He doesn’t smile as his teammates pat his back, eyes on the scoreboard and the minutes counting down the second period.
“Holy shit.” Lily nudges my arm and points to the screens above us. Darren and Randy’s faces flashes across it. While Randy wears a cocky smirk in his picture, Darren’s eyes are dark, mouth almost set in a scowl. Their stats flash across the screen. Darren’s sitting just below Randy this season, which makes him an incredibly valuable player—the kind who is covetable despite his age.
It’s the reason he’s been passing when Alex has asked him not to. He hasn’t wanted all the points because of the draft. It all makes sense now.
The heavy feeling I’ve been carrying all day grows as the game continues. Randy scores a goal in the top of the third period, giving Chicago the lead, but Toronto ties it again halfway through. Alex and Darren are back on the ice together with three minutes left in the game. I can barely breathe when Alex gains control of the puck and skates down the ice toward the net, Darren parallel to him.
I cross my fingers as Alex makes the shot, but it goes wide. Darren catches the puck as it glides past the net and skates around behind it. It looks like he’s going to pass to Alex, but he takes the shot instead, scoring his second goal of the game.
Toronto fans give a collective groan as the Chicago fans go crazy. It’s a matter of keeping the puck away from the net while the final seconds tick down, securing Chicago’s place in the next round, bringing them that much closer to the finals again.
TV crews swarm the players once they’re off the ice. Darren looks uncomfortable with cameras on him, especially when they start talking about how his stats are the best of his career and then ask questions about the expansion draft and trade possibilities. Alex plasters on a smile when they turn the mic on him, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. He’s unhappy with his performance.
“Guess I better get the Epsom salts ready. Tonight’s going to be hard on the beaver,” Violet says as we file out of the arena and pour onto the street, heading for the hotel.
We go directly to the bar, aware that it’ll be a while before the guys arrive. Daisy and Skye appear to be three sheets to the wind already, and they’ve ordered a round of shots. They’re having an inappropriate conversation—not unusual for those two—about their husbands and their sexual prowess.
Violet turns to Sunny. “That could be us one day.”
Sunny rubs her belly. “I wonder if this one will be another boy. I’m getting really big really fast this time.”
Violet leans her head on Sunny’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be great if we both had a boy or a girl at the same time? They’ll have so much fun together, and when they’re older we can have the kind of conversations our moms have and embarrass them.”
I watch their sisterly exchange and selfishly fear that this new bond they’re forming is going to usurp all the years of friendship between me and Violet. They’ll have so much more in common now that they’re both pregnant, and Sunny will be able to give Violet new-mom advice. They’ll have stories and experiences to share that I can’t be part of.
She’ll have new responsibilities. I’ve seen how motherhood has changed Sunny this past year, and I worry it will be the same for Violet. She’ll settle into her new role, and I’ll won’t fit into her life quite the way I did before.
Poppy pulls me out of my personal pity party when she hands me a drink.
Daisy and Skye’s conversation seems to have moved away from doing the dirty to hockey, which is a little better.
“Robbie used to play hockey in college. I loved going to the games.” Daisy sighs wistfully.
“I went out with a hockey player once,” Skye blurts.
“Really?” Daisy perks up.
Violet rolls her eyes.
“Mmm. In my first year of college I used to waitress at this little bar. It was near the stadium, so sometimes we’d get fans and players in there.” She waves a hand around in the air. “Anyway, this guy came in and sat in my section. He was a real hottie, and he played professional hockey—I think maybe for North Carolina? I can’t remember now, but he was charming, and one thing led to another.” Skye grimaces. “Sadly, he was terrible in the sack, and he had a tiny penis.”
“I love your mom,” I snicker.
“Wanna trade?” Violet grumbles. “Wait, it’s pretty much the same thing, so never mind.”
“Oh no!” Daisy puts a comforting hand on Skye’s arm. “That’s awful.”
