Chapter 6 Scotty
Scotty
Iwhipped my head around and stared at Ryder like he had somehow orchestrated this entire disaster for his personal amusement. "This is your mother?" I blurted, and it came out sharper than intended, edged with accusation I didn't bother sanding down.
It wasn't technically his fault that his mother was standing in my dad's kitchen looking polished and composed while I felt like my entire day had been thrown into a blender and set to liquefy.
But at any point during our little adventure, he could have mentioned the minor detail that his mother was romantically involved with my father.
Ryder didn't blink. Not even a twitch. The man could probably take a slap shot to the face and calmly request a replay in slow motion.
"Yeah," he said with the same flat tone he'd use to comment on the weather, completely ignoring the fact that we'd just caught his mother with her tongue down my father's throat.
"She helps with the team's social media. "
Of-fucking-course she does.
Of course, the universe would decide that the Alpha who licked my release out of his boyfriend's mouth would turn out to be the son of the woman currently dating my father.
Were they dating? Was this serious? Was this a casual thing?
I genuinely didn't know which option was worse.
The question burned in my throat: had he known all along?
Had he strolled into my father's house with the full knowledge that his mother was romantically entangled with my dad?
But asking him now, with both sets of parental eyes watching us, was impossible.
And after what had happened earlier, the prospect of getting Ryder alone tonight to demand answers seemed even more dangerous than this current nightmare.
For a moment, I contemplated simply sliding to the floor and surrendering to the sweet embrace of extinction.
Instead, I turned to my dad and gave him a very clear what the fuck is happening expression.
Dad's throat-clearing cut through the tension like a whistle blast, and I watched Hunter and Ryder's spines snap to attention before they even seemed aware they were doing it. Twenty years of coaching had given him the ability to command a room without saying a word—even his own kitchen.
"I didn't hear you answer your mother's question," he said, gaze narrowing slightly. "Why are you here? With my daughter?"
Hunter stepped forward with that charming, disarming grin that could make a nun question her vows.
"There was a little accident," he said smoothly. "We gave Little Scotty a ride home."
He puts the barest emphasis on the word ride. Not enough to be obvious; just enough that I noticed.
Dad's attention snapped to me. "An accident? Jesus Scotty, what happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I said quickly, forcing calm into my voice. "It wasn't that bad. But I think my car might be a write-off."
Hunter nodded solemnly beside me, like he was delivering a diagnosis in a hospital hallway. "She was pretty wrecked."
I shot him a glare that could have melted the ice at center rink.
Dad caught it. His gaze moved slowly between the three of us, reading more than I wanted him to. "And you boys just happened to be there?" he asked.
Ryder held my dad's gaze. "We were on our way home when it happened."
Dad studied him for a moment longer before turning back to me. "Did you call insurance?"
"Yes. It's at the garage. I'll deal with it tomorrow. If I can borrow your car."
"You don't even have to ask," he said immediately, softening. "Of course you can."
The kitchen fell silent for a heartbeat.
Dad's eyes found Morgan's across the room, and they shared a look so intimate that I felt like an intruder in my own childhood home, a knot forming somewhere between my ribs and navel.
It made me realize that whatever was going on here wasn't something new. This wasn't a fling. This was a thing.
"Well," Dad said after a moment, shifting into host mode. "Since you boys are here, would you like to join us for dinner?"
My stomach rolled from the unexpected gut punch.
Growing up, players had come in and out of this house constantly.
Dinner invites weren't unusual. What was unusual was that when I came home after months away, he usually cleared the evening.
It was just us. Takeout containers. Catching up.
Him pretending not to interrogate my life choices while absolutely interrogating them.
But tonight wasn't usual. Tonight featured Morgan.
And Morgan's hockey-playing son.
And that son's Alpha teammate who'd had his mouth on me hours earlier.
Today was a psychological endurance test, and I was not passing with flying colors.
"You should stay," I said quickly, because the idea of being left alone in this emotional minefield with just Dad and Morgan felt significantly more dangerous. "You must be starving. It's been a long day."
Hunter's mouth curved slowly, like he understood exactly how loaded that sentence was. "Oh, we're starving."
"Famished," Ryder added mildly, his gaze flicking to mine half a second too long.
I will not react. I was mature. I was composed. I was absolutely not replaying the ride over in high definition.
That's how I found myself wedged between two NHL stars at my childhood dining table, surrounded by enough Chinese takeout containers to feed their entire roster.
Hunter's knee pressed lightly against mine beneath the table as if by accident. Ryder's arm draped across the back of my chair in a way that looked casual but boxed me in neatly.
"I'm so glad you're okay," Morgan said warmly. "Car accidents can be frightening."
"It really wasn't that bad," I assured her, which was technically true if you ignored the emotional pileup that had preceded it.
"You could have been hurt," Dad added, frowning slightly.
Ryder's voice dropped to a quiet rumble. "We made sure nothing happened to her." As he reached for his water glass, his knuckles grazed my skin—casual enough that anyone watching might think it accidental. It was not accidental. I felt it all the way down to my toes.
Morgan's gaze shifted between us, thoughtful but unreadable, before she brightened and pivoted the conversation toward safer territory. "Have you seen my boys play?"
There was something oddly sweet about the way she said it.
My boys. At least she was comfortable with their relationship.
There was still this ridiculous stigma around hockey players — hell, around any sport — that they had to be granite-faced and emotionally constipated to qualify as tough.
Like loving another man somehow made you softer.
I had always hated that logic. As if who you dated determined how well you could play the game.
"I try to watch as many of Dad's games as possible," I told her politely.
"Aww, it's so sweet you support your dad's team like that, Scotty," Hunter teased, glancing at me as he reached for more food. "Are you as committed to the outcome as we are"?
Under the table, Ryder's fingers slid along the outside of my thigh, dangerously close to my pantyline, before retreating like nothing had happened.
These fucking Alphas were driving me insane.
Dinner moved along in this strange, layered normalcy. Dad talked about drills. Hunter pushed back lightly about practice intensity. Ryder asked thoughtful questions about defensive pairings like any other night. Morgan chimed in about promotional shoots and social engagement.
The entire time, I was hyperaware. Of the warmth on either side of me. Of coffee and cinnamon, threading faintly beneath soy sauce and spice. Of the way my pulse refused to behave.
Of the fact that if Morgan and Dad knew what had happened in that limo, I would simply cease to exist out of embarrassment.
As the plates emptied and conversation slowed, Dad reached for Morgan's hand. His fingers curled around hers like they'd done it a hundred times before.
"We were going to wait to tell you," Dad said finally, glancing around the table, "but since you're all here, we might as well get it over with."
Today's lesson seemed to be that just when you think you've reached maximum chaos, life finds a way to up the ante.
And whatever was brewing behind my father's expression suggested we weren't even in the third period yet.