Chapter 2 Briar
Briar
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I don’t know why. I don’t have time for a simple conversation, much less dating.
All I wanted tonight was the free drinks and appetizers-for-dinner my dad promised. This bar’s got a pretty decent kitchen. And honestly, sitting home alone while my son, Harley, is with his sperm donor gets boring. I always miss him when he’s gone . . . and worry the whole time too.
But Dominic did grab my attention for some reason. Maybe in the way our conversation ended.
He walked away easy enough, not upset at my dismissal, and the guys he went back to pretty obviously laughed at him, yet he didn’t grit his teeth or look angry. That’s . . . unusual.
Except now, as he strides across the room, heading for the door, he looks downright furious. Until he sees me.
I watch as he pulls that anger in, tucking it under a facade of calm, cool, and collected as he approaches once more.
“Look, I’m sorry about before. I didn’t know you were Coach’s daughter.
They told me to do some shitty fuck, marry, kill thing and I just pointed you out because you’re beautiful and honestly, were the closest woman to me.
When they told me to come talk to you, I just wanted to get away from those fucksticks, but apparently it was all some sort of hazing thing.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense, to you or to Coach. ”
The way the words roll off his tongue—fast and impulsive, like a stream of consciousness he doesn’t even try to control—makes him seem genuine, and I can definitely see the guys pulling that sort of prank on a newbie so I choose to believe him.
Mostly. “They’re assholes, the whole lot of them.
Anderson especially.” I cut my eyes across the room to the slick-talking goalie who never wants for female company.
Puck bunnies basically line up to hop on his dick, which I don’t understand.
“They said you don’t do guys or players or whatever. It’s none of my business, but you’re right. You should stay away from them.” He gives me the warning as if I’m not wholly aware of that, his eyes dark and his jaw set in stone beneath a slight scruff.
“Away from you, you mean?” I correct.
“I’m not one of them,” he snaps, tossing a thumb behind him to point at the other players.
Stating the obvious, I remind him, “You’re wearing a team shirt.”
He glances down at himself, seeming surprised to find the baby-blue shirt with the team logo on the chest. “I keep forgetting I have the damn thing on. It feels weird, like it’s the wrong color, the wrong size, the wrong everything.
It doesn’t belong on me and I don’t belong here.
” He fidgets and squirms like the T-shirt is irritating his skin as he glances at the sea of baby-blue shirts in the bar, looking like he wants nothing more than to rip his shirt over his head and toss it, along with everyone else’s, into a big bonfire.
Shoving his hands through his dark hair, he drops to the stool beside me and grumbles, “Fuck my life.”
“Welcome to the team,” I say dryly, and he glares at me coldly.
At least I’m not the only one who thinks this franchise is a mess.
Dominic obviously agrees wholeheartedly, and he doesn’t know the half of it.
On the ice, off the ice, it’s a small miracle the Blizzard got to the Cup finals last season. “So what’d you label me?”
“Huh?”
“Fuck, marry, or kill?” I lift a finger for each option and then wiggle them at him.
And I swear to God, the man blushes. He ducks his head, but I can see the touch of redness rising on his cheeks above his scruff.
“I’m embarrassed to say fuck. In my defense, I said marry the bartender because I think I’m going to need to take up drinking as a hobby to make it through this season here. ”
“That a problem for you? Drinking, I mean?”
He recoils as though I slapped him. “No. I had one shot of whiskey when I got here, then sipped on two beers and two Jack-free Cokes so I could keep my wits about me tonight. That’s probably more than I’ve had in the last month, and that includes the going-away dinner my sister threw me.”
Unneeded details usually mean the guy is lying. I know that down to my soul. But there’s something about the way he says it, and again, I believe him . . . for now. Foolhearted? Probably. But what else is new?
“Who’d you say kill?”
He huffs a dry laugh, and taps his chest. “Me.”
“Aw, poor, pitiful Dominic. Playing professional hockey on a team that tons of guys would kill to be on. Your life is so tough, isn’t it?”
I know what I’m doing—teasing and taunting and poking and prodding, but mostly testing his reactions, his limits, his edges.
The guys are right about me. I don’t fuck around and I don’t date (especially hockey players), but Dominic is surprisingly fun to talk to.
