Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

8. Beckett

Beckett

“ S he owns the team!”

I look up from the steak I’m searing on the grill to see Whit racing through the back door. “What?”

“The team! She owns the team!”

She’s grinning and dancing around like she’s got ants in her pants, and I can’t help the smile that tilts my lips. “What team and who? Oakley?”

“No!” She stops moving, stares at me like I’m the dumbest man on the planet. “Well, yes, Oakley James owns the team too. But there are four of them!”

“Four of them…?” I return my focus to our dinner—there’s nothing worse than overcooked steak.

“Yeah, the Rogues are owned by KAW. And KAW also owns Rogue sportswear—you know the workout clothes I buy?”

I nod. “Yes, I’m aware the people behind Rogue sportswear also own the Rogues NHL team.”

“But did you know that KAW is made up of four women who met in college and started making sportswear in their living room?”

“No, I’m not aware of the history of your sportswear.” I have no idea why we’re having a history lesson except since two nights ago when the shit hit the fan and Whit outed herself to the world, she’s had an insatiable need to know everything about my new team. “Hey, grab that plate for me and pass it here. These steaks are done.”

“Ewe… They’re not done, they’re still red. I’m not eating that.”

“They’re medium, and you will eat it because it’s good for you.” From the moment Whit was born I’ve been a little—or a lot—obsessed with making sure she gets all the vitamins and minerals she needs to grow up healthy and strong. I never wanted her to go without nutritious food the way I did.

Whit cocks an eyebrow at me. Without words she conveys her thoughts on my continued insistence she eat red meat with the amount of iron she’ll be ingesting in mind. She’s never liked red meat. Complains it tastes like blood no matter how it’s cooked. And considering her last yearly physical showed she’s in perfect health, I need to give in on this one.

“Fine, I’ll leave yours on a little longer but I’m taking mine off now. It won’t hurt for it to sit while I char yours to black ash.”

Rolling her eyes, she holds out the plate and waits for me to put my steak on it. “Do I need to do anything else for dinner?”

“No, I made a salad and there are baked potatoes and grilled veggies keeping warm in the oven.”

“Set the table?”

“I thought we’d eat out here. It’s not too hot and the bugs aren’t biting.”

“They will now you’ve put that out there.” She puts the plate back on the outdoor table and heads toward the house. “I’ll get the bug spray and those candle thingys you bought to keep the mosquitos away.”

“Citronella candles,” I call after her. “Grab our plates too.”

When Whit comes back out, she’s carrying a tray loaded with our plates, the bowl of salad, the pan of potatoes and veggies, and I can see the bug spray tucked under one arm .

“Here, give me that.” Rushing over, I take the tray from her and put it on the table.

“I was fine, I didn’t need your help, and you saved me all of five steps, Dad.” She might not have rolled her eyes but it’s in her tone.

Looking up I stare at my daughter—the one I swear just yesterday was asking me to carry her but is now telling me she can carry things on her own—and I wonder where the years went.

When did the little girl who relied on me for everything turn into this beautiful young woman?

Cami’s right. She’s a remarkable young woman and I should be proud of myself for having a hand in that as much as I’m proud of her and all she’s accomplished.

“I’m proud of you.”

“What?”

“I’m proud of you. I love you. I don’t say either enough.”

“You tell me you love me every day, Dad.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Not always in words, but every day you take care of me, you show me you love me, and actions are far more believable than words most of the time.” She moves beside me and wraps her arms around my waist. “I love you too but if you try to serve me bleeding meat again, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“That’s a little extreme.”

“Meh.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t find those candles.”

“I think I left them in the garage when I unpacked the groceries.”

“Should I go get them?”

“No, the spray should be enough. I’ll dig the candles out tomorrow, put them in the utility room so they’re closer to the patio.”

Whit glances around. “We really should do something with the garden. Make it more usable.”

“What’s wrong with how it is?”

“It’s too… Pretentious. ”

“Goes with the house.”

“Yeah.” She looks over her shoulder, her expression one of concern. “We need to fix that too.”

“Okay, I think your steak is black enough now. Let’s sit down and talk about what we want to tackle first.”

“Our bedrooms, or mine, since you don’t care about that.”

“I can tell you right now that I do care about the fact my walls are covered in pink floral wallpaper.”

“It’s not as bad as the psychedelic crap on my walls.”

“I told you to pick a different room,” I remind as I transfer the steaks to our plates.

“But I want that one. It’s got the window seat that overlooks the garden.”

“The pretentious one?” With an arched brow, I pull out my seat and sit. At her unimpressed glare, I say, “Okay, first thing is getting someone to remove the wallpaper and paint the walls.”

“Can I choose the color for my room?”

“Of course. Didn’t I let you choose at our last house?”

“Yes, but you complained about it the whole time we lived there!”

“Well, you have to admit mustard yellow isn’t exactly the best choice.”

“It worked perfectly with the rest of my stuff.”

“Okay, you’re right, it did. The question is, have you outgrown mustard yellow or are we recreating your room in Toronto?”

“I’m thinking pale pink, like barely a tinge of pink, on three walls and a dark pink, bright but not fluoro, on the fourth one. The one behind my bed.”

“If that’s what you want.” I cut a piece of steak and swipe it through the butter melting over my baked potato.

“You’re not going to complain about it?”

