Chapter 2
LIAM
Either Garrett had become a father really young or I was getting old, because his son—my teammate—was way too young for me, but Garrett? Oh, wow. Yes, please?
He was probably in his late forties or so. That, or he wore his fifties exceptionally well. His dark hair was gray at the edges, and salt-and-pepper five o’clock shadow sparkled along his sharp jaw. Time had left lines on his face that were a lot more attractive than they should’ve been.
Shame he was my teammate’s dad, or I might’ve entertained thoughts of—well, that didn’t matter. He was my teammate’s dad, and he was probably straight anyway.
Too bad, I couldn’t help thinking as I drank in how well he wore that suit. Maybe I’d just been alone for too long. Contrary to rumors about my slutty private life, it had been an embarrassingly long time since I’d even touched anyone.
If I’d run into Garrett Kane somewhere other than my team’s locker room, and he’d been someone other than my teammate’s father, and he’d given me even the subtlest signal that he was into men…
Oh, I’d have shot my shot for sure.
I pulled my gaze away and tried to find something else to hold my attention in the locker room.
Unfortunately, I did just that. Even more unfortunately, it wasn’t because Garrett Kane had sidled up next to me and asked if I was on Grindr. (Hey, a man could dream)
Jack Arlen, one of the sports reporters who was always in our locker room, appeared with his usual shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Oh, hey, Saints! Would you be interested in doing an interview before you head up to the box?”
Years of media training kept me from scowling.
God, I hated him. He was a terrible reporter who just liked to stir up drama for shits and clicks.
In my career, I’d seen at least half a dozen reporters lose their press credentials for far less than the crap he did on a weekly basis, but Jack wasn’t going anywhere.
Not when his stepfather owned the damn team.
And right now he was probably working on a story; that was usually when he liked to snag players before a game instead of after.
I didn’t like interviewing with him, though I often took one for the team just to keep him away from the younger players.
They weren’t as accustomed to pushy reporters who asked too-personal questions.
Dealing with them gracefully was a skill that came with time in front of cameras and microphones, and I was happy to handle shit like this while the kids honed that skill.
“Sure. Yeah.” I forced my most professional smile. “What’s up?”
He gestured for me to follow him, and we stepped out into the hallway.
Teammates and staff were still arriving, so there weren’t a lot of people out here.
Max, one of the equipment managers, was helping someone in a Detroit jacket; probably one of their equipment managers.
That wasn’t unusual at all, someone from one team helping staff from another.
The two of them were focused on their task, and the only other people in sight were Temo and Driscoll.
They always walked around the ice level a couple of times before gearing up.
As they passed, Drizz gave Jack a wary look.
I didn’t blame him; Jack had interviewed him last week, and he’d been relentless about trying to get information about his new girlfriend.
Drizz was still getting used to the media attention, and he’d been visibly uncomfortable with the pressure to reveal his personal life.
Temo just shot Jack a smirk. His strategy for answering intrusive questions was to speak fast and at length in one of his two native languages—Spanish or, more often than not, Nahuatl.
Though the network could apply subtitles if they wanted to, it kind of killed the momentum of an interview because Jack wouldn’t be able to ask follow-up questions.
He couldn’t dig like he so desperately wanted to dig, and his annoyance amused the hell out of Temo.
These days, Jack behaved himself in interviews with Temo, if only to keep himself from looking like a clown.
The newer guys like Drizz? They were still learning how to handle reporters like this.
All the more reason for me to talk to Jack instead of everyone else.
I’d been single for eight years and hadn’t even hooked up in I didn’t know how long.
My life was hockey and had been since I was six.
Reporters like Jack could dig and pry all they wanted—they weren’t going to find anything because there was nothing to find.
So, I squared my shoulders and faced him in front of the camera, calling on every ounce of media training and professionalism I possessed. When the camera started rolling, he did his usual intro, then turned to me.
“Saints, next year is the final year of your contract with the Pittsburgh Phantoms,” he began. “There’s a lot of speculation that the organization won’t extend you or that you might be ready to retire. What are your thoughts on that, and have you thought about what comes next?”
