Chapter 7—Wolfe
The long squeak of the driver’s side door as it opened announced to no one that Wolfe was home.
Yeah, he had his Jaguar SUV parked along the curb, but he felt more at home, more like himself, sitting on the bucket seat of the truck he’d bought himself as a teen too many years ago to count.
Wolfe preferred solitude. Unlike some of his teammates who shared a place or lived close to one another in posh sections of the city, he didn’t mind that there was no one to greet him as he made his way up the driveway to code in the entry for the garage.
No roommate. No dog. No goldfish swimming haphazard circles in a round bowl.
Yeah, alone time was fine... especially during this week of the year.
This day of the year.
So why Wolfe seemed to find every excuse under the sun to practically move into the bakery to soak up the sunshine that was the boss baker was beyond him.
Especially on this day when his crankiness rivaled a bear.
He said he’d fix that ludicrous baseboard and he did.
He was pleased that the vinyl wall cove base he purchased at Home Depot perfectly matched the flecks of burgundy in the worn linoleum tiles of the flooring.
BB didn’t need to know that he spent considerable time in the flooring aisle of the store trying to determine what vinyl would fit best.
The good news for him —not for BB — was he identified about a dozen other projects that he planned to tackle in the coming weeks, especially if it meant spending time fixing shit in the bakery alongside the stunning woman with fire-colored hair and freckles that painted a picture of pure innocence.
His cock stirred at the notion of gliding the pad of his finger across her creamy skin touched with a smattering of sexy freckles dotting her nose and cheeks.
He’d then brush his fingertip lower and push his calloused digit between her pillowy lips, replicating what it would be like if his dick was being caressed by her warm and welcoming mouth.
Maybe his daydreams would become a reality after the mystery restaurant she planned to meet him at in a few hours.
“It’s just dinner, asshat,” Wolfe spat out making his way into his garage. He was hoping his hard shaft, pressing against the zipper of his Levi’s, got the message and settled down. But it was hard to set aside the vivid, porn-worthy images of the boss baker.
After storing the materials and hanging the toolbelt he used earlier in the day, Wolfe left the garage that doubled as his workshop and made his way into his house. He made a beeline for the cabinet that held a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch.
He was going to need the liquid courage to make the phone call he’d been dreading all day. At least he had a legitimate reason to call his dad, and not just because he felt obligated due to today’s morbid anniversary. Or because he was a masochist.
That clunking sound from BB’s air conditioning unit, combined with the lame stream of air that couldn’t cool the belly of a grasshopper in Greenland, signaled the system was near its end of life.
His dad, a contractor for more than fifty years had more knowledge in the gold-colored shoestrings of his construction boots than a brigade of builders, so it seemed natural to lean on him for his expertise.
A sarcastic burst of laughter rumbled through his chest at the cheesy notion that the call would be filled with unicorns and rainbows.
Especially today. But Wolfe tried, as he always did, to bridge the gap in an effort to connect with his only living blood relative.
He wished the call would be filled with fun, a time when father and son could just shoot the shit, but not today. Not ever, actually.
Like he said, he was a masochist.
“Might as well get this over with.”
Wolfe took out his cell phone and jabbed the contact number for his dad.
Just when Wolfe felt a sense of relief that the call would slip to voicemail, the phone connected.
“Shelllllo,” the voice slurred.
Wolfe portrayed a never-give-a-fuck persona to the world, but at hearing the garbled speech of the man on the other end of the phone, he was catapulted back to the time when he was a scrawny twelve-year-old whose grief and fear shrouded him in an ironclad hold.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?” Wolfe asked, his voice sounding foreign to himself, almost tinny. Certainly not the booming, confident voice of the NHL’s top D-man who made millions each year in endorsements alone.
“Howthefuck do you shinnnk it’s going?”
“Yeah, I know,” Wolfe replied deflated, striking the tip of his steel-toed boot against the wood floor in his kitchen. “I uh, have a question about an air conditioner, do you think you could help me troubleshoot?”
Another long pause.
And then a booming voice poured through the speaker of Wolfe’s phone in furious liquid fire.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You have the balls to call today—today of all days— and you have the fucking gall to ask me how to fix something?” his father screeched through the phone.
“You want to fix something? Learn how to watch your fucking little sister before she drowns. How about figuring out a way to keep your mom from dying from a fucking heart attack. Start with that, you no good excuse for a son.”
Wolfe couldn’t argue with the words gushing from the man’s mouth. Unfortunately, his drunk father took the opportunity to continue his tirade when Wolfe didn’t respond.
“You’re a second-rate hockey player whose dumb luck landed you where you are today,” he bleated out, getting more irrational with each poisonous word slurred. “You couldn’t build your way out of a wet paper bag if you tried—”
Wolfe disconnected the call, shaking his head in disgust.
Disgust in the fact that he thought the phone call would be any different.
Disgust that he attempted to connect with his dad, knowing full well how the conversation would end.
Every. Single. Fucking. Time.
