Chapter 2 Briar #2
“You seem to be doing alright now,” he says, giving me a look of pride.
“Oh yeah,” I say, nodding, “single mother, working a job I love but that barely pays the bills, living in a house with questionable electricity that makes my son truly believe I’m magic because I can flip a breaker when it pops, and whose exciting night out consists of free drinks and food because my dad lets me crash team events gratis.
I’m expecting the Person of the Year award ceremony in my honor to happen any day.
They should be showing up with the cameras right about now.
” I glance around, knowing I sound silly, but what else am I supposed to do?
Wallow in misery over the rough years I made it through and never appreciate the amazing life I do have?
“Look out, here they come.” Dominic points past me and I have to fight the urge to turn around and peek. There’s no Time magazine crew entering the bar, I know that. But the teasing grin lifting his lips makes me want to play along.
“How’s my hair?” I ask instead.
His eyes trace over my blond hair, which I took extra time to both blow dry and curl tonight in honor of going out, even if it was to Dad’s team thing. “Gorgeous.”
His tone just changed. Like a light bulb turning on and he’s flirting now.
With me, Briar Johns. A woman who usually rocks out in cargo shorts, knee socks, and Crocs with animal Jibbitz on them while giving lectures on the various types of animals on display at the zoo to school kids on field trips.
A woman who washed her face, put on makeup, checked her reflection, and decided it looked stupid, and washed her face again, only to put on the same blush, mascara, and pink lip gloss I always wear.
A woman who’s regretting the two pina coladas and the cheese- and bacon-covered fries I consumed like a dumpster-raiding raccoon who’s hit the jackpot.
A woman who hasn’t had sex with another human in four long years and is suddenly struck by how hot Dominic Lee actually is, even if he is wearing a baby-blue Blizzard T-shirt.
“I have a son,” I blurt out. “He’s nine . . . and amazing . . . and my heart walking around outside my body . . . and he’s all I have time for.” The words tumble out, one right after the other, putting up barricades between Dominic and me with every syllable.
“I heard,” Dominic says, not repulsed at all. Quietly, he asks, “What’s his name?”
What? He knows I have a son? How?
“Harley. How did you know that?” Wariness blooms in my belly, extinguishing any long-ago embers that might’ve been trying to ignite.
“Sabine,” he explains. “His exact words were that you’re ‘anti-man, anti-player, and anti–anyone that isn’t your son.’ He didn’t mean it as a compliment, but to be fair, I completely understand your position. Kids first, always.”
“Do you have a kid? Or kids?” It’s a reasonable question. He wouldn’t be the only professional athlete, or man, with a string of kids with various women from his past.
He shakes his head, frowning. “No. Not yet. One day, though. I love kids. My favorite part of the off-season is the camps we do for them.” His frown deepens. “The Hawks do, I mean.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Most guys run screaming at the mere mention of kids.”
It’s the truth. I’ve even been known to use that convenient little factoid to run off a few men who were too aggressive with their flirting. Nothing turns most guys off like hearing that a nine-pound baby wrecked your vagina, leaving tiger-striped skin in his wake.
Dominic laughs, his smile not the least bit dimmed. “That what you’re trying to do? Make me run away?”
Yes. Absolutely.
But also, no? Because looking at you, part of me wonders what it’d feel like to have your hands in my hair, holding me close while pinning me to a bed.
Before I can analyze that too closely, he adds, “Being divorced, having an asshole ex, and a son isn’t exactly the usual first date conversation.”
I take a sip of my water, the sweet and sour bite a bit too reminiscent of me tonight. “Guess it’s a good thing this isn’t a date then, huh?”
“Yet you’re trying to warn me off all the same,” he says, clearly calling me out with pinpoint accuracy.
“I don’t date,” I declare, trying to protect myself. “I don’t flirt. I don’t fuck around. I’m not looking for a relationship or anything remotely close to that. Me and Harley, that’s it. That’s all I have time for. Just want that to be clear.”
I’m telling him, but also reminding myself. I know this game and I don’t play, no matter how surprisingly attractive Dominic is proving to be.
He doesn’t get up and leave, which is what I fully expected. Instead, he nods. “Heard. I get it . . . he should be your first priority. I respect the hell out of that.” With a smile, he asks, “One very important question, though.”
I arch a brow, certain I already know what it’s going to be. Something like, Do you have to get home to him right this minute, or do you have time for a quickie in the parking lot?
“Does he like hockey?”
A laugh bursts out at the unexpected question, and I feel a wide smile grow across my face. “He does actually. He plays Squirt this year.”
“Good times,” he replies, a wistful look taking over his face.
“My Squirt team was the Otters. We were 15, 8, and 10, which were pretty good stats for our area. Didn’t matter then about championships, just the game.
So if you ever want a little extra coaching time, hit me up. I’d be glad to do drills with Harley.”
Being able to pull stats out of his head like that doesn’t surprise me. Dad can do that, too, about dozens of players and decades of play. What does shock me is Dominic’s offer. He doesn’t know me and definitely doesn’t know Harley. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Why not? I don’t know anyone here, and the few people I have met seem like assholes. Other than you, obviously.”
Not giving up so easily, I pry, “What’s in it for you?”
He cocks his head, his dark eyes peering at me from beneath furrowed brows. “Damn, he fucked you up good, didn’t he?”
Does he mean Tyler or my dad? Either way, the answer is an unequivocal yes. I lift my chin haughtily, unimpressed with his too-astute assessment, and silently refuse to answer.
“I love hockey,” he finally explains. “Love kids. Love kids who play hockey. Loved the camp we did back home. That’s it, no ulterior motive.”
So he says, but something else caught my attention. “Isn’t this home?”
He huffs a dry laugh, no humor to be found in the sound.
“Fuck no. I’m going to sleep in a place that I rented for three months to give me time to figure shit out.
I’m on a contract year, and my roots are somewhere else.
Hell, my stuff is still packed, the suitcase just sitting on top of the dresser. Not exactly what I’d call home.”
He glances over his shoulder at the Blizzard, who are celebrating as per usual, which is to say, loudly, obnoxiously, and full of entitlement, like O’Neal’s is their bar. Dominic’s loneliness is palpable, surrounding him like a heavy cloak.
I do something even I don’t expect. “Maybe we could do a trial run and see how it goes? Harley would be over the moon,” I admit. “Want my number so we can arrange it?”
“No.”
I deflate instantly. He offered to help and I thought he actually meant it.
I should’ve known better. I do know better.
All those red flags I waved must’ve done their job and warned Dominic off, but instead of feeling victorious, I feel disappointed.
There was a tiny sliver of me that hoped he might be different.
Stupid. All men are the same.
“Take mine instead,” he says, sensing my mood shift. Holding his phone out with his number displayed, I type it into my phone, making his contact name Hockey Coach with a stick and puck emoji.