by Kate Meader
“Thanks, Dad.” She smiled shyly, then her face crumpled as her gaze slipped to some point behind him. Both his daughters beelined for a tall, willowy figure standing at the side entrance to the backyard.
Kendra.
“My babies!”
Bren watched as his ex-wife gathered into her arms the daughters she’d abandoned and hugged them tight. As if she hadn’t seen them for weeks.
Oh, right. She hadn’t. Who the hell did she think she was showing up unannounced like this?
“You’ve grown so much!” Kendra gushed, her smile only cracking slightly when Franky held up Clifford the Slug for inspection. Kendra had never been a fan of Franky’s outdoor pursuits.
Shock had cemented his feet; now his blood flow reactivated him and sent him flying into the fray. He placed a hand on each of his daughters’ shoulders and made his claim.
“Kendra, you never call. You never write.”
She knew him well enough to understand his tone of quiet, restrained, white-hot fury.
“Bren, you’re looking good. I always thought a play-off beard would suit you.”
A little dig about how he’d never gotten this far—a bone of contention during their marriage. A journeyman NHLer wasn’t what Kendra had in mind when she said I do. Each year he didn’t make it to the postseason had been another chip away at the foundation of their wedded bliss. She’d expected great things: endorsements, championship rings, to be queen of the WAGs. He couldn’t blame her for her disappointment.
But he could blame her for the stunt she had pulled six weeks ago.
She turned her attention back to the girls. “So guess what I have for you both? Hamilton tickets!”
Caitriona clutched her mom’s hand. “Really?” The hope in her voice broke his heart in half.
“Day after tomorrow,” Kendra said.
“We need to talk, Kendra.”
His ex-wife raised her gaze, a poisonous sweetness in her smile. “I know.”
Exhibiting perfect timing, Violet appeared. “Hey, girls, might be time for ice cream.”
Kendra flicked her hair over her shoulder, took one look at Violet, and immediately dismissed her. Bren had seen her do that to women before—only a certain type pinged Kendra’s radar, and Violet wasn’t it.
Still, Bren didn’t appreciate Kendra’s disrespect. “Thanks, Violet. As you’ve probably guessed, this is my daughters’ mother.”
“Right,” Violet said, sort of clipped.
“Oh, so you’re the mystery daughter, Clifford’s secret love child.”
“Kendra,” Bren warned. “Violet’s been looking after your children while you were”—at a fucking spa—“not well.”
Kendra didn’t take it for the criticism it was. “Thank you for doing that. I hope you were paid well. Not that you’d need to be, because one-third ownership of a hockey franchise has to be quite lucrative.”
Violet could have uttered a sassy comeback, but because she was all class, she played it cool for his daughters’ sake.
“Girls, let’s give your mom and dad a few minutes to catch up.”
Franky peered up through her glasses at Kendra, then turned to him. “Are we going back to Atlanta?”
Bren couldn’t tell if her query was out of yearning or dread, but he knew one thing: that would happen over his dead body.
“We’re going to talk about everything, sprite.”
Then he cupped his ex-wife’s arm and drew her around the side of the house.
“Ooh, baby, I love it when you get rough.” Kendra giggled, a sound he had no doubt lingered on the air so everyone at the barbecue could hear.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He got a better look at her, and he hated to say it: she looked good. But then again, a month and a half of yoga, meditation, and finding-her-fucking-self does that to a woman. Gives her a glow.
She smiled. “Still my bad-tempered brute. And now you’re my winning, bad-tempered brute.” She threw her arms around him.
He unhooked her hands. “Guess you can overlook all my faults when I’m in the finals, huh?”
“Now, don’t be like that. Neither of us is perfect.”
“You can’t just show up like this, Kendra. The girls have been through enough.”
“Yes, Bren, they have.”
He didn’t like that tone. That’s how Kendra sounded when she was planning something. It also reeked of playing the victim, and while he wasn’t buying that, a flurry of dread rippled through him all the same.
“What do you want, Kendra?”
“I want to reconnect with my family.” She lay her fingertips on his chest, then flattened her palm. “All of my family.”
No fucking way. “What about Drew?”
“He’s not the father of my children.”
“Dumped your skinny ass, did he?”
“Baby, you think I’m skinny?” She giggled. He felt ill.
“This isn’t happening, Kendra. I’ve talked to my lawyer and I have a good case for sole custody.”
“You tell him everything? Because you might want to share some of the stunts you pulled. Give him all the facts.”
That hint—hell, full-flavored mouthful—of a threat washed over him.
His hand fumbling with the ignition, the slot impossible to find. Sobs echoing in the car. Dropped keys. Feeling for them on the floor. There!
“Go home, Kendra. Drew’s been good to you. I haven’t.”
Her face turned as hard as glass. “I want to take the girls to see a show on Tuesday. I thought you could join us.”
“No can do.” As if he’d let them go with her unsupervised. “I’ll be in Boston getting ready for the first game on Wednesday. Any further discussion or requests for visitation can go through my lawyer.”
“You haven’t exactly been a model father.”
He moved in close, noting how her eyes flared.
