by Pippa Grant
Manners lessons. Wardrobe consultations. Anger management counseling.
Interviews.
Appearances.
Charity work.
Fuck.
I give back.
My way.
And I don’t do fucking interviews.
Except when my agent calls, he has other news.
Trade shit. Contract shit. Shit shit.
Knew this could be a problem, but he said he was working on it.
I don’t earn him the big bucks. Don’t take sponsorship deals just to pad my bank account, so all he gets is a percentage of my salary.
So he doesn’t fight hard for me.
And I don’t ask him to fight for me. Haven’t been pushing.
I’m fucking pushing now.
“Keep holding tight,” he tells me. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Murphy’s slinking out of the tunnel one way. I head the other. Need to pick up Loki. Left him hanging with Gracie.
“Mr. Berger.”
I flinch.
Wouldn’t normally, but I’m off-kilter, and Jenna Tucker has snuck up on me.
Video productions manager.
In charge of making us look like fucking saints off the ice.
Wouldn’t matter if I hadn’t been there in the tunnel during the fight last night. They want me doing videos.
Talking about something more than my socks.
“Give you a ride home?” she says.
I keep moving.
Because she has twin boys at home, she keeps up.
Never underestimate the mother of twin boys.
“This doesn’t have to be painful,” she says.
I spare her a glance.
She smiles.
I hate it when people smile like that. It’s a lie. This won’t hurt. It’s for your own good. They’re laughing WITH you, not AT you, sweetheart.
I know what I’m good at.
Hockey. Good.
Singing. Good.
Cooking. Good.
Fuck right, I’m good at cooking. Can’t get this big without food.
Sex. Good.
In case that wasn’t clear.
Listening. Good.
Talking to microphones. Bad.
“We’re on the same team, Ares.”
No.
She’s on the corporate team.
I’m on the Play Hockey Till I Die team.
Manning appears on my other side. “Offer you a lift somewhere?” he offers.
I grunt and nod.
He smiles his charming princely smile at Jenna. “Looking forward to charm school, Ms. Tucker. Should warn you. I flunked out the first time.”
“And the second and third times,” Viktor confirms behind us.
I like Viktor. One of the prince’s bodyguards.
Doesn’t talk a lot. Gets shit done. Offered me a job.
Don’t want to guard Manning’s royal ass, but I was still honored.
Minutes later, I’m in the back of a black SUV.
Frey’s next to me.
“This too shall pass,” he tells me in his fancy accent. “Keep your head down. Heal. Get back on the ice. Nothing else matters.”
Wrong.
Something else matters.
Something named Felicity.
She matters a lot.
39
Felicity
“Yes, Mom, I promise I’m getting enough iron.”
Because it’s one of those rare Sundays with a home game the night before, I’m sitting at the island in my parents’ airy Belmont district house, answering questions about my diet and dutifully chopping cucumbers and tomatoes for the salad that we’ve delayed until Nick can join us.
And maybe Ares.
Hopefully Ares.
Actually, I’d rather have Ares than Nick.
Though preferably back at Gammy’s house, alone, with the locks changed and an alarm system rigged that would fling cream pies and vinegar at anyone who registered the same height and weight as Nick upon trying to enter the house.
“Have you had it checked recently?” Mom presses. “Iron’s important.”
“Especially for women of child-bearing years,” my dad agrees.
I glare at him. Kami, Maren, and Alina all wince.
He grins at us from behind his Sports Illustrated.
When I was twenty-three, I informed my entire family that if they were going to look the other way while Nick attempted to get half the female population of every hockey city in North America pregnant, then they could look the other way while I slept with the occasional boyfriend.
The next time I saw them, Dad asked if he was going to be a grandpa yet.
Only fair, he said, since he asked Nick the same question all the time.
I should be glad they’re both comfortable with the idea that I’m a responsible adult who could handle an unexpected pregnancy.
But I’d rather they didn’t give so much thought to the state of my uterus.
Even if they are yanking my chain.
But today, there’s pressure that wasn’t there earlier this week.
And I don’t know why.
“How’s the old prostate?” I ask Dad. As Harold, of course, because they’re two grumpy old farts who should, in theory, get along well.
“Working like your mother likes it,” he replies.
“Hank! Shush.” Mom pulls a third meatloaf out of the oven and sets it beside the first two. She’s making enough food for half the neighborhood, or possibly like she expects an extra two or three hockey players for dinner.
Though I’m half certain Ares could eat an entire meatloaf by himself.
And that he deserves every bite.
Takes a lot of iron and protein to keep his strength up. And he likes meat, so more power to him.
I hope he’s not in trouble too for Nick being an idiot.
He didn’t say much when he got the text to report to the arena for a no-excuses, all-hands team meeting. Just grabbed a bag of beef jerky that he’d hidden in one of the cabinets, kissed my forehead, and left.
He gives good forehead.
He gives good everything. Good company, good kisses, good sex.
Good window replacement and cookie shoveling.
