Chapter 3 #2
Oh, god. The hope in his eyes. So that’s what it looks like. I’ve been such a letdown for him the past few years, I’d forgotten. “If you continue to see them, would you consider bringing them by? For dinner?”
My brother’s a big, burly guy with his head shaved to marine precision and tattoos galore, even though he’d never let me get one, the fucking hypocrite. Yet, here he is, hoping I’ll bring my boyfriend by for a family dinner. Makes my heart fucking squeeze.
For the record, I finally let the boys cajole me into getting a tattoo to memorialize winning the Calder Cup. I’m an adult now, figured it wouldn’t be a big deal, but I still got it on my hipbone where Hunter’s unlikely to ever see it.
That I can hide, I can’t bring my asshole not-boyfriend, because Hunter will attempt to murder said not-boyfriend.
Huh, wonder who would win in a battle like that?
Hunter and Trav are equal in size and, um, badassery, I guess?
Trav was in a biker gang, but Hunter … he’s never told me in so many words, but I highly suspect he’s part of something at work.
His business partners are burly Italian guys who he keeps me the fuck away from.
Anyway, I hope I never have to find out who would win that fight, but it’s an entertaining thought.
“Yeah, Hunt. If it works out—big if—I’ll bring him for dinner.”
He frowns. “Why’s it a big if? Is this because of our upbringing? Are you unable to love? Fuck, I knew I was setting a bad example.”
If anything, a power imbalance being my love language is his fault, not my inability to love anyone but Trav. His swearing like a roughened construction worker while I would get chewed out for it is a prime example. Is it fair? No. Do I like it? Yes. I feel cared for.
And fucking Travis knows it.
“Whoa, what’s that smile all about?” He’s beaming, a fresh new gleam about him. It’s so much better than Hunter spinning off about me, ready to ship me off to therapy again. “Were you thinking of him? You said him, right?”
I sigh. “It’s a him. I strictly like dick, Hunt.”
“Dirk,” he scolds.
My face heats. “Sorry. But, um, he’s older,” I say, distracting him from my slip-up with a little bit of information. It’s a test too. What’ll he be okay with?
Hunter winces.
“Not too much older,” I add.
“How much older?”
“Ten years,” I try.
Shit. He does not like that. He sets his fork down. “That’s kind of old, Dirk.”
So I guess twenty years is off the table. Yeah, Hunter’s never finding out about Trav. Aren’t Logan and Rhett fake boyfriends or something? Maybe I can bring a fake boyfriend for dinner some night.
“Sorry, kiddo. I need to meet him if you’re gonna keep dating him.” He resumes eating after making that announcement.
Telling Hunter Boulder that I’m a grown adult and I’m not looking for his permission on who to date isn’t something that flies around here.
He can and will build a steel vault to lock me in.
It’s no skin off my back to break up with my fictional boyfriend, but now that Hunter’s seen me smile about Trav the way I smile about Trav, I can’t do that without it looking suspicious.
Would Jack loan Mercy out for an afternoon? He’s ten years older, I think.
“I’ll talk to him,” I promise, my palms sweating.
Fuck this is a disaster, but at least with those two conversations out of the way, the rest of the night is pleasant.
He gets on my case about everything, and he can come across as overbearing, but it’s because protectiveness is his love language, thanks to Mom.
He’s forever trying to make up for what she lacked.
I can’t help but wanna give that to him.
He put up with a lot of shit so I wouldn’t have to.
“But you do remember I’m a champion, right, Hunt?” I hold up my hand to show him the ring. It’s not something any of us wears around all the time, but I wore it tonight to show him.
“You’re right,” he grunts. “I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and I went in full barrel.” He wasn’t able to make it to any of the games this year, but he tries. “Alright, let’s see it.”
He takes a good look at the ring. “I scored several playoff goals.”
“Well, that I know. Just because I couldn’t make it, doesn’t mean I didn’t watch you. So fucking proud of you, Dirky.”
That makes the blood pound—in a good way. I might live to make him proud of me. It might make up at least half of my identity.
The rest of the dinner is casual, but there’s always a slight edge to everything.
“Please get this cut,” he says as I’m on my way out the door. He ruffles my mop of hockey hair. “I know it’s a symbol of hockey pride, but it’ll grow back by next season.”
“I’ll get it cut,” I promise.
“Love you to death, Dirk,” he says in his most earnest tone. “You know that, right?”
That’s something I’ve never doubted. It’s his respect I worry about losing, which would kill me all the same. Tolerance versus adoration.
“I know it. Love you, too, bro.”
Since I’m not due back for my “shift” for another two hours, I swing by a barbershop on the way, leaving my hockey mullet in a pile on the floor under the barbershop chair.
I step out of the Uber and enter The Wicklow with a fresh and clean cut.
Ah, the smell of “deep fryer” makes me feel at home, immediately calming my nerves from that one helluva dinner.
Looks like we’re getting a post-concert rush.
I head to the back to change as quickly as I can into the plaid shirt managers wear.
Dash and I are usually only management when Trav is away.
I’m surprised he’d do this to me, especially when Stacey’s behind the bar, Dash is on the floor, and Casey’s expediting.
They’re gonna think it’s weird that I’m managing and will ask questions, but I’m leaving that shit for him to explain.
“Hey, hey,” Stace says when I exit the kitchen. “Trav told us. You’re the big man on campus now.”
I squint. “He did?”
“Yeah.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that he’s giving you more managing shifts this summer to help him out.”
“Yeah, he is. I think it’s weird, though. He should give ‘em to Dashie.”
Stace raises both brows, protectiveness creeping in. “Dash can do it, but he doesn’t love it.”
“Still.”
“He picked the right man for the job,” Stacey says.
He’s firm about it, too, as if being firm will protect Dash from a future he doesn’t want.
And yeah, I get it. Dash doesn’t mind doing it for a little bit, but it stresses him the fuck out.
Stacey would wage war if that kind of responsibility were given to Dash full-time.
“You’d make a good manager. Better than me,” I say.
“Don’t know about better, but yeah. He gave me some managing shifts, too.”
What the fuck? That I didn’t know. Did he do it as an elaborate cover-up? “Thank flip for that. I’m gonna need some time off this off-season.”
He laughs. “Say you’ve been to see your brother without saying you’ve been to see your brother.”
“Fuck.” As if the hair’s not a dead giveaway as it is. I swear worse than a sailor—but never around Hunter.
“There you go. He’s back. Trav’s on his way up from the wine room. He’s looking for a bottle that went missing.”
I smile.
“Something tells me you know about it.”
I grab a headset from behind the bar and slip it over my ear. “Travis, may I?”
“Go ahead,” his gruff voice comes through.
“We’re eighty-six Caymus,” I tell him. That’s restaurant speak for “we’re out of it”. Only we shouldn’t be. We should have one bottle left. That bottle was happily drunk with chicken parmesan.
Stacey’s jaw drops, hearing the conversation via his headset.
“Get your ass to my office, Boulder.”
“Sorry, can’t. We’re in the weeds up here.”
He swears over the radio. Mission accomplished. I don’t head to his office until much, much later. I have a restaurant to run.