Chapter 3
Chapter three
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Donna Wu: Glad I was late to pick up my kid from practice yesterday. I got to see sparks fly between our most eligible bachelor carpenter and the bad boy of hockey.
Ash Patel: I heard they almost fought.
Donna Wu: Now that you mention it, it could have been a fight.
“Stay away from my kid,” I say, parroting Jamie’s dad as I set down my non-alcoholic cocktail with emphasis. “He was going to say that to me.”
I take another drink, glad for something to do with my hands. I decided I didn’t need any alcohol since I was so worked up, but maybe taking the edge off wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
For whatever reason or rules that govern the randomness of addictions, alcohol has never been a problem for me, despite how prevalent its abuse is in the NAPH.
But still, I’m cautious about a whole lot of shit I wasn’t cautious about before, and I know I’m going home alone to a quiet place, and my apartment here feels like it used to on the road with the Knights.
The idea of numbing out to something is always on my mind, so I don’t need my defenses to be down because of a beer or two.
Benji raises his eyebrows. “So you said. Of course, he could have been about to say, ‘Stay in your lane,’ or ‘Stay golden, pony boy,’ or a whole host of other things that begin with the word stay.”
I look around the table for more support as I sit in The Blue Line, the coffee shop and hangout, with Diggs and Benji. LJ got traded last week, out to the west coast, but to an NAPH roster, so that’s something.
“Anyone hear from LJ?” Benji asks, and we all shake our heads. Not that he was going to call me anyway.
“I’m not surprised about the trade,” I say. “LJ was going to go somewhere when the NAPH cut folks in training camp, and the Knights have their hands full with that young hotshot . . . Dom something.”
That lands us into a very spirited discussion about whether or not the young Dom has what it takes to keep the brakes on and also keep dominating in his rookie year and take the Knights to the next level.
Yeah, the comparison of their new recruit to me only a handful of years ago isn’t lost on me.
I try not to look too closely at the parallels when I see a look pass between Benji and Diggs.
Benji wipes his mouth from a drink of real beer. “What’s with you and this guy anyway?”
“What do you mean? I don’t even know the kid.”
“Not Dom. Thatcher. The hockey dad. I mean, we only met a few weeks ago, but I’ve never seen you this worked up, not even when Zabrinski clipped you mid-ice a few days ago.”
The others nod, and the need to set the record straight feels like an imperative. “Hockey dad ought to be thanking me, hoping his kid could get one inch of my hockey wisdom.” Diggs smirks when I say “inch,” and I feel my mouth snap shut.
The highly inappropriate locker room jokes ensue.
“Is that what you all think this is?” I ask, incredulity thick in my voice. “That I’m attracted to the asshole?”
It’s actually not that much of a leap; hockey gossip was always happy to report on my party lifestyle with men and women.
And objectively, who wouldn’t be attracted to Jamie’s dad?
Like physically. He’s clearly an asshole in terms of personality.
“Well,” Benji says, not meeting my eye. “Your righteous indignation did have plenty of room for a detailed account of his hair and eyes.”
I sputter at the mere thought that Gabe Thatcher—a name I had to find out around town since he couldn’t be bothered to tell me—did anything to rile me up. Well, he did, but not in that way. The man is infuriating, and he’s going to harm his kid’s future with his high-handed ways.
Someone ought to tell him that.
Someone ought to get right up to his six-four frame and tell him.
Look him square in the scruffy, sexy face.
Just over that sexy, sharp jawline.
Right into those fiery hazel eyes.
Fuck.
Well, he is attractive. I never said he wasn’t. He’s just also an asshole, and God knows I’ve had enough of that in my life.
I just want to do right by Jamie. He’s a good kid, and I’ve really enjoyed our practice sessions these past few weeks. The kid has a heck of a lot of talent and deserves someone who could show him the ropes if the NAPH, or a pathway there, is in his future. And it should be.
And he has a dad who doesn’t get it. Or doesn’t want to.
“Fine,” I allow when I see everyone is waiting on me to respond. “He’s hot.”
“Who we talking about, sugar? You need the gossip on someone you got your eye on?” Patti Jensen, the owner of The Blue Line, stops by our table to distribute some refills and dessert options from the local bakery.
“The local hot guy in flannel. Protective papa bear type,” Diggs supplies.