It’s astonishing to me that there’s never been mention anywhere of Ares having a girlfriend at any time in the decade or so since he was drafted.
He’s everything. Quiet, but everything.
“You realize it’s completely two-faced of you to ask Felicity when she’s having children after you’ve trained Nick to basically cockblock her for life, don’t you?” Alina asks my parents.
My friends have come with me for dinner since we don’t know when Nick might show up.
Okay, that’s not why they’re here.
They’re here to be one more layer of buffer between me and me killing him whenever he gets here.
And also because my parents love them.
Naturally.
“It’s sweet of Nick to defend Felicity,” Kami says.
“It’s not sweet,” Maren tells her. “It’s overbearing and patronizing and he needs to stop.”
“He means well,” Kami argues.
The front door bangs open.
We all jump.
And a moment later, my two-faced, bruised-up brother slumps through the arched doorway between the formal dining room and the airy kitchen.
Alone.
If he hurt Ares, I’m going to kill him.
I discreetly pull out my phone and text Ares. Meeting okay? You’re still welcome for dinner no matter what idiotic things my brother might’ve said to you. Mom made eighteen pounds of meatloaf. And I can take Nick out if I have to. It would be my honor and privilege to do that for you.
“There’s my baby boy,” Mom says. She almost drops her meatloaf and tackles him in a hug. I take advantage of her distraction to snap a picture of the meatloaf and send it to Ares too.
He’ll probably think I’m sexting
him.
I’m okay with this.
Actually, I hope he does think I’m sexting him.
Mom’s fawning over Nick, completely ignoring the brawl and his battered face. “A complete shutout last night! We’re so proud.”
Despite how it looks, Mom doesn’t play favorites.
She gives me the same treatment every time I get a new degree. There’s my baby girl. Your fourth bachelor’s degree! We’re so proud.
Nick grunts. He doesn’t look at me.
“Hey, Nick,” Kami says.
He grunts again.
“Too much time with Ares?” Maren asks.
Alina pokes her in the ribs.
Nick glowers.
Maren might have a point.
Dad pulls himself to his feet. He’s big, like Nick, though thicker around the waist with hair that’s gone completely silver. And since he played hockey until Mom snagged him and convinced him to retire back home in Copper Valley when he was thirty-eight, he and Nick have always been tight.
“Shake it off,” he says. “All the best players get suspended time to time.”
He gives Nick the handshake man-hug and thumps three times. “Good on you for defending your sister’s honor.”
“He grabbed my elbow, not my boob,” I tell the room.
“He shouldn’t have grabbed you anywhere,” Mom says. She flutters her hands. “To the dining room. All of you. While it’s hot.”
Kami and I help carry the food to the table.
There are three empty chairs, all set with silverware and water goblets.
“More guests coming, Mrs. M?” Alina asks.
“Oh, maybe,” Mom says. “I invited the whole team. To thank them for helping defend Felicity, of course.”
“Sometimes I wonder how you turned out normal,” Alina murmurs to me.
“Balance,” I murmur back.
If my family had been normal, and I’d been as brilliant as a kid as I was, they probably would’ve sent me to science camp instead of hockey camp, and I’d be sitting around a table with men alternately debating global warming, gray hat hacking, and if Star Wars or Star Trek was the better franchise.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of life.
It’s just not for me.
Though I do love Monty Python.
I can’t help myself.
I wonder if Ares like Monty Python?
He hasn’t texted me back yet. Not even with a gif.
We settle at the table under the posters of my dad in his Detroit uniform from his glory days, and we pass the food. I take my beetloaf with steamed green beans and a simple salad, and for once, no one comments.
Because Dad’s grilling Nick.
“Community service?” he asks.
Nick mutters something.
“Speak up, speak up. That’s my bad ear.”
“Image rehabilitation.”
“Image rehabilitation?” Dad says. “What’s that?”
“Charm school,” Nick answers glumly. “Manners. More charity appearances. Media training.” He rolls his neck. Looks past my shoulder. “For the whole team,” he adds in a mutter.
Media training for the whole—oh, fuck.
I bolt out of my chair. “Where’s Ares?”
Nick looks at his plate.
“Where. The fuck. Is Ares?” I repeat.
“Felicity,” Mom says. “Language. The dinner table is not a hockey rink.”
Nick studies my shoulder. “Dunno. Heard he left with Frey.”
I cross my arms.
He slumps lower in his chair. “Sorry,” he adds.
I toss my napkin on my chair. “I need to run. Thanks for dinner, Mom. I’ll call you later this week.”
I dart through the formal living room, into the foyer, and I’m slipping into my coat when there’s a knock at the door.
I fling it open, and my heart tries to pound out of my chest.
There he is.
My silent warrior.
Eyes hooded. Worried. Off-balance, and not just because he’s leaning on crutches.
I grab him around the waist and hug him tight, right there in the doorway, the chilly November air leaking into the high-ceilinged foyer. He’s in nothing more than his Boats Eat Yawns T-shirt, his thick corded forearms bare, yet he’s radiating heat.