Then the microphone was in my face, and I blanked for a few beats. Good thing this wasn’t a live interview.
I pretended to be deep in thought rather than feeling like he’d just backhanded me across the face.
The issue hadn’t been far from my mind, and he wasn’t the first to ask about it, but every time someone brought it up, I didn’t have an answer.
What were my thoughts on this? What did come next?
I wished someone else would answer because fuck if I knew.
Finally, I cleared my throat and put on my best media smile.
“I mean, right now, my thoughts are on rehabbing and getting reactivated so I can join my team. My focus is playing hockey and winning. The front office knows that, and they’re fine with waiting until the off season to start discussing the future. ”
His lips twitched; he hated it when I gave him answers like that. He wanted exclusive insider information or at least some speculation about my future. The front office wouldn’t give it to him and neither would I.
He squared his shoulders. “Sooner or later, the great Liam St. Clair will retire, though. And there are people speculating that once you don’t have hockey to focus on, you might finally think about dating. Any hints about that?”
He again shoved the microphone in my face, and I again clung to years of media training. Smile firmly in place, I said, “I don’t think I’m really boyfriend material right now. Anyone who dated me would be playing second fiddle to hockey, and I don’t know how fair that is to them.”
“But with retirement on the horizon,” he pressed, “surely you’ve given it some thought?”
In that moment, I could honestly say I’d given more thought to choking Jack with a sweat-soaked hockey sock than dating. I didn’t say that, though.
I just smiled and said, “I’ll think about retirement when it gets here. Right now, all I’m thinking about is getting back on the ice with my team.”
Though he was clearly disappointed, he switched gears to ask me about my shoulder.
He’d probably end up using more of that footage than the first part of our interview; my impending return to the ice would definitely get him more clicks than my non-answers about my personal life.
Or he’d slap some salacious clickbait headline on a nothingburger of an article. Again.
Or, as he’d also done a handful of times in the past, he’d just straight up fabricate bullshit, claim he got it from a “reputable inside source who doesn’t want to be named,” retract it after a tepid apology, and somehow, he’d still have press credentials the next day.
SSDD. This guy had even leaked a player’s divorce before the couple had a chance to make a public statement, turning an already difficult time into something public and messy.
Did that get his credentials yanked? Of course it fucking didn’t.
Whatever. I couldn’t get out of doing interviews with the guy, so I just didn’t make them easy for him.
As much as I could, I gray-rocked the hell out of him.
“Yep.” “Nope.” “Mmhmm.” “Haven’t heard about that.
” “Must be quite the story.” “Guess we’ll see what happens.
” I wasn’t rude to him—not nearly as rude as I desperately wanted to be—but I gave him absolutely nothing of substance.
Like Temo, I found Jack’s annoyance hilarious.
Except this time, he’d managed to prod a nerve, and I couldn’t quite shake off the discomfort he’d left behind. Even after we were done and I’d headed back to the locker room, a flurry of unpleasant feelings clashed in my chest.
Before I could really think about them or identify them, though, I was blessedly distracted.
Kanes’s dad was standing by the locker room door, watching me with those disarming dark eyes. His expression was one of curiosity and maybe a hint of concern, so I suspected he’d overheard some of my interaction with Jack.
“They really don’t let your private lives stay private, do they?” Garrett sounded irritated. “How do you put up with reporters like that?”
I laughed dryly, glancing back at Arlen and his cameraman, who were probably searching for their next victim. “Eh, they’re kind of like the smell of hockey gear—nobody likes it, but it’s the price of admission.”
He gave a quiet chuckle. “I guess that’s true.” Glancing in their direction, he shook his head. “I don’t know how any of you do it.”
I shrugged with my uninjured shoulder. “Worse comes to worse, I look at my bank account.”
That got a real laugh out of him, and I wasn’t ready for how pretty he was when he smiled like that. Oh my God.
Except in that same instant, I also understood where his son got his charming smile, and that thought was an effective bucket of cold water. I never got involved with teammates, and I sure as hell wasn’t getting involved with a teammate’s dad.
No matter how hot he is, and no matter how long it’s been since I—
No, Liam. No.