The feet disappear, and a head pops up.
“Randy, who—” Lily begins.
“Hey, kiddo, I tried to call you a couple of times, but I guess…” My dad pauses, his bloodshot gaze shifting to Lily. A slow, sloppy grin spreads across his face. “You’ve been busy. Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your chippy.”
9
RANDALL BALLISTIC (SR)
IS AN ASSHOLE
LILY
Randy puts a protective arm around me and pulls me into his side, angling us so I’m half hidden from the leering man. I don’t need to ask who this is. It’s pretty obvious it’s Randy’s father. Even without the “kiddo” and “buddy” references, one look answers so many questions about Randy’s insecurities when it comes to being like his dad.
It’s honestly like looking at Randy, except a good twenty years later and without a beard. Randall Ballistic, Sr., could be a handsome, distinguished man—if he gave a shit about himself. It’s clear he doesn’t.
He’s wearing a stained, wrinkled T-shirt and a pair of Randy’s pajama pants, which means he went into our bedroom to find them. He’s not terribly out of shape, though he stretches the shirt around the middle. His hair is a greasy mess, but it’s all there. His appearance isn’t the most shocking thing about him.
The bottles lining the table indicate the slur in his speech isn’t because he’s tired. Oh no, he’s drunk—really drunk based on the empties. He seems to have gone through a twelve-pack.
“Lily’s my girlfriend, not a fucking chippy,” Randy snaps.
This gets me another onceover from Randy’s dad. “Whoa, girlfriend?”
Randy’s arm tightens around my shoulder. It’s like he wants to wrap himself around me, or push me out the door. Of all the parental introductions, this tops the list for the worst.
“How’d you even get in here?”
“Your mom gave me the code. Took a little persuading.”
Randy’s hold on me tightens further. “You went to Mom’s?”
“Nah, I just called.” Randall, Sr., uses the arm of the couch to push himself to standing. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your little girlfriend? Where’s your manners, kid?” He stumbles and hits the coffee table with his knee, sending bottles flying. One rolls to the floor and shatters.
“Christ,” Randy mutters.
“Ah, it’s not a big deal. I’ll clean it up.” His dad waves him off and tries to step over the broken shards. But he steps right in the middle of the mess instead of around it. He loses his balance and stumbles forward.
“For fuck’s sake, Dad.” Randy grabs him as he goes down to one knee. Hoisting him up, Randy drags him away from the mess of broken glass and drops him on the floor, propping him against the wall.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” I offer.
“It’s just a little cut; it’s fine,” Randall, Sr., says, despite the shard of glass in the bottom of his foot, the gash on his hand, and the steady stream of blood dripping to the floor.
“It’s not a little cut; look at how much you’re bleeding,” Randy snaps.
I leave Randy to deal with his dad while I retrieve the first aid kit. I don’t want to be gone long, because I can see how agitated he is over this. I also have a feeling the gash on the bottom of his dad’s foot may need stitches.
I return a minute later with dark towels, a washcloth, and the medical kit we keep in the bathroom. Hockey players sustain frequent minor injuries, so we have a vast array of bandages, medication, and ointment.
Randy’s dad has one leg crossed over the other. He’s trying to dig the shards out with his fingers—there’s more than one.
Randy scrubs a hand over his face. “Dad, I need to take you to the hospital; those are too deep.”
“It’ll be fine once I get the glass out.” His fingers are slick with blood, and it’s dripping onto the pajama pants he “borrowed” from Randy. I bought them for him for Valentine’s Day, along with the cologne and a few other little things. They’re probably destined for the garbage now.
“Why don’t you let me take a look?” I drop to the floor, holding a folded black towel.
Randy’s dad stops digging around. He gives me a sloppy version of a Randy smirk. “Your girlfriend’s a nurse?”
“Lily’s a figure skater.” Randy kneels beside me and takes the kit. “I can do this.”
“It’s okay, I got it.”
“No really, baby, you’ve got work in the morning. Why don’t you get ready for bed or something?”
I can tell it makes Randy nervous to have me anywhere near his dad, but I’m equally nervous about leaving them alone together. Randy looks like he’s about to snap.
“I’ll clean up some of the mess, okay?”
Randy gives me a vague nod, so I leave them to get the broom from the front hall closet. While Randy picks glass out of his dad’s foot, I sweep the floor, then follow with a vacuum and the mop. We won’t be walking around barefoot until I go over it again—when it’s not approaching midnight. By the time I’ve finished putting all the empty beer bottles in the recycle bin and tidying the kitchen, Randy’s finished gluing his dad’s foot back together and picking glass out of his palm, as well.
“I still think you’re probably going to need stitches,” Randy says.
“It’s fine. Just a couple small cuts.”
Randy sighs but doesn’t argue. Instead he collects the bloody towels and bandages, dumping them in the trash. “I’ll set you up in the spare room for tonight.”
“I’ll make sure the sheets are clean.” I already know they are, but Randy’s dad’s foot is still bleeding, so it’s advisable to have dark sheets. I change them from beige to navy.