“I screwed up. My drinking was out of control, put a terrible strain on you, maybe destroyed whatever chance we had.” He was being kind. True, his alcoholism made him a terror to live with, but he and Kendra did not fit. He’d happily take all the blame if it got him what he wanted.
“And now things are better. You’re sober, you’re playing better than you’ve ever been. We’re good together.”
His winning turned her on, but where would she be during the bad times?
When he didn’t answer, her expression changed. “Don’t make me fight dirty, Bren.”
“You come at me and I will cut you down, Kendra. We’ve both fucked up, but you did it last, and now the girls need stability.”
“With a nanny? With that inked-up punk girl, hated by her father so much he refused to acknowledge her for years?”
“She’s been a better mother to those girls than you.”
Kendra’s eyes flew wide in recognition. “The nanny, Bren? A little clichéd, don’t you think?”
That was him, a walking cliché. “See yourself out, Kendra.”
Heading back into the gathering, he was aware of every eye on him, but all he could think of right now was his daughters. He found them in the kitchen, their dark heads close together. In times of adversity, they seemed to put aside their differences and find common ground, just like now, comforting each other. As sisters should. Violet and Isobel were arranging tubs of ice cream on the counter along with toppings, those little chocolate sprinkles and . . . chopped nuts.
By the time Bren reached the counter, Violet had already whipped them away.
Isobel’s mouth fell open. “Oh hell, I’m so sorry! It’s just that Vad loves nuts on his ice cream.”
Violet winked. “Bet he does. And it’s okay. No harm done.” She shot a searching look at Bren, one that asked if everything was okay.
He had no answer for her, none at all.
TWENTY-FIVE
Violet grabbed her overnight bag and started packing for her stay at Bren’s. The team was flying out this afternoon for the first two games i
n Boston and she was back to the role she’d been hired for: nanny to his girls.
As for the role she’d been unconsciously aspiring to? Liar, nothing unconscious about it. The role of Bren’s woman was currently open again, it seemed.
Her surly Scot had decided to check out.
After Kendra’s appearance at the barbecue, he’d reverted to early Bren—the guy who was unable to communicate, who lived so deep in his head that nothing could find voice. He had to have known his ex would make an appearance sometime, so Violet was at a loss to explain why her showing up now should have thrown him so much.
The only conclusion she could draw was that they had unfinished business.
They might no longer be married, but it already felt like Violet was the third wheel. The other woman. Her own mother, for God’s sake! And invariably, the fate of the other woman was bye-bye, watch to be sure that booty doesn’t get hit by the door on the way out.
This is why she didn’t want to get involved. And now, that idiot Scotsman had made her fall in love with him then shut down at the first sign of trouble. She was trying not to travel this road riddled with doubts, but if Bren refused to talk to her about it, what was she supposed to think?
She checked her phone. Already late.
On opening the door to the cottage, she got the surprise of her life: Kendra in the California girl flesh.
“Got a minute?” Kendra asked.
“Not really. I’m running late.”
“This won’t take long.” Without waiting for an invitation, she passed by Violet and dumped her oversized purse on the kitchen table. She looked around, then did the most annoying thing ever: ran a finger over the back of a chair as if checking for dust before taking a seat.
Sighing, Violet placed her own bag down and closed the door behind her.
“How can I help?”
“Can we talk, woman to woman?”
“Sure.”
Kendra looked like she was choosing her words carefully, when really she had to have her speech prepared. “Your being here confuses my girls. They like you and that makes it difficult for them. They think they’re being disloyal if they’re nice to you around me.”
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other. They know the difference. You’re their mother.”
Kendra cocked her head. “I’m not sure Bren does, though. He’s pretty infatuated with you. Of course, he used to look at me like that.”
Violet examined her nails, the ones she was digging into her palm to stop herself from shaking. “What do you want, Kendra?”
“Bren’s lawyer got in touch with mine to tell me he’s shooting for sole custody.” She stood and walked to the sink. Her fingers gripped the edge. “I—I don’t know what he’s told you about me. Probably painted me as a heartless witch, right?”
“He hasn’t spoken much about you at all. He’s too respectful to badmouth you.” She’d heard everything about Kendra from other sources. Would it have killed the man to bitch about her even a little? But then it was another reason why she was crazy about him. He was decent to the core and respectful of his daughters’ mother.
“That sounds like Bren. It’s why I fell in love with him in the first place—he’s such a good guy, you know.” She wiped an invisible tear from her eye and turned back to Violet. “I see that goodness in my girls. They’re the best of both of us and we owe it to them to give our marriage another shot.”
“So why aren’t you telling him this?” Could it be he can’t stand the sight of you?
“He’s angry with me now, but he’ll come around. He knows how badly he screwed up during our marriage and he wants to make amends. That’s what they call it in AA, isn’t it? He needs to apologize for what he did, and once that happens, we can rebuild.”
Violet had had enough. “Like I said, this is between you and Bren. Now I really need to go.”
“Yes, you do. Out of Bren’s life so we can figure out the next steps without any noise.”
The odds were good that Kendra would happily tolerate the noise of an arena cheering for the Rebels as Stanley Cup champions.