“It was such a disappointment. The condom slipped off in the middle, and I ended up having to fish it out after.” Skye shudders, and Violet makes a gagging sound. “One good thing came from the experience, though.” She turns to Violet and pats her on the cheek. “I got you.”
Violet’s mid-sip, so she spit-sprays ginger ale all over her mother’s face and also gets my cheek. “What?”
Skye wraps her arm around Violet’s shoulder. “I was almost five months along before I realized I was pregnant. In hindsight, I should’ve figured it out sooner, but sometimes things happen for a reason. I had zero interest in that hockey player, so I raised you on my own until I met Sidney and we fell in love.”
“My dad was a professional hockey player?” Violet asks.
“He was. Not a very good one, mind you, but a hockey player nonetheless.”
“I can’t believe this is the first time I’m hearing this! Why didn’t you tell me before now? I always thought he was some random.”
Skye gives Violet a patient smile. “He was a random, honey.”
“Does this random have a name?”
“Of course he does.”
“Do you remember it?”
Skye makes a face. “Well, yes.”
Violet arches a brow. “Care to share?”
Skye sighs, maybe realizing she’s not going to get out of this. “His name is Dick, which is kind of ironic really, considering his was so small and all.”
“My father’s name is Dick?” Violet looks unimpressed.
“Sidney is your father, Violet. He gave you away at your wedding. I think that trumps being a sperm donor.”
“Agreed, but still—even if Dick is a dickless dick, he’s my biological father, and I think I have a right to know who he is, Especially since he’s contributed half of my DNA, and I’m pregnant, and who knows what effect his genetic bullshit will have on this kid.” She motions to her stomach, eyes wide with horror. “What if we have a boy and he has a tiny little penis?”
“You’re almost exactly like me, and nothing like your biological dad. I’m sure Alex’s DNA will win out in this case.”
“Still, it’d be good to know. Does dickless Dick have a last name?”
“Of course.” Skye grimaces and mutters something.
“What was that?”
“His last name is Head.”
Violet blinks. And blinks again. “Come again?”
“Head. His last name is Head.”
“My dad’s name is Dick Head?”
“Technically it’s Richard, but yes.” Skye takes a healthy gulp of her drink. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”
“Richard Head? And he played for North Carolina?”
“Yes, honey. Are you okay? You’re really pale.” Skye gives me a worried look.
“Maybe you should sit down.” I put a hand on Violet’s shoulder and urge her to the closest stool. Something about this conversation is very familiar, and I can’t place why that is.
Lily appears, having returned from the bathroom. “Is everything okay? What’s wrong with Violet?”
“Skye just told her who her birth father is.”
“What?” Lily’s eyes go wide.
“She’s pretty drunk,” I say.
Lily frowns. “I thought Violet was pregnant.”
“Oh, Violet’s not drunk, Skye is.”
“And I thought Butterson was a bad last name.” Violet shakes her head. “I guess Head isn’t the worst, unless you name your kid Richard,
and even then, you could go by Rich, or Richie, Why go by Dick?” She looks like she’s hovering between shock and horror. “You’re just setting yourself up for a world of ridicule. What kind of person, other than a dickhead, goes by the name Dick Head? My fucking father, that’s who.”
Lily grabs her shoulders. “What did you just say?”
“My sperm donor’s name is Richard Head, but he goes by Dick. Seriously, he must be the biggest asshole in the history of the world with a sad, tiny dick,” Violet replies.
And then I remember why this conversation is so damn familiar; two New Year’s ago, before Randy and Lily were super serious, we talked about Lily’s biological father, and Violet couldn’t get over his stupid name.
Both Violet and Lily’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God!” they say in unison.
“Your bio dad’s name is Richard Head?” Lily asks.
“And your deadbeat dad’s name is Richard Head,” Violet replies. “Did he play for North Carolina?”
Lily nods slowly.
“What are the chances . . .” Violet trails off. “Holy shit. Does this mean you’re my half-sister?”
