve got all night, Jules,” Lindsay says and steals a glance at the screen when hoots and hollers drown out our voices.

  When the place settles down, I say, “Fine, it just sort of happened. We were at my place—”

  “You went back to your place?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Her brows knit together. “It’s just that…well, that’s out of character.” I nod in agreement. Since I’ve met Rider, I’ve been doing a lot of different things. “I mean, you didn’t even invite Jason to your home until you knew him for months.”

  “Rider and I are friends.” Fast friends, but friends none the less. I toy with the sleek stem of my glass, and shuffle my chair in closer to the table when someone bangs me from behind, hitting me so hard, my wine sloshes over the sides of my glass. “It’s different, is all.”

  Lindsay looks past my shoulders, and frowns, her eyes following whoever knocked me. “Different how?”

  I glance around to make sure no one can hear, but everyone is focused on the game. “There are no expectations. He’s not looking for anything, I’m not looking for anything, so we decided to become friends with benefits. We’re just having fun.”

  Lindsay sucks in air and leans back. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yeah. Why? Don’t you?” I angle my head. “You’re the one who’s always encouraging me to get my ass back out there and have some fun. You told me to go for it with Rider.”

  “I know, and he seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is a nice guy,” I agree.

  “A one-night stand, and friends with benefits are two different things.” Her hand falls over mine. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “How can I get hurt?” I square my shoulders, confident in my choices. “I’m a big girl and know what I’m getting into.”

  A long pause and then, “Do you?”

  Wait, does she know something I don’t?

  Cheers erupt again, and we both turn to the screen in time to see the Shooters win the game.

  “Nice,” I say under my breath, and clap with the rest of the patrons. I turn back to Lindsay as the team members all hug. Where were we? Oh, right. She was warning me.

  “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “You deserve it all, Jules. Love, happiness, the big house full of kids, a guy who’ll put you on a pedestal. A guy who will worship the ground you walk on.”

  Now it’s my time to snort. “Who says I want that?”

  Green eyes go as serious as a heart attack. “I do.”

  I open my mouth, about to protest—even though she’s not wrong—but my voice catches when I get hit from behind again. I slowly turn and find none other than Candy, with her big blue eyes glaring down at me. Behind her stands her posse, and I hope none of them smile, otherwise the three-inch-thick layer of makeup on their faces could crack like dry cement.

  “Candy,” I say and shift in my chair.

  “You two know each other?” Lindsay asks.

  “We met the other night,” I say.

  “Yeah, when you were pretending to be Rider’s fiancée.” She rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “Wishful thinking on your part, I guess.”

  “Jules?” Lindsay says quietly.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Behind her, two girls share a whisper, and I arch a brow. I have no time for mean girls. “Do you two have something to say?” Candy waves her hands to quiet them.

  “Yes, you’re a liar.” She pulls her phone from her Gucci bag and waves it. “My girlfriend in Vancouver is about to fuck loverboy after the game.”

  Blood drains from my face, and a ridiculous lump forms in my throat and threatens to choke me. Honestly, who Rider goes home with—or to put it more crudely, who he fucks—is his business. It shouldn’t bother me one little bit.

  So, why does it?

  “We have an open relationship,” I state, my voice even and calm, likely from my emergency room training. Except my damn hand shakes when I give a dismissive wave.

  “Oh come on.” Candy gives an almost maniacal laugh. “Look at you and look at me. If you had an open relationship, why would he have turned me down last week?”

  “Hey,” Lindsay begins, but I cut her off.

  “Probably because I can give him what you can’t.”

  She stares at me for a moment, her mouth opening and closing, a sound catching in her throat as her friends all glare at me, incredulous. Apparently, no one talks back to Candy. My phone takes that moment to ping and I glance at it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, that’s my fiancée calling.”

  I turn my back to Candy and she storms off with her friends. I swallow down the anxiety bubbling into my throat and flip my phone over to see that it’s Nancy from the hospital.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Lindsay asks.

  “That was Candy. According to Rider, she’s a puck bunny and well known. She asked Rider out the night you met Kane and he told her I was his fiancée to get rid of her.”

  She taps her nails on the table. Clickity click. Clickity click. “Interesting.”

  “Why is that so interesting?” I ask, my insides still as shaky as my hands. I reach for my glass and take a much-needed sip.

  “No reason,” she says. “Was that him?” She nods toward my phone.

  “No, work. My colleague was checking to make sure I can still cover for her tomorrow.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  “A long-ass shift on the Saturday I’m supposed to be off.” I push back in my chair. “Hard not to be disappointed.”

  “Oh, is that the reason you’re pouting?”

  “Yup, and I should call it a night. I have an early morning. Share an Uber?”

  “Sure.”

  As Lindsay finishes her drink, I pull up the app and order a car. Lindsay is walking distance from my place, so I just give my address. We make our way outside and Lindsay’s phone buzzes.

  I glance at the star-studded night, and work to quell the disappointment—the jealousy—welling up inside. Rider never said he’d call so I have no reason to be upset and the g
reen-eyed monster belongs nowhere in my range of emotions. We are friends with benefits, and if he wants to go celebrate the team’s win with a bunny, so be it. Heck, maybe tomorrow I’ll go celebrate with a hospital hound.

  Hospital hound.

  That makes me laugh.

  “Something funny?” Lindsay asks.

  “Nope.” She glances back at her screen. “Everything okay?”

  Her smile is wide and genuine. “Yeah, it’s just Kane,” she says almost apologetically. “He was just asking if I saw the game.”

  “Oh, nice.” I look up and down the street. “You two are really hitting it off, huh?”

  “I guess so. I mean, it’s early.”

  “So um…” God how do I ask without sounding like I really am into Rider.

  “The guys are all going out to celebrate.” She frowns, but her astute eyes are observing me carefully. “He said Rider bailed.”

  “Oh.” I turn from her. I guess Candy was right, and he was heading back to his room with a bunny. I really don’t care.

  Much.

  As I struggle to ignore that hot spear of jealousy slicing through my chest, the car pulls up to the curb and I check in with the driver before climbing into the back seat with Lindsay.

  “How are your new cups coming along?” I ask, wanting to get the subject on to her pottery and off hockey, off Rider.

  Her eyes light and I love that she’s found her passion in pottery. I listen intently, or at least I try to as she talks about her new designs. She’d visited Rome last year and it inspired her to do her own designs depicting all the landmarks she fell in love with.

  “Has Kane picked out a piece for his mother?”

  “He’s going to do that when he gets back.”

  “When is he back?” I ask, not wanting to show too much interest.

  “Tomorrow,” she says, and smooths her hair back. “So you’re not upset that Rider is out with another girl?” she asks.

  I give a fast shake of my head. “Of course not.”

  “Okay, just checking,” she says, and we fall silent as the driver takes us home. We arrive and I step to the curb.