Chapter 9
NINE
EVAN
Ronan wasn’t weak, but it was clear he didn’t use his exercise room much. I shouldn’t judge, though. I was used to being in a gym filled with professional athletes. After showing him some squats, using his ball against the wall, and core exercises for his back, it was time for dinner.
I stood next to the kitchen island while he slid the lasagna off the stove. Who would have expected a rock star like him would be so domestic at home? It blew my mind every time I saw it. “What can I do to help?”
“Set the table again?” He placed the tray full of steaming noodles, meat sauce, and melted cheese on the stovetop.
“Sure.” By now, I was familiar with his kitchen.
Again, who would have expected this? I retrieved plates from an upper cupboard and then silverware from the drawer in the island and brought them to the table.
“You know, I showed my buddy Colton how to lift weights. He ran a lot and wanted to bulk up.” Would Ronan want to drink bourbon again? I couldn’t do that tonight.
“Yeah? And Colton is?” He removed a bowl of salad and dressing from the refrigerator and brought the items to the table. “You know, maybe we should get our lasagna off the stove.”
“Sure.” I picked up my plate and strolled to the refrigerator. “Colton has been my best friend since second grade. We’ve been through a lot. He’s in his last year at ASU, getting his MBA.” I grabbed a Gatorade from his refrigerator. “What are you drinking?”
“Oh, I’m having a bourbon.” He set a square piece of lasagna on his plate, brought it to the table and then strolled toward his bar. “Do you want one?”
I peered at him. How much did he drink? Was it every day? “No, not with the game tomorrow. I should take it easy.”
With a bourbon bottle in his hand, he paused at the bar, then set it down. “You know what? Grab me a Gatorade, too.” As he twisted around, a smirk played on his lips.
Could he hear my damn thoughts? Hell, it was encouraging though. “Okay.” I pulled out another bottle for him, scooped lasagna onto my plate, and met him at the dining table, dropping in beside him.
“So, after this next game, you travel back to San Jose?” He spooned salad onto his plate.
“Yes, and if we’re lucky enough to win that game, we win the series, and then we’ll have a week off before the next series starts.” I added salad to my plate and then poured dressing on it. Hell, how could I fill a free week? There’d be practices, but would I spend most of my time here?
“A week off, huh?” He hooked a brow. “Maybe I’ll buy more lube.” With a quick laugh, he cut into his food.
My dick stirred. Yep, I’d be here. But where was this going? “What about your schedule?” I stuffed lasagna into my mouth. If we continued this, when would seeing each other be difficult? Because it was bound to get hard.
“I rest for another six weeks, then we enter a recording studio for a few weeks to get the new material down with professional sound engineers and our producer.” He sipped his Gatorade.
Did that mean he’d leave for LA in six weeks? “Oh? Where is this studio?” I ate some salad.
“We record at the Saltmine Studios in Mesa. It’s a hike from here, but it’s better than having to live in some rented place in LA.
” He studied me. “I like to be home as much as possible, if we’re not on tour.
” He shrugged a shoulder. “Hell, if this place is good enough for Jimmy Eat World and Chester Bennington, when he was alive...” He pressed his palms together and looked up for a beat, as if in quick prayer.
“It’s good enough for me.” With a smirk, he ate more food.
“Did you, uh, are you a fan of Linkin Park?” All this time I’d spent with him, and we’d never really discussed music. I drank my Gatorade.
“Yeah, the band is iconic, and no one can belt out a song like Chester.” He shook his head. “It’s really fucked he left us so soon.”
“I, uh, beg to differ on your first statement.” As a slow smirk played on my mouth, I said, “You can belt out songs better than him.” I pointed my fork at him. “Maybe I’m biased after seeing you in lace, but I thought it before I met you, too.” Didn’t he know what a great vocalist he was?
“Thank you…” As his cheeks pinked, he dipped his head. “I grew up listening to Linkin Park though, so it’s hard to imagine me being as good as him.” His gaze swept to mine. “Who’s your favorite defensive hockey player?”
“Who? Shit…” I had so many. I pushed lettuce around on my plate. “Bobby Orr, of course. Best defenseman ever.”
He set his fork on his plate, his smirk widening. “How would you compare yourself to him? Because in that last game, you looked pretty damn good to me.”
“Oh, hell…” I sniggered. He had a point. “Yeah, no comparison. Grant me a few years in the NHL first, though.” Flashing him a cheesy grin, I ate more food. “This is excellent, by the way. When did you learn to cook?”