Or maybe I’m just desperate for conversation with an actual adult, given most of my daily chats are either with my nine-year-old son, or a monkey.
Being a zookeeper severely limits your conversation options sometimes.
Dominic flashes me a shit-eating grin. “I know I sound like a whiny baby. And I am thankful for the opportunity.” That’s the first lie he’s said. I can see it clear as day, like the polite, professional response caused a visceral reaction inside him because it’s patently untrue.
“What was so great about the Hawks?” I ask curiously. “They couldn’t have been that different. Hockey is hockey, after all.”
“The Cup,” he says reverently, his eyes closed and hands in front of him like he’s holding a ghost trophy.
Shaking it off, he says, “It’s home, you know?
I’ve been there so long, my whole NHL career in fact.
And it’s a great group of guys. We give each other a hard time, but it’s all done in love.
They’re the first to show up if you need something.
They even came over to help me pack, though they did more shit-talking about the Blizzard than putting stuff in boxes.
” He chuckles at the memory and I realize he talks about the Hawks like he’s still one of them. I think in his heart, he is.
“And I got to play with my best friend, Griffin.” He leans my way, revealing, “We’ve always called ourselves brothers, and now we actually are.
He’s married to my little sister.” His wide smile shows true happiness, but I remember there being something in the news last season about the two of them going at it on the ice mid-game.
“The sister who threw you a going-away dinner?”
“The one and only Penny Lee, the badass who’s able to trip over her own feet when she’s sitting down, create art from her own hands, and somehow get my asshole bestie to wax poetic.
” He shakes his head in disbelief, though he speaks about her in clear admiration.
“She’s either a miracle worker or a freak of nature, one or the other for sure.
” He weighs the two options in his hands, neither coming out the sole winner.
“She sounds awesome. I’m sorry you had to leave her, your friends, and your team behind.”
“Me too,” he says as the bartender stops in front of us.
“Another Coke, please. No sugar this time. You want anything?” he asks me.
“Another—” He glances at the cocktail in front of me.
Like him, I don’t drink much, so when I get the chance, I do it right, with all the creamy, fruity goodness I can swallow. “Pina colada?”
“No, I’ll take a water with a splash of grenadine, please. Oh, and a lemon.” To Dominic, I explain, “It looks fancy and tastes good, but keeps my head clear.” I give him a narrow-eyed warning, expecting him to scoff at my girly, boring drink, but he nods and mouths smart like he understands.
Like he’s well aware of the effect he has on people .
. . on women. Even, and I hate to admit this, me.
Because I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed his broad shoulders, scruff-covered jawline, and dark eyes that seem to take in everything around him.
I’d also have to pretend that my heart hasn’t been pitter-pattering in my chest and my dust-bunny-covered center hasn’t been suddenly awakened from a too-long slumber by the smell of his cologne.
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us in seconds and disappears. “What brings you to . . . here?” Dominic asks, waving a hand vaguely. He doesn’t mean the bar, but this town, this area, this . . . here.
“My ex,” I answer as I take a sip of my drink. Poke, poke, poke.
He doesn’t flinch, not a single muscle tightens in his face or body. Huh, weird. One thing guys don’t like to hear about is the ones who came before them. Not that Dominic is coming anywhere near me, but it’s true in general. Or at least that’s my experience.
“He got a job, so we moved. Bonus that my dad was here.” It was not a bonus at all.
At that point, I wasn’t even talking to my dad, who divorced my mom when I was seven and only occasionally came around after that.
But when I’d finally worked up the courage to leave Tyler, Dad was the only resource I had here.
Swallowing the last dregs of my dignity and asking him for help had taken all I’d had.
In fact, if it hadn’t been for Harley, I wouldn’t have bothered.
I would’ve been fine eventually, but I would never let my son pay the price for my pride.
“Did the job not work out? Or the guy? Or both?” He’s matter-of-fact about it, like he’s just making conversation, or at most, mildly curious.
“All of the above,” I answer. “Turns out the job was only a thing until he got caught screwing a secretary in the office.”
He hisses. “Shiiiit.”
“By his boss, who was married to the secretary.”
Dominic’s eyes go wide and he mutters, “The fuck?”
I laugh, the sense of betrayal long ago burned to ash. “Yeah, that was when I found out he’d run up our credit cards and was four months behind on the mortgage. It was a really great time in my life.”