3. PARKER
THREE
PARKER
I swing on my office chair, feet kicked up on my desk, trying to keep the rolling frustration inside. When I bought this team, I thought it might keep me busy. Give me back that brain buzz I’ve lost since selling my company, but even though I’m the owner, there’s not a whole lot for me to do.
My coaches coach. My managers manage. Public relations relate, the trainers train, the doctors doc. I shake my head because that’s not even a verb.
But my point is that my players play, and all I do is own. Which apparently means jack shit.
Brendan Murray was a lot more involved in his younger days, but slowly, his ownership became more of a trophy than anything, and I’d thought I could replicate what he used to be. An involved owner. Someone who actually cares about his team.
Or most of his team. I care entirely too much about Connor Kikishkin, but not in a loving way. It’s more of an I want to create a Pop! figure of him so I can get stabby with it kind of way. The rest of the team I actually want to see hoist the Stanley Cup.
Maybe I’ll do everything I can to get the team to playoffs and, at the last possible moment, trade him out to a team at the bottom of the standings. It would kill Mr. Hockey King to see his brother with a ring and know he could have had that too. If he wasn’t such an asshole.
Who still shoves people up against walls.
Truthfully, he had a point that I probably shouldn’t have cornered Easton in that locker room. Actually, there’s no probably about it. I’d been agitated already. This whole trying to get involved thing isn’t working out the way I’d hoped, and I’d left the team trainers’ office when they’d politely pointed out it would be a lot easier to do their jobs without me hovering.
I’d been sulking and heading back to my office to do exactly what I’m doing now when I’d seen Easton stalk off in some kind of huff. Fuck, he reminds me so much of his brother, and I try not to hold it against him since he’s actually a decent person, but even the thought of Mr. Hotshot makes my blood boil.
In more ways than one, which I really, really hate.
Especially when I’d been pressed to the wall.
A flush of heat rolls through me again at the memory, and I face-palm at how much I hate my body. I can’t even hold a grudge right.
Maybe I’d be smarter to offload the team to someone else and work on my next big techy plans. Make another couple of billion. Forget any of this ever happened.
But then I think of Dad and how he didn’t ever get a chance to be proud of me for owning a hockey team like he never could have imagined doing, and all that work and those billions turn sour. My nonstop sixteen-hour days in the technology field are over.
There’s a knock on the door, and I scramble to drop my legs off the desk and sit upright. I do my usual preparation of counting to ten so I’m not flustered. It’s a real effort to steady my breathing and prepare for a professional conversation where I’m not some awkward loser but the most powerful person in this franchise.
Somehow, that doesn’t help. Throwing my weight around on big decisions hasn’t exactly made me feel like I’m anybody of importance.
“Come in,” I call, dropping my tone a notch in an attempt to sound like a professional.
And when the door opens, the last person I’m expecting to see walks in.
A burst of anger, intimidation, and—fuck me—lust hits all at once.
“Mr. Duchene,” he bites out.
Good to see I’m not the only one wanting to go for the throat. Honestly, it feels good that for the first time ever, I have his attention. That one moment in high school was all he ever gave me, and after turning my life to hell, he never once looked my way again.
Not in class. Not in the halls. Not even when his stupid hockey team was bullying me. Not when I’d go to every hockey home game and glare at him from the stands.
It takes me a second to remember I need to respond.
“Mr. Kikishkin,” I manage and point at my chair across from me.
He doesn’t have power over me anymore, but I’m struggling to remind my body of that.
Connor is classically handsome. Browny-caramel waves. Deep gray eyes. A square jaw peppered with stubble. But those things I can ignore. It’s the gentle way his anger surrounds him, the way he holds himself like the tallest person in the room, how he manages everything in life with such extreme confidence—those are things I’ll never have and will always crave. It pisses me off that I don’t know if I want to fuck Connor or be Connor. I don’t want to want either of those options.
“I, uh …” His jaw tics. “Want to apologize. For yesterday.”
Of course he does. I could fire him in a heartbeat for that. I might not know much about where I fit in this team, but at least I know that. I also know that I won’t. Because if I fire him, it means losing the chance to fuck with him again. But I’m not going to make this easy for him.
A long moment stretches out.
Somewhere from deep in that murky well of confidence that I apparently have inside, I smile. “So do it.”
Connor stares at me. “Do what?”
“Apologize.”
“I just did.”
“No, you said you want to.” My smile gets wider at his obvious discomfort. “I’m waiting.”
The look he levels me with is maybe the hottest thing I’ve seen in my life, and I have to remind myself I’m a professional, not a pile of goo, damn it. He catches himself before he can say something inappropriate, but his face already said it for him.
Connor uses the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard. “I’m sorry.”
“For?”
His teeth actually clack together. “I’m sorry for my reaction yesterday. I stand by thinking that you cornering a player is inappropriate, but I shouldn’t have handled it like that.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.” I ignore the inappropriate jab, even as my gut squirms with guilt. “I think you need some anger management classes.”
“Anger management? Because I was looking out for my brother?”
First high school, now this? You’d think he’d grow up by now. “You can’t keep using him as an excuse for your behavior.”
“I …” Something behind his fierce eyes closes off. It should make me happy that I’ve clearly struck a nerve, but instead, I feel a twinge of curiosity. “Do you accept my apology or not?”
Do I? Of course I don’t. It’s in no way sincere and is only about saving his ass. It’s as much of an apology as the one I got in high school. Which was none.
Only years of being ostracized. Years of having no friends because people were worried about becoming targets too.
I look Connor dead in the eye, anger finally taking over all the other bullshit. “I’ll accept an apology from you the day you actually give me one.”
“I literally did?—”
“Don’t you dare say that was an apology. That was lip service. That was a pathetic attempt at trying to save your career, and the fact you can’t even swallow your pride for long enough to make it sound believable should be enough of a reason for me to bench you all season. Or send you back to the farm team. You clearly don’t care about your career or this team if you can’t even show a hint of humility.”
His eyes have gone wide, and just when I’m sure I see something real—panic, vulnerability, fear?—his face morphs, and he levels me with that same furious glare he gave me a few moments ago. “I don’t care about this team? Look who’s talking. You bought us as a way to settle some high school grudge. This is everything I’ve ever worked toward, and you think it’s a game to walk in here and mess with what I’ve dedicated my entire life to? Look, I’m sorry I called you that stupid name back then, I’m sorry people took it overboard, I’m also sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusions yesterday, but this is my life. My whole life.” He’s sitting forward, right on the edge of his chair, hands curled into fists.
The thing is, I did tell myself I was buying the team to fuck with him, but I’m either the least evil person in existence, or I need to read more supervillain comics because I’m low on ideas. Ideally, I’d ostracize Connor from his entire team and give him a taste of what being truly alone feels like, but I’d have no clue how to do that. Where to start. I like to pretend I’m tough and take charge, but I’ve yet to prove I can actually follow through on any of that .
I’m not going to say any of that out loud though.
Before I can give away that I’m in way over my head, I hitch that confident smile back up again. “Congratulations, Mr. Kikishkin. I very nearly believed you.”
He storms from the room, and the second the door is closed, I fall forward onto my desk, head hitting the wooden top with a solid thunk.
Why the hell does he still get to me after all these years?