Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Thorne
Against my own desires, I'm up with the sun. I'm not sure when the sleep-as-much-as-you-can laziness of my twenties faded into waking up absurdly early to get in an extra workout, but here we are. I roll over, and look at my phone with a groan.
Just because I'm an early riser doesn't mean I like the mornings.
Squinting at the screen, I realize that I have several missed calls and texts. Some from late last night, some from even earlier this morning.
The first is a voicemail from my mom. She doesn't normally call, preferring to text. Her voice sounds tight with some kind of emotion. "Alex, honey. This is Mom calling. Call me when you have a chance. I... um... Just call me."
Worried, I call her back immediately, figuring that dawn here means it's mid-morning in Orlando, where she lives. But it goes to voicemail.
I check my other messages quickly. My agent has a new potential sponsorship he wants to talk to me about. Juliet texted that she got my request for tickets for a family in need and will take care of it. Finding nothing else to worry about, I start to relax until I see the last name on the list.
Naomi. A blast from the past, and not in a good way. We dated for two years after college, but I ended things when I realized that she and I didn't feel the same way about each other. She was way more into our relationship and being a WAG than I was. At 23, I still had a whole world to explore.
Our relationship fell prey to the wandering eye that I got from my father. Thanks, Dad.
Naomi's text is very confusing.
Naomi
Hey, Thorne! Long time no see. I want to catch up with you, if you have a minute. There are some things you're going to see in the news that involve me, that I'd love to explain. Text me anytime!
Yeah, not happening. My breakup with Naomi was dramatic and overwrought. A lot of angry, sobbing voicemails when I was trying to make a clean break. I would rather step on a rake a dozen times than go back to that part of my life.
Instead of trying my mom again or texting Naomi to see what she wants, I pull on my workout shorts and go for a nice long run.
By the time I wander into the main house, freshly showered and hungry enough to eat my own arm, I've all but forgotten about them.
"Thorne!" Jett and Silas are in the kitchen, making a late breakfast of eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast. "Happy Fourth of July. You want some eggs?"
"Hell yeah." I ease into my golden boy persona, and spread my hands wide. "Can I help?"
"You can start making toast." Jett nods to the loaf of bread.
"Happy to."
Silas is transferring the bacon onto paper towels.
"I was just telling Jett about the trade rumors.
There's a whisper campaign going on about Konstantin Kuznetsov, the power forward.
I'm hearing that he's extremely unhappy in LA and is campaigning to play either here or in Vancouver.
Apparently, he doesn't like the sunny weather. "
"Lots of sun in LA,” I muse, feeling slightly ill. I need a power center added to our team like I need an extra hole in the head.
Silas pours a batch of scrambled eggs in the same pan he used for the bacon.
"I heard that he's being compared to a young Alexander Thorne," Jett says.
I screw up my face. "Isn't he 30? That’s only 2 years younger than me."
"I think the consensus is that he's got the same energy as you had the first year you were in the NHL."
"The Havoc already has one of me. They don't need another, unless there’s something Coach Cross isn't telling me."
The two brothers share a glance.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about," Silas says, which is the kind of thing people say when they absolutely think you have something to worry about.
The name sits in my chest like a swallowed puck.
Konstantin Kuznetsov. I know exactly who he is.
Every captain in the league knows him. It’s the same way you’d know the names of natural disasters or of men who've done prison time. He’s high scoring, aggressive as hell, and the kind of utility forward that makes coaches salivate because he can play any position and make it look easy.
The Los Angeles Sharks loved him, right up until the moment they didn't.
The moment being the game where he put his own teammate in the hospital.
So now he wants to come here? Fuck.
"Right," I say to Silas. "Probably nothing."
The gossip makes my food taste like sawdust even though I just went on a six-mile run.
When I make it out to the dock, it's packed with people celebrating, laying out, taking turns riding the Jet Skis, and drinking a mysterious red punch that comes out of a cooler. My eyes rove the dock, looking for a flash of red hair and the mouthy young woman it belongs to.
There she is. Mollie is in a baby-pink string-bikini with her gorgeous legs, toned stomach, and barely-there-but-enticing-anyway tits on full display. She's standing next to Brad again, laughing and putting her hand on his unclothed chest. I steel my expression and try not to glare at her.
Brad is seriously asking for death when he leans over, tucks back a wispy strand of red hair, and whispers something in her ear. She bursts into a fit of giggles.