DARREN
I’m not sure if the cost of winning this game will be worth it. The only thing that’s going to make me feel better is Charlene. I want to put the lid on her jar and never let her go.
I realize, very clearly, that I’m in a terrible frame of mind. I’ve kept her on edge all day and probably shouldn’t have since she was already there to begin with. I’m also aware that having done this to her is fucked up, but it seemed better than telling her things she’s not ready to hear, especially when I’m not sure if I’m ready to say them.
Alex is quiet and in a shit mood as we make our way to the bar. He’s not angry that we won the game; it’s how we won that he’s upset about. It’s not jealousy, it’s bigger than that. It’s about his worth to the team. It’s the position he feels he’s putting me in. It’s knowing that my chances of being pulled in the expansion draft get higher the more I pick up the slack he can’t manage. It’s the nine-million-dollar-a-year salary he doesn’t think he’s worth anymore.
The bar is loud and busy. I look around for Charlene and the rest of the girls, but they’re not easy to find since pretty much every female in the place is decked out in our team gear. Loud shrieking and jumping draws my attention.
“There they are.” I point to where Violet and Lily are hugging.
“I’m glad Vi can’t get wasted. I need in my wife tonight,” Alex says.
I scan the area around them and finally find Charlene. Her pearls are at her lips, her expression reflecting none of the excitement Violet, Lily, and the other girls seem to be experiencing. Which makes me question what’s going on.
We weave through the crowd slowly because of the volume of people. Thankfully, not many attempt to talk to me, probably because I don’t come across as friendly, and I don’t often engage in conversation with people I don’t know.
I step up behind Charlene, who’s still worrying her pearls against her lips, and drop my mouth to her ear. “What’s happening here?”
She startles and nearly fumbles her drink as she spins around. She tips her head back as I straighten, eyes finding mine. Emotions flit across her face, pain floating around in there. I’m unsure if it’s physical, emotional, or both, and I regret keeping her hanging all day.
“Violet and Lily just found out they have the same father,” she says softly.
“Is this a joke?”
Her voice cracks, along with her forced smile. “I wish it was.”
I want to ask her to explain, but Violet is jumping around, screaming at the top of her lungs. It’s drawing a lot of attention. “Isn’t this awesome? Both of our moms made terrible choices!” Violet motions between herself and Lily. “Can you see the resemblance? Boobs aside, of course.”
Lily rolls her eyes. “Maybe I should put on one of your bras and stuff it with socks so it’s easier to see the resemblance.”
Randy comes up to stand beside me, observing the spectacle. “Did I hear that right? Vi and Lily have the same dad?”
“Apparently.”
He runs a hand over his beard, looking from one woman to the other. “I don’t see it.”
I shrug because neither do I. Apart from the fact that they’re both female and on the petite side, that’s all the similarity I can find. Violet is busty and curvy where Lily is narrow and lean. Lily also has a couple inches on Vi. “Does Lily look more like her mother?”
Randy nods. “Yeah, kind of like Vi looks like hers.” He tips his head in Skye’s direction. She really does look like Violet, plus about twenty years. She also dresses very much like her daughter.
I’m grateful for the soap-opera-style family drama, because it takes the focus off tonight’s game. I should be happy that we’re going to the next round, and for the team I am, but the call I received this afternoon before I went on the ice worries me. My agent let me know that Lucas, the owner of the Vegas team, had contacted him for the third time, wanting to talk numbers. There’s been interest from other teams too, and I’m still unsure where Charlene and I are headed. I feel like I’m just figuring out how to do this new version of us right, and I don’t want to screw that up.
It’s another hour before I finally manage to get close to Charlene again. She’s drunk, and based on the empty glasses scattered over the table, someone thought shots were a good idea. She’s positioned herself at the end of the table, slightly apart from the other girls, quiet instead of engaged in the lively conversation. She reminds me of how I get when there are too many people and I feel exposed.
I bend so I’m at her ear and don’t have to yell. “You want to go up to the room now so I can take care of you?”