“Good luck with that,” Violet said cheerfully.
The woman still refused to move. All this protesting!
“Let me give you some advice,” Kendra said, a hard glitter in her eyes. “You won’t be enough for him. Underneath that stalwart exterior is a man who needs constant validation. That’s why he married me, so he could tell the world he’d arrived. He’d made it out of his scratchy beginnings, not because he could use a stick on ice, but because a goddess looked on him with favor. It’s why he bought that house. It’s why he cried when Caitriona was born. I made his life complete. I gave it meaning. And when I took that away he was a wreck. He’s hanging on by a thread and I can snip it at any moment or double knot it to give him hope. You won’t be enough for him because there are a million girls like you. There’s only one me.”
“Well, I won’t dispute your last point, Kendra. I’ve never met a woman like you, so congratulations, you’re a real winner there.”
Kendra’s smile was the fakest thing Violet had ever seen.
“I know all about you. How Clifford Chase didn’t want you, how he only included you in the will to screw with Harper. I understand why homing in on a ready-made family is so appealing when your own is so lacking. You remember what it was like growing up in a one-parent household. Would you wish that on anyone? Would you wish it on my girls?”
“There are lots of different ways to make a family. No one says it has to be perfect.” Look what she had with her sisters. Perfect it was not, but it was real.
“You’re right. Perfection is impossible. But that’s just it: we’re an imperfect family. We have problems, but there’s nothing we can’t overcome with therapy and a boatload of apologies for Bren’s behavior.”
Okay, she’d bite. “What happened? Did he leave the toilet seat up?”
“He didn’t tell you?” There was a malevolent glee to her tone that put Violet on edge.
“He’s pulled so many stunts, it’s hard to say which one you’re getting at.”
“How about the one where he drove his daughters while he was drunk?”
Dios mío. Not what she’d expected at all, but was it really so surprising? Bren wore his guilt like a shroud. It would only be over something of this magnitude.
“Yep, he could have killed them. That’s what sent him into rehab in the end. Not the threat of losing his contract, but what he could have done to his girls. He’s always adored them more than anything.”
She sounded jealous of her own flesh and blood. What a shrew.
So it wasn’t the most savory information, but Violet knew Bren was a good guy. He’d fucked up but he’d turned it around.
“I could have told the lawyer,” Kendra went on. “Used it to deny him any access whatsoever, but I’m not heartless.”
Oh yeah, this woman was all heart. But laced in her tone was a threat: she could have used it. She’d happily do so to get her way.
“He’s moved on.” He’d told Violet he’d wait for her, for the one person who made him and his girls whole again. She’d felt his heart beat more wildly as he promised them a future. So he was acting like he’d forgotten how to string two words together, but that would change. Violet could get through to him.
“Yes, he might think that. Now. But we’ll always be tied together by the girls. There’s no denying this magic we created together, these two beautiful little humans.” She almost sounded . . . poetic.
So what? Violet had never been a fan of poetry.
Facts were what mattered. Bren’s hands on Vi’s ass, his mouth on her breasts, his breath against her lips. That moment when he slipped inside her body and his expression registered surprise at how good she felt. Every time.
And then there were her dumb jokes. His heartfelt promises. The place she’d carved with him, his family, and her sisters. These were tangibles she could sink into.
Bren belon
ged to her, and Violet refused to go down. “I’m going to fight you for him.”
It was out of her mouth so fast and with such passion that Violet shocked even herself. Kendra’s eyes flew wide on hearing it.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into, chica,” Kendra said.
Chica? Oh, this piece of work was messing with the wrong Boricua.
“Bring it, girl.”
TWENTY-SIX
Fifty million reasons came to mind why Bren should not be in a Boston hotel bar, but the one reason he should be rose above all those negatives: they’d won game one of the Stanley Motherfucking Cup finals on away ice. One more game in Beantown the night after tomorrow, then back to Chicago. If they swept the first four games, they could win the whole bloody thing at home.
Wouldn’t that be something? Lifting the Cup with his girls looking on.
Petrov, who had just bought drinks for the entire bar, set a soda before Bren and threw a tattooed arm around his shoulder. “Captain, you played—what is it you say? A blinder?”
“Da, Russian, I did. We all did.”
“The return of your wife has not affected your game. This is good.”
He wouldn’t say that exactly. He’d talked to his lawyer, who still thought he had a good case, given Kendra’s behavior these past six weeks. But Bren hadn’t been exactly honest about his own bad behavior. He’d never even revealed it during his drunkalog.
Your “drunkalog” is the story of what happened when you were still drinking and fucking up. Recovering alcoholics usually shared parts of it in group therapy sessions in rehab or during AA meetings. Talking about the stunts you pulled, the pain you caused, the lows you sank to. Then you talked about your recovery.
The most entertaining drunkalogs involved acute embarrassment and brushes with your own mortality. Extra points for allusions to public nakedness, philosophical chats with leprechauns, or a bout with homelessness. Putting the people you loved the most in peril might make for a compelling story in AA, but it sure as shit was not something Bren wanted out there. Not when it could be used against him, lose him everything.