“I don’t think so. At this point I should be preparing myself for all your choices being your own and just accepting them.”

“What do you mean? ”

“You’re eighteen soon. That makes you technically an adult.”

“And?”

“I should stop making decisions for you.”

“Dad. You don’t make decisions for me. We’ve been discussing everything for years now, and you never discount my opinion even when you know I’m wrong.”

“I can’t remember a time when you were wrong. Well, there was the mustard yellow incident.” I grin.

“Ha, ha. Speaking of decisions. I’m sorry I made the one that had that reporter yelling questions at you about me. I know you like to keep your work life and family life separate.”

She doesn’t know why I keep our family life out of the public eye, and I don’t want to imagine how she’d react to that information. “It’s not that I keep it separate as much as I didn’t—don’t—want you, or me caught up in a media frenzy.”

“And I dropped us both into one with that post.”

“It’s okay. The Rogues helped us navigate it and I’m sure as soon as someone does something scandalous, we’ll be forgotten.”

“Ah, um.” She ducks her head to avoid my gaze. “There were photographers outside school today.”

“What?” My fork clatters on my plate.

“Yeah, but it’s okay, I didn’t talk to them and the principal made them leave the grounds.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this? Why didn’t you call me. I would have come to get you.”

“And give up my sweet ride?” She grins.

“Oh, funny. You know why I got you that hunk of junk.”

“It’s not junk; you made sure it’s mechanically sound before you let me drive it.”

“I did.”

“Hey, speaking of the Rogues, we didn’t finish talking about who owns the team.”

“KAW owns it.”

“Yes, but guess who owns KAW?”

“Oakley James. ”

“Yep. And…”

“What do you mean and?”

“I told you KAW is made up of four women who met in college and started Rogue sportswear in their living room.”

“You did, yes. Okay, so who are the other three women?”

“As you said, Oakley James. Your assistant coach, Blake Lattimer Watts.” She holds up a finger with each name. “The Rogues GM Natalie Redding and…”

“The GM and Assistant Coach? Isn’t that a?—”

“Wait, wait. I saved the best for last.”

Rolling my eyes, I motion zipping my lips.

“Camilla Nelson Barnes.”

She looks at me like I should know who that is, but I don’t know anyone in the Rogues org named Camilla.

With an exasperated sigh and roll of her eyes, she says, “Also known as Cami Nelson.”

“Cami? Reporter Cami? The woman who did our interview?”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck!”

“Hey!”

“Shit. Sorry. Sorry.” I wave my hand. “But what the? Cami is co-owner of the Rogues?”

“Yes. From what I can find, she’s a silent partner. Has no job within the organization. Either the hockey team or the sportswear business. She’s just a reporter. She works for her father’s network on the local paper here.”

“Her father’s network?”

“FNB. Her father is Fenton Nelson Barnes.” Whit leans closer. “He’s worth billions. But get this. Cami is worth more. One, she’s his only heir, and two, Rogues sportswear is a billion-dollar global business and KAW paid cash for the franchise and the development of the arena and surrounding area. The info I found said they’ve poured over three billion dollars into developing Baton Rouge, both the area around the arena and downtown.”

“She’s an owner.” I shake my head. “How did that not come up in conversation?”

“Why would it? We were talking about me. You.”

“Yes, but…” Why wouldn’t she tell me she was an owner? When she was trying to get me to believe she wouldn’t hurt Whit or me she could have easily slipped that nugget of information into our conversation and that would have put an end to my hostility toward her. “Jesus. I own her an apology.”

“Why? You weren’t rude. Much.” Whit grins at me. “Honest, Dad. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Not for the other night no. But yesterday. After training.” I put my hands on my head and roll through my memories from yesterday. “Shit. I’m a dick.”

“What happened yesterday? You didn’t mention it last night.”

“I saw her when she did a couple of interviews with two of the players.”

“Why were you there?”

“Because I’m the captain of the team and Coach thought it would be good for me to be there and because Cami asked to see me.”

“What did she want to see you about?”

“To ask if you were okay. If I was okay.” And now, with this new information, her inquiry doesn’t seem nefarious. Not like it did at the time. “To warn me we might get some reporters asking questions about you. And me.”

“What questions? Didn’t we tell them what they want to know?”

“Some, yes, but neither of us mentioned your mother or that I was only sixteen when you were born.”

“Oh. I guess they might want to know that. But that’s not something to worry about. There are plenty of teenage pregnancies. ”

“Yes, but not many fathers take responsibility for raising those children.”

“But my mom died. She couldn’t raise me.”

My insides clench when she talks about her mother. All I’ve ever told Whit is her mother died before she was two. Which is true. The way she died has never come up and I’ve waited years for Whit to voice the question. Except she never has.

“Don’t worry so much. There’s nothing there to drag up. I researched that reporter too.”

“And when did you do your schoolwork?”

With another eye roll, she says, “I did that as well. But I wanted to know who he was. He’s not a very good journalist. More of a gossip collector.”

“Yeah, well, at the moment anything out of the normal concerning the Rogues is good fodder.”

“It’ll be fine now we’ve done that interview.”

I hope so. With everything in me, I hope no one questions where Whit’s mother is. How I came to be a single father at sixteen. Why the woman who birthed the best thing in my life never held her, never saw her. Never wanted her.

Or why the mother’s name listed on Whit’s birth certificate is a fake one.