The sound arrests me. Have I ever heard her giggle before? Surely I must have. But I can’t think of when, and that bothers me.
Luckily, her friend Indie nudges her, drawing her into conversation. I relax a bit.
The day flows on. I try not to watch her too closely. At least, I try to watch her without looking like I’m watching. It’s a skill I’m embarrassed to have developed.
I know what number drink she's on. She's had three White Claws since noon. Brad handed her the last two, and I can tell she's past the point where her judgment is fully her own.
Brad either hasn't noticed or doesn't care. Typical baseball player.
But I think she's safe while she's with her friend Indie, so I finally wrench myself free of my one-sided staring contest and head over to Hunter, Jett, Silas, and Moose. They have a heated game of horseshoes going.
Moose swings the horseshoe, testing it as he lines up his shot. "When I nail this one, the loser does the dishes tonight."
"Like the last three you've nailed?" Hunter grunts.
"I've never seen a man as unlucky as you," Jett surmises. "But go ahead."
Moose spits on the ground, mumbles under his breath, and sends the horseshoes flying. It lands with a clang, circling the metal post. He pumps his fist. "Yesss!"
"Can I get in on this?" I ask.
"Sure. What do you have to bet?" Silas asks me.
I think for a moment. "How about we all have a shot, and the ones that don't make it have to skate a hundred laps on Monday?"
"Ooh, that's ice cold." Moose grins. "You know I'm in."
After a lot of razzing, I throw and miss. Moose and Hunter do too, but Silas and Jett hit the post and keep the horseshoe on.
"Nice," Silas says, pleased. He turns his head, scanning the crowd. "I should probably go check on my wife."
Jett claps him on the back. "I'm sure that Juliet and Jessa are seeing to her needs. Those three are tighter than a tater wedged in a tailpipe."
Silas looks pained. “I like to be the one she asks for help.”
“Gross,” Jett says. “But that’s also kind of sweet.”
Silas and Hunter look at each other, then silently shove off in search of their wives. Jett shakes his head at them. "Never seen two men who were so damn whipped."
"Weren't you with some girl the other day?"
Jett cuts me a look. "Yeah. Megan. I'm not sure we are even going to see each other again, though. I haven't heard from her in a while. Women, am I right?"
"Yeah." My gaze travels to the dock, searching for Mollie's red hair. It’s not hard to spot Mollie, because Indie has electric blue hair and they’re always next to each other.
Moose clears his throat. "So what's going on with you and little Tate?"
"Little Tate?" I echo, horrified. "That's the worst way I've ever heard her described."
"Sorry. Beck's little sister," he clarifies.
“Aside from the fact that she’s crashing at my place? Nothing. Should I be aware of something?"
Moose scowls. "We're doing that now, huh?"
"Doing what?"
"Lying to each other's faces."
Jett coughs to hide his chuckle. "I think Thorne is still way, wayyyyy in denial."
"Okay." Moose shrugs. "Whatever's clever."
I stretch, refusing to think too hard about what they are implying "Does anyone want another beer?"
"Nah. I'm good," Moose says.
"Same," Jett replies.
I turn and look for Mollie again while I amble toward the cooler on the dock. Looking around for a shock of blue hair, I realize that Indie has vanished. But I spot Mollie, twenty yards away from the dock, down the shore.
And she's alone with that fuckface Brad again. God damn it. As I watch, he opens another White Claw for her. And she leans in to accept it, smiling up at him, her expression almost impish. Then I see her stumble a bit and laugh at herself.
A bolt of anger runs through me. I wasn’t paying enough attention to Mollie and now she’s so tipsy she can’t walk?
Did she get tipsy while I was playing horseshoes? It was only about an hour. As I stalk closer though, she trips over her own feet. Brad reaches out, steadying her, and leans down to whisper something in her ear. His expression is an outright leer.
Mollie's smile falls away, and she looks up at him with consternation. "But I don't want to!"
I was already halfway running, but at that I start to sprint. Brad glances back and sees me coming. His face pales.
I must look like an avenging angel.
"Mollie." I snag her attention and tug her to me. "You need an escort back to your cabin?"
Mollie swallows, looking at Brad. "Uhh..."
"She's fine. Right, honey?"
I take a step toward him, ready to throw down. "You don't speak for her."
He rolls his eyes. "What are you, her big brother?"
"I'm right here," Mollie says, irritable. "You don't have to talk about me as if I’m dead."
Then she hiccups.