“That would be Gabe Thatcher,” Patti says, not missing a beat.
“Gabe,” I repeat, glad to no longer pretend I don’t know his name. “Hates hockey?” I venture and she nods.
“That would be him, hon.” She gives me a wink. “Hot, single, hockey-hating carpenters aren’t falling off the trees around here. We’ve only got the one.”
For some reason, the urge to ask all about Thatcher almost overtakes me. Who is Liz? Is he interested in men? How does Jamie fit in?
I close my mouth and settle for a sip of the mocktail. It’s actually really good, and I don’t have the time for chasing around hot single dads anyway. If that’s what Thatcher even is.
“This town needs a bar,” I grumble, as Patti turns away from our table to pick up more drinks that are resting on an empty table beside us.
“Had one,” Benji says. “Just down the street. They closed up because the building needed a total gut job after a pipe burst and flooded the place, and it was too expensive to take on.”
“Wrong on that, doll.” Patti’s back, this time with more drinks for the table. “I hear it was that they just wanted to retire. Folks aren’t local, so who knows.”
“These mocktails would sell like liquor in the city. You could even charge just as much.” I acknowledge.
“That’s all Riley. Barista by day, mixologist by night.
Helps the team stay sober when it’s needed,” Patti says as she places the last of the glasses on the table.
“Since we are what amounts to a bar around here for the time being, it works. And that round is on the house, but no more until there are some wins on the books, boys.” She gives a wink.
“Or you win a competition at The Freeze.”
The others laugh good-naturedly, and I grimace inwardly. The Fox River Freeze is an exhibition-style skills challenge that happens on an open-air rink as part of something bigger the town does, that I am not too clear on. Local festivals are not my thing.
Will I be up to the task of a skills challenge by the time The Freeze happens? It’s not too far off. And how will it look if I don’t compete? Suddenly, another layer of pressure feels like it’s dripping down on me.
More locals file in, and I have to wonder if there’s some sort of citywide event I missed that has people filing in for coffee and dessert. Soon the empty tables are almost gone. Most of the locals acknowledge our table, with Diggs and Benji greeting some of them by name.
Despite the growing crowd, I still notice when Thatcher enters with Jamie. His scowl is still in place, the lines around his mouth and eyes even deeper than they were at the rink.
I can’t help but think back to the way his eyes flashed, his fierce, protective nature almost its own vibrant, living thing.
Something warm punches in my gut. Something too much like longing. Or want.
I study Jamie a minute too, wondering what it would be like to have that talent and that kind of protection.
I didn’t have that and was woefully unprepared for the temptations and consequences of life in the big show.
If I could help Thatcher get on board with his son’s potential, Thatcher’s protective personality could actually be a huge benefit to Jamie.
If I’m honest, I have half a mind to walk over there and finish our earlier conversation, but Benji scoots nearer to me.
“Just a heads up on Patti,” he says, nodding at where she is across the building. “She loves nothing more than a bit of gossip, so be careful. I once saw her deny service until the guy spilled all the tea, and then it ended up on the local social media gossip page.”
I laugh. “I’m hardly worried about a little bit of local gossip.
” In fact, I’m pretty sure the hot carpenter would hate to be the subject of local gossip, if I’m reading him right, so that means I’m all for it.
I should go over there and flirt instead of yelling at him, just to add to the gossip fire.
I don’t know what it is about him, but the thought of riling him up again only makes me smile. Maybe its how easy he tapped into those emotions, letting them show when it came to his kid. Maybe I’m just jealous and numb.
Benji shrugs. “Suit yourself. I think we’re going to head to Diggs’s place after this. Wanna come?”
In the past weeks I’ve hung out with Benji and the team a fair amount. We all live in the same modern townhouse complex, and we spend a lot of time together, even the married players.
“I think I want to walk back, run by my place. Then I might be by later.”
“Late practice tomorrow, so it could go late over at Diggs’s,” he warns. “Probably catch the end of the west coast games at least.”
“You tell Charlotte?” I ask, having met Benji’s better half a few times now.
“Charlotte’s working the late shift, so I’m home free.”
I say my see-you-laters and pay my tab, avoiding even looking at the Thatchers’ table. Except I do notice that Gabe and Jamie are sitting alone, just father and son. Each with a coffee and a fruit tart shared between them.