I back up enough so I can see her face. Her expression is a mixture of relief and desperation, so intense that for a second I think she’s going to burst into tears, which is very unlike Charlene. The only times I’ve seen her cry were when Alex had his accident last year and Violet was a mess, and when my teammates found her surrounded by sex toys.
Her lips move, forming the word please, but it’s not accompanied by sound, and I’m uncertain if it’s because she hasn’t made any or because it’s too loud to hear.
I straighten and pull her chair out, giving her space to stand up.
“You’re going?” Violet frowns. “Come on! Just stay a little longer.”
“I apologize, Violet, but I need her.” Which is true. I very much need to get lost in her for a while, and I have a feeling Charlene needs the same.
Violet jumps up and rushes around the table so she can hug Charlene. I don’t understand why women feel the need to hug each other all the time. It’s not as if they won’t see each other again soon, like in the morning.
When all the hugging is over, I link our fingers, marveling at how much softer and smaller her hand is than mine and how much I crave this innocuous contact. I keep her close as we weave through the bar. Alex holds up a hand when he sees us leaving. I nod but don’t stop to talk. This whole thing with Violet tonight has taken his mind off of the game, but soon he’ll want to sit down and figure out how to manage the next series.
We’re not alone on the elevator ride up to the penthouse floor, so I simply keep our hands joined, sliding my thumb back and forth over her knuckles. Charlene’s free hand is at her throat, fingering her pearls.
She exhales a shuddery breath when the last couple exits the elevator at the twentieth floor. When the doors close, I lift our twined hands and bring them to my lips. “Are you okay?”
She nods, but her bottom lip trembles, and her breath comes sharp and fast.
“You don’t seem okay,” I observe.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the doors slide open. A couple of women wearing Chicago jerseys fall into the elevator, giggling, clearly drunk. One of them pushes the button for the lobby while the other leans against the rails opposite us.
I’m annoyed at the interrupti
on.
“Oh my God!” one of them shrieks. “You’re Darren Westinghouse! You were incredible tonight!”
The high-pitched, exclamation-point-laden yelling makes me want to pull out a roll of duct tape, but instead I smile and tuck Charlene in tighter to my side. This is part of the reason I’ve never tried to be better than I am. Because it draws unwanted attention. Stay solidly average and out of the limelight, and people don’t recognize you on the street. Play better than most, and people start to notice.
I’ve been content to be Alex’s wingman for the past six years. He loves the accolades and thrives on it. He manages it better than I can. I don’t want this overwhelming level of notice. I don’t want these drunk screaming girls, looking for autographs. I don’t want to be nice and open and friendly. I want privacy and Charlene. I want some semblance of normal in a life that’s never been that way.
One of the girls roots around in her purse for a pen so I can sign something for her. Neither of them acknowledge Charlene. It’s as if she doesn’t even exist. So when one of them finally manages to find a pen and her game ticket, I tip Charlene’s chin up and press an unexpected kiss to her lips.
“This will just take a moment,” I murmur, lips still touching hers.
“Okay.” It’s more breath than word.
I just want to be alone with her. I want these fans and my worries to disappear. I want to drown in her taste and her scent and her soft, sweet moans.
But first I need to sign some shit.
The women gawk unapologetically as I tuck a loose tendril of Charlene’s hair behind her ear. It’s unnecessary. Her hair is perfectly fine the way it is without me messing with it. I just want a reason to touch her, to indicate on some base level that she’s mine, and I’m hers.
I sign their tickets, then sign the back of their jerseys, even though one has Ballistic and the other has Waters, which makes sense since they’re the star players on the team. Thankfully the elevator chimes. I reach for Charlene’s hand, tugging her along as I hit the close door button and slip out into the hall. I don’t want them following us. When the door stays closed, I exhale a sigh of relief and walk quickly toward our room, rooting in my pocket for the key card, but Charlene is already prepared. She swipes it across the sensor, and I throw it open, ushering her inside.
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