Wolfe swiped his scotch-filled tumbler from the counter and slammed the amber-colored liquor in two giant gulps. His breath heaving while anguish ripped through him at the memory of his dad’s words, like a shredding machine obliterated paper into tiny pieces.
His true words.
He was a shitty brother. All he had to do was watch his little sister while they played at the swimming hole.
But twelve-year-old Wolfe couldn’t be bothered.
He was too busy splashing around and swimming with his friends so he ignored Elle’s begging to return to the shore to get the snacks from his backpack.
He didn’t even notice when she left the pathetic inflatable raft she was sitting on while he played a vigorous game of keep away with his buds.
He also didn’t notice that she’d taken off her life jacket that laid stiffly on the bright yellow raft, her small body nowhere to be seen.
It was then he heard her tiny voice call his name as her elbows, forearm, wrists and then fingertips flayed and then dipped under the water.
Wolfe could feel that sense of weightlessness only pure fear produced in the body as he worked to swim the thirty yards to where he’d seen her go down under the water.
He arrived at the spot he thought she went down and started an endless cycle of diving to find her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t see well under the water and tried with all his might to feel for any sign of her.
Each time he surfaced, Wolfe would suck in a gigantic gulp of air, knowing that the next dive would result in locating Elle.
But it didn’t.
Some of his friends went to the shore to call for help while Wolfe continued his efforts to find his sister.
His baby sister who so loved sweets that she probably took off her life vest, thinking she could make it to the shore quicker to get to the stash of treats he’d packed for her when their parents demanded Wolfe take her swimming.
Even with the dive team from the fire department onsite, Wolfe, now standing on the shoreline with a scratchy wool blanket slung around his shoulders, knew his sister was gone.
Days later at the funeral, he sat between his parents who cried uncontrollably during the service as the priest talked about his sister’s love of sweets. It felt like a knife was being driven deeper and deeper into his heart.
Home was never the same. His dad drunk himself to oblivion every night and his mom simply went through the motions of life. She died of a massive heart attack when Wolfe turned sixteen, but he knew deep down that her heart broke to the point it could no longer beat after Elle died.
Filling the tumbler with more scotch, Wolfe took another mighty gulp, then placed the bottle back in the cabinet and the glass in the dishwasher he’d installed a few years back.
He felt a little more relaxed thanks to the effects of the quality alcohol. He certainly felt the rage coursing through his body, but he refused to succumb to the life his dad chose of spending each night in a drunken stupor.
Thank fuck that Wolfe found hockey. He stumbled upon a men’s league when he was working at a local ice rink to make money for his truck and somehow ended up playing with a team that was short a player.
Although he never admitted it out loud, especially with the chip the size of Gibraltar on his shoulder, being on the ice broke the chains of grief that consumed him.
It also turned out he was good. Very good.
He joined his high school team and was drafted right out of high school to play in the minors. He left his childhood home, his dad cussing him out as Wolfe drug a duffle bag across the floor and out the door and into a new world.
A few years later, he made it to the Show and met Dante, who was facing his own demons having to raise his little sister after their parents died in a car crash.
Dante was his best friend and his sister, Mia, was as close to flesh and blood as it came, but Wolfe never got close to anyone really.
He never called people by their names—always a nickname. He should probably get some serious psychological help to figure out the shit bouncing in his brain like bumper cars but the bottom line was he was broken.
And he hid his brokenness with an I-could-give-a-fuck attitude whether it be on the ice or in life.
Wolfe’s phone pinged with a text notification, which ripped him from his depressing as fuck and useless pity party.
Dinner—6 at Hinsdale Park. Aspen
Wolfe bowed his head and released a long breath.
Why he pushed for dinner on all days, the anniversary of his sister’s death was beyond all rational thought.
Maybe Aspen’s light might seep into his bones and help him forget everything on this dreaded day. Elle’s death anniversary.
It was selfish as fuck, but that’s what Wolfe wanted. Needed.
A Park? Interesting. CU there.
As long as the location was quiet and he didn’t have to deal with a fuck-ton of people, Wolfe convinced himself he could get beyond the anniversary of his sister’s death and the crappy call with his dad and enjoy the evening with Aspen.
He headed toward his master bedroom to shower and stopped at an end table under the window where a framed picture of Elle rested behind a set of pastel pink battery-operated candles.
Wolfe flipped a package of cherry licorice Nibs on the table to join other sweets in their packages including a candy bar and a sleeve of packaged donuts.
“Here you go, kid.”
Wiping the wetness that gathered in his eyes, Wolfe pulled all of his energy to put the past behind him and focus on the ribbon of joy that came into his life in the form of a spunky baker.
He’d committed her soft curves to memory like the exact spot to aim a one-timer so it rattled the crossbar of the goal and tumbled into the net.
Hopefully, the watchful woman wouldn’t see through the screen he used to shield his true self: an imposter using a bravado of nastiness to survive each day.
All in an effort to keep the consuming grief and guilt at bay.
Too bad it still nipped at his heels with the ferocity of a hound dog on a hunt.