“When I was ten.” His smile waned. “You could say it was necessary for survival.” He stuffed lasagna into his mouth.
There it was again—his disparaging comments about his childhood. But hell, someone had actually murdered his mother. That was some serious shit. I squeezed his forearm, resting next to his plate. “Your mother didn’t cook much, I take it?”
He huffed a laugh. “No, if it were up to her, I’d only have eaten fast food and Hostess cupcakes.” He sipped his drink. “I started cooking for her. Sometimes, it felt like I was the parent.”
Could I ask more about her death, or would it upset him? “Are you ready to tell me more about her death?” I winced. Was there a better way to ask?
He breathed in deeply, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “She started seeing this guy she’d met at a bar. I only met him once.” He clenched his jaw. “They attended a gig when the band opened for Fall Out Boy in Seattle.”
Jesus, he probably knew the guys in all these famous bands. I hadn’t thought of that. But didn’t I know a lot of famous hockey players? It came with the territory. “Yeah?” I set my silverware down, watching him closely.
“I invited them backstage after we’d played and they partied with us a little, but I noticed the guy, his name is Larry Tuley, he started pushing my mom around.” He hung his head. “It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her with abusive boyfriends.”
“So, you got between them?” How would I act given the same situation? Hell, I’d knock the guy on his ass. I held my breath, waiting for him to go on. I wanted to hear the entire story this time. Not the abbreviated version.
“I tried, but my mom stopped me. She didn’t want me to anger him any more than he already was.” He clenched his fork so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “I asked her to leave, and she did.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?” Holy fuck, how awful. He’d really had it bad growing up. I rubbed his shoulder.
“No, I saw her after that time. I never saw her with him, though. I think she knew I didn’t approve of him.” He leaned into my touch.
“Where is this guy now?” I’d Google this shit. Information must exist on it somewhere. I dropped my forearm onto the table.
“He’s in prison. A maximum-security facility in Washington State.” He flicked a smirk at me. “He got twenty-five years. If he lives long enough to see the end of his term, he’ll be in his seventies.”
I nodded. I didn’t need to ask more questions about it.
Ronan had stopped eating.
“So, tell me more about these songs you’ve been working on? Is it similar to your other stuff?” I cut off a bite of lasagna with my fork. If I started eating again, maybe he would too.
“Yeah, it’s similar. Maybe not as frantic as our older songs.” He ate some salad. “I hope our fans don’t think we’ve sold out.” He rolled his eyes.
“Why do you say that?” I glanced toward his studio. Would I be lucky enough to hear some of it before it released?
“You know, a lot of times bands are rough and unpolished when they first enter the scene. With maturity, the songs slow and have more of a produced feel to them.” He took a long inhale.
“It’s a natural progression, but fans think it’s selling out.
” He huffed a laugh. “Hell, I’ve thought that about so many bands. ”
“I never would have noticed it. I just like the music,” I said, finishing the last of my food. He was eating again, so the change of topic worked. Hell, it was getting late, and I should go home. “I’ll, uh, help with the dishes again and then—”
“I know. You need to bounce.” He ate more lasagna and then set his fork on his plate, leaving a few bites. “Come on.” He rose and grabbed both of our plates. “Do you want to take some home? Maybe you can eat it before or after your game.” He strolled to the sink.
“Uh, sure. But not too much. I leave for San Jose the day after tomorrow.” Hell, I wouldn’t see him again until after the trip. While standing, I gathered the remaining items from the table and brought them to the sink.
He rinsed the dishes and set them in his dishwasher. “I’ll give you one of my nice Tupperware containers, then you’ll feel obligated to bring it back here and see me.” He let out a soft chuckle.
“Hey.” Why would he think I wouldn’t see him again? Surrounding him from behind, I rested my chin on his shoulder. “I’m seeing you again, no matter what you put the lasagna in.” I kissed the side of his head. Maybe I’d made him uncertain about my feelings since I’d told him about my freak-out?
“Yeah, okay. The Tupperware sits in a drawer beside the oven.” He tilted his head toward the oven.
I squeezed him and then stepped to the drawers, opening each one until I found the containers. They were glass with plastic lids. “Yeah, these are nice. Where did you get them?” I pulled out a round one and added half of the remaining lasagna to it.
“Costco. They had an extensive set of them.” He shut off the water and twisted around, resting his ass against the counter. “Maybe I’ll heat the rest of that up tomorrow when I watch the game with Drew.”