He dips his nose into my hair and wraps one arm around me.
He could crush me with his pinky, but I’ve never felt safer.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He grunts.
Will be.
Of course he will.
But that doesn’t mean this is easy.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask.
He nods into my hair.
I briefly debate dashing back to the table and shoving a whole meatloaf in my purse. Nick swears Mom’s meatloaf makes angels sing. But we’d get sucked into staying, and I don’t want to stay.
I don’t want to talk last night’s game. I don’t want to deal with the are they or aren’t they? looks. I don’t want to wonder if Nick’s going to put spider eggs in Ares’s underwear or splice together a video of all of Ares’s worst moments on the ice and upload it to YouTube.
“C’mon. I know somewhere we can go.”
40
Ares
The park is quiet.
Dry leaves dangle from gray branches.
Looks like it could snow.
Haven’t seen this part of Copper Valley. Eastern side. Downtown slopes along the skyline. The mountains are a fuzzy blue haze beyond the buildings. We find a bench, and she makes me put my leg up.
I pull her into my lap.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asks. Her nose is a cherry already.
I shake my head. This is nothing. Grew up in Minnesota. Born on a record cold night. Live on the ice as much as I can.
Her fingers trace my biceps. “Wanna talk?”
Funny woman.
I grab my phone, wrap my arms around her, and pull up a search bar. Find the video. It’s old, but not too old for the internet.
Sportscaster from Minneapolis starts talking.
Exciting day for hockey fans. The NHL draft is underway, and we’ve all got our eyes on the Berger twins from Wishberry Lake, a little town north of the Twin Cities. Big debate on who’s going first. I’ve got my money on Zeus—he’s the smarter of the two. How about you, John? Who’s your pick?
Well, Max, I’d say Ares, but how far can a guy without a vocabulary get in professional sports?
They both chuckle, and the camera pans to me.
Twelve years ago.
Fuck, I was young.
Sitting there. Behind eighteen cameras. The university logo behind us. Z’s to my left, talking, but he’s only half in the screen.
All eyes are on me.
And I’m wide-eyed and terrified.
Stats about my GPA scroll past the bottom. I almost flinch. Embarrassing numbers.
Ares. Ares, do you think the NHL will want you with your academic struggles?
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You’re damn right they will, Z answers for me. He’s a fucking good hockey player. The fucking best.
He gets bleeped, of course.
Even on YouTube.
They keep pressing. Asking questions.
And that’s when it happens.
I bend over. Behind the table.
Felicity stops the video before she watches me puke my guts out.
“People are assholes,” she says.
Not Lucy, not Tim, not Harold.
Felicity.
She shifts on my lap, wraps a hand behind my neck, and watches me, her fingers curling into my hair. “You can sing in front of a crowd.”
“Already know the words.”
Her soft brow furrows. “The reporters ask the same question every time.”
“All bullshit.”
She tilts her head.
I don’t like to waste words. Enough p
eople waste words. But she’s biting her own tongue, waiting.
For me.
“Loki could do it,” I add.
She’s smiling. “Hey, Loki, man, you played a really tough game today. How’d it feel?”
I swallow.
Can I do this? Yeah, I can do it. I know the words. Heard them a million times. Same shit everyone says.
Suck in a big breath.
Hate talking this much.
Waste of air.
But I can do it. “Yeah, Max, it was tough,” I make myself say. “Boston/Phoenix/Colorado tried to eat our asses. But we played better. And I’m a fucking superstar, so I won.” I finish with a grunt.
“Does your brother know you can impersonate him so well?”
My phone dings with an incoming text.
From Z.
“Wow, that’s a little creepy!” Lucy says.
I reply to his WTF? They’re sending you to CHARM SCHOOL? with a gif somebody made of him twerking on the ice.
For fun, I copy it to Joey.
Have twenty other text messages waiting, but they’ll keep.
“Why don’t you text me like that?” Felicity asks.
I switch over to text her and shoot her a gif of butt drums.
She laughs, and that bubble in my chest that’s been tightening like a noose eases.
“You can write your own script,” she tells me.
I tilt a brow at her.
“Ares, what was it like out there on the ice today?” she says without moving her lips in a weird doofus voice.
“I played for Trevor,” she answers in a pretty fucking good impersonation of an ape.
But it’s not the ape part that makes me grip her tighter.
It’s the part where she gets me.
“Don’t answer for them.” Her hand smoothes my hair, her other hand strokes my chest. “Answer for you. Answer for anyone who’s ever been judged for not fitting into the society-approved box. Nick can’t do that. Manning can’t do that. Zeus can’t even do that. Only you can.”
I. Love. This. Woman.
Everything else stops.
Time. The weather. The earth spinning.
My breath.
My heart.
“You—” I stop. Have to swallow. Can’t talk. Can’t find the words.
Her bright green eyes don’t waver.
“You have special in spades,” she whispers. “Don’t let anyone ever take that from you.”