Randy helps his dad hobble down the hall. I take our bags to the laundry room and leave them there so I can deal with them in the morning. It’s midnight now, and while I don’t have to work until eleven tomorrow, I don’t know what the morning is going to look like with Randy’s dad here. The last time he came to see Randy, I remember he stayed for quite a long time. And not because Randy wanted him to.
I’m in the shower when I hear the click of our bedroom door. A few seconds later, there’s a knock. “Lily?”
“You can come in!” I peek my head through the gap in the curtains as Randy peeks around the jamb. “You want to join me?”
He nods, locking the door behind him. He strips out of his clothes and climbs into the shower. The first thing he does is wrap his arms around me and press his face against my wet neck.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I run my hands up and down his back. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Yes, I do. He ruined our fucking weekend with this.”
“We had a fantastic weekend. This doesn’t change that.” I want to reassure him that it’s okay, but I understand what he means. All the goodness has been eclipsed by his father’s unexpected arrival.
“I changed the damn code so he couldn’t get in here. Figures he’d manipulate my mom into giving it to him.” He lifts his head. His expression is pained. “I didn’t want you to meet him. Not ever. And especially not like this.”
“It’s okay, baby. You handled it really well.”
I know if I’d gotten to choose how Randy and my mom met, it certainly wouldn’t have been at my work when my mom surprise-visited me with her new boyfriend—right after I’d spent a night blowing through a box of condoms with Randy. The finale had been sex in the back of Randy’s rental Jeep about twenty minutes before my shift started. We made up for a month of not seeing each other in a twenty-four-hour span.
“He’s a fucking trainwreck. He comes into my house, eats my food, drinks all my beer, and breaks shit. It happens every damn time.” He cups my face in his palms. “In the morning I’m taking him to a hotel. He can’t stay here. I don’t want you to be alone with him.”
“Whatever you think is best.” I don’t try to dissuade him. That plan sounds good to me, too.
Randy doesn’t get agitated like this often, and when he does, he usually has a legitimate reason. Besides, his dad makes me nervous—partly because it’s like looking at Randy through an aging mirror. His father’s presence also isn’t good for Randy’s psychological wellbeing, and despite our relaxing weekend (until now) Randy is already on the anxious side.
The shower is functional, not sexual, and Randy puts on boxers before he climbs into bed. He usually goes commando. He wraps himself around me under the covers, but he’s not hard, and he doesn’t make a move for sex. I wouldn’t be worried, as we’ve had a sex-filled weekend, but I have a feeling the lack of interest is directly related to his dad being here.
There’s also no morning sex. Randy’s already up and in the kitchen by the time I make an appearance. I remembered to get dressed since we have a houseguest, if you can call his father that. A pot of tea sits on the counter, nestled in its cozy. Randy’s sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee and the paper.
He looks up at the sound of my slippers slapping the tile floor. “Hey.”
I pad over to him and take a seat in his lap, wrapping my arm around him. “You look tired.”
He gives me a small smile. “I didn’t sleep very well.”
“Maybe you should come back to bed for a while. I don’t have to leave for another three hours. We could snuggle.”
He drops his forehead into the crook of my neck and rubs his beard along my collarbone. “I like snuggling.”
“So do I.” I push my fingers through his messy hair. “So that’s exactly what we should do.”
Before I can further entice him back to bed, and possibly take his mind off the problem still asleep in the spare room, Randy’s dad appears in the doorway.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I attempt to get up from Randy’s lap, embarrassed for no good reason other than his dad’s a parent, but Randy tightens his arm around my waist to keep me there.
Randall, Sr., hobbles over to the coffee. “I didn’t think your girlie friend would still be here.”
“Lily lives here,” Randy says coldly.
His dad stops to look over his shoulder. “Really? That’s new.”
“Not really. She moved in before the end of the season.”
“Oh yeah? Was that around the time your team fucked their chances of getting to the finals?”
Randy huffs. “We had an off season. It happens.”
“Maybe you had too many distractions.” He pours coffee into a cup and roots around in the cupboard.
I choke back “Fuck you, asshole” and go with, “The sugar’s on the counter.”
He grumbles something but dumps a couple spoonfuls in his cup and stirs.
“I should get ready for work.” I have hours before I need to be ready, but this whole situation makes me uncomfortable. I untangle myself from Randy.
“Oh, so you have a job?” Randy’s dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim of his cup. “What’s it you do, Lila?”
“Her name is Lily,” Randy snaps. “And I told you what she does for a living last night.”
“Last night’s kinda fuzzy. What kinda job you have?”
“I teach skating lessons.”
“Why do you even care?” Randy asks.
“I’m making conversation, getting to know your girlfriend since she lives here and this is the first I’ve heard of it.” Randy’s dad’s smile is derisive.
“She teaches kids.” Randy follows me to the doorway. “Why don’t you get ready, and I’ll take you out for breakfast and then drop you at the arena. It’s just lessons today, right?”
“Mostly. I won’t be done until about eight.”
I don’t want to remind him that I end the day with Finlay again, as there’s nothing making Randy happy right now. Giselle won’t be back on the ice until later this week. We probably should have talked about that this weekend—Randy’s actions in the locker room before and after Finlay’s last session, how he managed the introduction—but now is definitely not the time.
