Chapter 5 Ten Steps Back
TEN STEPS BACK
Islam the cupboard, pissed for the first time since I bought the condo that it’s a soft-close. There’s no vindication in slamming a soft-close.
Dad might not have heard my intent when it came to the cupboard, but he knows I’m edging on pissed. Like an angry bull, there’s steam puffing from my nostrils with every breath. None are measured.
Rubble Ridge might think I’m an unfeeling asshole for staying away all this time, but they couldn’t be more wrong. It’s the sheer breadth of my feelings that has kept me away. The scale of my anger. The guage of my resentment. My regret.
I can’t go back there. The few hours I spent in Rubble Ridge fourteen months ago had been hard enough. Brutal.
I’m still trying to get over seeing her again. Faye.
Faye Wilder. Goddammit.
I always knew she’d have my last name. I just thought I’d be the man to give it to her.
Fuck.
I pivot from the coffee cup to the fridge, popping the top off a beer and taking a hefty swig. Then I glare at the empty mug on the counter and the machine that would have spit out a fancy brew in less than a minute. So much for good intentions.
I take another swig. I wish it was whiskey.
“Sorry, Pop.” I hold the neck of the bottle between two fingers as I stroll from the kitchen to the living room. Of course, I’ve got a waterfront view. “I can’t.”
“I need you here, son. I go in for surgery in a week.”
“How long have you had this surgery booked for?” I can practically see the way his square jaw sets. “That’s what I thought. You’ve had time to find someone.”
“I started Wilder Builds and Renos from the ground. I built it up from nothing, laying bricks and stones until it became what it is today.” Here we go.
“This company has a reputation to uphold. A reputation that when you book with us, you’re getting a business run by family.
Cared for by family. If I’m not there, there’s no family.
” Dad sniffs. “Unless Faye marries Tanner Moore. Boy’s been sniffing around, so that could be the case soon enough I suppose. ”
I hardly hear the old man as he prattles on through the buzzing in my ears. I swallow down a gulp of beer to help cool the acid that threatens to burn through my gut.
“But he isn’t family yet. So that means I need you, Holt. A true Wilder.”
“Faye’s dating again?” The line goes silent, and my head falls between my shoulders because—shit. “Never mind. I don’t care.”
Honest to God, I think I hear Pop grin. Conniving asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.
I go to take another swig, but the bottle is empty.
“Holt, we both know you’re going to need something to do with yourself soon.”
My spine snaps straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can’t play hockey forever. It’s a boy’s sport and you’re a man now.”
He’s been saying this crap since I really was a boy. A boy hell-bent on marrying one specific girl.
I walk my bottle back to the kitchen. I eye the fridge, but shove the mug under the coffee machine, punching the buttons that’ll mix me the brew I like.
“I have another four years on my contract.” I don’t mention I’m nowhere near aging out. Sure, lots of players age out in their thirties. But not me. Not yet. I lost everything that mattered for the game. I work hard to be exceptional. And I’m not ready to hang up the towel. My scores back that.
But Dad doesn’t want to hear any of that.
He goes on. “Like I said, you’re going to need something to do with your time when you’re done with the game.
You’ve always been good with your hands.
You can frame a house as well as Tanner.
Laying flooring is a breeze, but you won’t be doing a whole lot of that because you’ll be overseeing projects.
” He grunts something unintelligible, adding, “Mostly, you’ll be in the office or in the truck. Driving between sites.”
“I haven’t worked construction in over ten years.”
“It’s like riding a bike.”
It’s not. “Pop—”
The old man cuts me off. “We both know it’s always been your plan to return to Rubble Ridge.”
“This is news to me.” I lean back into the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. The caffeine burns on the way down.
There’s a swollen pause. Dad says quietly, “I know you’ve got property here, Holt.”
Every part of me tenses. I grit, “I’m not talking about that, Pop.”
How the hell does he even know? No. It doesn’t matter how he knows. I don’t care.
I don’t care about a lot these days. Just hockey. But hockey is over for the season.
“Give me the summer, Holt. Please. I need help, son.”
Well, shit. Dad doesn’t do this. Doesn’t show vulnerability. Doesn’t beg.
I sigh. Should have gone for another beer.
“Building regulations have changed in the last ten years.”
Pop chuckles. He knows I’m close to cracking.
“You can be here today. I’ll walk you through everything over the next week. Your Mom’s been after me for a day off, so I figure I can give her the day before them fancy doc’s cripple me for the next few months.”
“Dad,” I groan a curse. “I can’t just up and leave today.”
“Why not? The season is done. You’ve got nothing there, unless you’ve got some girl I don’t know about.” He mumbles something untoward. Pretty sure I’d take offense if I could understand it. “The way you’re in those grocery magazines with all those different girls, I doubt it.”
“I can’t just drop everything here.”
“We’ll see you for dinner tomorrow. Your mom will make lasagna.”
“Pop.”
“Don’t let me down, Holt.” The manipulative son-of-a-gun adds, “I need you.”