“Oh. Okay.” The tic in his jaw and flare of his nostrils indicate that this news is not particularly okay, but the conversation will have to wait until we’re out of here and away from the current source of angst.
Instead of giving him more words that won’t help, I rise up on my toes and draw him down for a soft kiss. He comes willingly, but he’s tense and guarded. I leave him with his father.
Running a brush through my hair, I dab concealer under my eyes and toss my makeup bag in with my skating gear. I bring two outfits, because I’ll be there most of the day and I don’t want to stink by the time it’s over. I change my top but keep the leggings, in case Randy decides he wants to take me somewhere semi-nice.
I’m almost ready when Randy’s raised voice filters down the hall. “You don’t get to come here and say shit like that about the people I love! When I get back, I’m taking you to the hospital to have that looked at, and then I’ll drop you off at a hotel.”
“You’re gonna kick me out? Why, so you don’t have to worry about me hearing what’s going on with your little chippy when the doors are closed?” His dad’s deep, angry laugh slices through the air.
“Call Lily that again and I’m going to give you a real reason to go to the hospital.”
“Are you threatening me over a piece of ass?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
There’s a heavy thud, and a sound like pictures rattling on the walls follows. I don’t know whether to stay where I am or get in the middle of this. I’m not all that interested in managing a brawl in my hallway, but I don’t want two men who need a trip to the hospital on my hands, either.
“Randy?” I call. I give it two seconds before I open the door and step out into the hall. “Do you know where—” I pause, looking between them.
Randall, Sr., is leaning against the wall, smoothing out his shirt, and my Randy is running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, the other hand balled into a fist.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Randy nods, tense. “You need me for something, luscious?”
I scramble for a reason. “Do you know if I left my new leotard in the laundry room? I can’t find it in here.”
He doesn’t hesitate, just nods and holds out his hand. “Let’s go look.”
I glance at his dad as we pass. His smirk isn’t cute like Randy’s; it’s malicious.
Obviously I don’t need another leotard, but there is one hanging from the drying rack in the laundry room, so I grab it and toss a baseball cap at Randy. “We should go for breakfast now.”
“Yeah.”
Randy’s dad isn’t in the hallway or the kitchen, thankfully, as we make our way to the front door. Randy hands me the keys to the truck and tells me to start it, then runs back inside. He’s gone too short a time to have committed murder, but that’s about the only assurance I have.
I wait until we’re away from the house before I ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
I shift in my seat. “Let me try that again. Randy, are you all right?”
He sighs and taps the steering wheel. If he wasn’t driving, his knee would be bouncing like a prostitute on a cock.
“I really thought I’d be able to avoid you ever meeting him.”
“I know. It doesn’t change how I feel about you now that I have, though.”
“He’s such a fucking asshole.”
“Lots of people are assholes, Randy. It sucks when they’re related to us by blood, and we can’t pretend we don’t know them.”
He kisses my knuckles, rubbing them across his cheek. “I love you. So much. I don’t want him to jeopardize this.”
“He won’t. I promise.” Words are just words, though. Unless I can reassure him in some other way, his anxiety level is going to remain high, at least until his dad disappears again.
We don’t go to a restaurant. Instead we get takeout from our favorite diner and
drive to a park near the arena. Randy and I walk to our spot. It’s private and secluded. We had sex here once in the middle of the day, hidden in a thicket of trees. Afterward we went home and fucked the night away.
That’s not part of the plan today. I don’t think sex is even on Randy’s mind. That could be a first.
“My dad wasn’t always a huge asshole.” He takes a bite of his ham and cheese wrap and chews thoughtfully. “When I was little, I remember going to his games. There were a couple of seasons where he got decent ice time. I was maybe five or six. Brynne was, like, tiny, and we’d all go to the home games like the other families. It was good. Things were good.”
A butterfly lands on Randy’s tattooed hand. “Take a picture,” he whispers.
I’m quick to get my phone and snap several before she takes off again, leaving just the two of us.
“We used to shoot the puck around all the time when he wasn’t away. He was a great teacher. For a while he was a great dad.”
These are the things Randy doesn’t talk about much. Most of our conversations about his father have been brief and disparaging.
“When did that change?” I ask.
Randy twirls a lock of my hair between his fingers. “When his career stalled out maybe? No. That’s not true. I think when he made it to the top of his game things started to change. The first year he made the NHL, things were good. Great. That was the year we went to a lot of home games.” He drops my hair and looks up at the clear blue sky. “But the next year… I started noticing all the women wearing his jersey. The fighting started soon after that. And we stopped going to see him play.”
“Do you think that’s when your dad started cheating?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure when it started. I mean, it could’ve been going on the entire time. But I assume that’s when Mom found out, or put it together or whatever. There were a lot of fights and tears for a few years. I don’t think it helped that he stopped getting as much ice time. There was talk about him being traded, or moving back to the farm team. My mom didn’t want to move us, and I didn’t really get it back then.”
Pucked Under (Pucked #4.5) Page 11