Chapter 7 Dominic #2
“I wasn’t aggressive, then or now. I was active.
” That’s putting it mildly. I was a wild child that constantly climbed, ran, and roughhoused, and according to Mom, gave her the first gray hairs of her life.
“Plus all my friends played hockey. Some of them still do, though not professionally. Now, it’s my job.
One I love, but I don’t go around getting violent off the ice.
” I’m admittedly a bit offended. I know the hockey stereotype, especially for defensemen, that we’re all big lunks of brainless muscle looking for any opportunity to beat the shit out of someone.
But that’s not how I play and definitely not how I live.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Briar waves her hand by way of explanation, and I decide to give her a break.
She’s a mama bear whose cub is injured. The doctor is lucky Briar didn’t bite his hand when he pressed on Harley’s ankle.
I nod, accepting the apology, and she sighs.
Her eyes locked on her sleeping son’s face, she says, “Harley used to like watching hockey with Tyler, but he was so young that he never asked to play. I was thankful for that. Then, a few years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, he got angry . . . at Tyler, at me, at everyone. He was only six, but he was so mad.”
She swallows thickly, like she can still feel her son’s pain.
Not the ankle, but his heartbreak. “We talked, and basically, it boiled down to him realizing that other boys in his class had fathers who showed up for Donuts with Daddy, practices and games, and even just for dinner. It was the first time he saw that our family was different. His best friend played hockey and I talked to the coach, who said a sport can be good for kids. Not only for the usual ‘learn discipline’ and ‘wear them out’ stuff, but to express their emotions in different ways. Healthy ways. So he started playing and he loves it so much.”
“I’m glad you didn’t talk to your dad then,” I note, and Briar scoffs in agreement. There’s no way she’d get a healthy outlook on hockey from him.
“True. But I was convinced, so I let Harley play. I’m glad I did.” Her eyes lift to mine, something in their depths I can’t quite pinpoint.
“And you?”
She runs a finger over Harley’s hand, tracing his tiny fingers. “I’m glad he loves it.”
“But?” I prompt, hearing it even if she didn’t say it.
After checking that Harley’s still asleep, and keeping her voice low, she says, “But honestly, it pisses me off that Tyler does this whole ‘chip off the old block’ thing when it has nothing to do with him. He never comes to practices, rarely makes appearances at games, and doesn’t even listen to Harley talk about his team.
He wants Harley to sit quietly while he watches the game.
It’s not even together, Harley is just there.
And it’s not fair that Harley’s doing this big thing to make a connection with Tyler, and he doesn’t care.
Every time Harley skates out there, I feel .
. . bitter. And not just because of Tyler, but .
. . growing up as Robert Boothe’s daughter wasn’t easy.
” She releases a deep breath as though it might be the first time she’s ever said those words.
Maybe the first time she’s acknowledged that feeling.
I move closer, crouching down beside her and moving my hand to her knee. “Feel better?” I ask gently.
She turns glittery eyes to me, our noses nearly touching.
I want to take her in my arms and soothe all her pain away.
I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay.
I want to kiss the fuck out of her and make her forget everything else, especially that her son is injured.
But I don’t. As much as I want to, she needs the friend I keep telling her I can be.
So I don’t move, not closer nor farther away.
I stay exactly as I am, waiting for her answer.
“Not especially. I had that pushed down and locked away. I wasn’t planning on airing my deepest, darkest baggage tonight.
What was in that coffee? Truth serum?” She glances toward the now-cold cup of coffee I got her shortly after we arrived at the ER.
It’s been a roller coaster of a night, and the coffee had been my most minor of attempts at caring for her given she’s been a bit raw and vulnerable with her son laid up in a hospital bed.
“No, I just tend to have that effect on people,” I tease, letting her retreat from the truth of her words as I swipe an errant tear from her cheek.
As she scrubs at her own eyes and sniffles a bit, putting her calm, cool, collected mask back in place, I have one more question.
“Why doesn’t your dad help Harley with hockey stuff? ”
Her mouth opens like she’s about to explain why the kid’s grandfather, an actual NHL coach, isn’t helping him with skills, showing up for his games, or taking him to professional ones. But before she can, the curtain jerks open. “Harley? Daddy’s here.”
The man standing here looks relatively unremarkable.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with dust-covered brown work boots.
His blond hair is sticking out from underneath a ballcap with a machinery company logo and his thin lips are turned down into a frown.
The only remarkable thing about him is his blue eyes.
They’re vacant, cold, and emotionless, despite his urgent tone.
And that disconnect would be enough for me to hate the guy, even if I didn’t know how he’d hurt Briar and Harley.
But I do know. So I hate this asshole even more. Every protective instinct I possess surges to the forefront. But there’s someone else who’s just as protective, of Harley at least.
“Shh,” Briar snaps, a finger in front of her pursed lips. “What’re you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he echoes. “You texted that Harley was hurt. Where the hell else am I supposed to be? He’s my son, Briar.”
He’s being loud—too loud—when Harley is resting and doesn’t need to witness his parents fighting. So I do what I do best . . . step forward to take the hit. Holding out my hand and modeling a quieter and more appropriate volume, I say, “You must be Tyler. I’m Dominic. Nice to meet you.”
“You’re Dominic Lee,” he says as he shakes my hand, staring at me dumbfounded.
His confusion only lasts a split second before he cuts hard eyes back to Briar.
“Is this who you’re fucking now? A hockey player?
Guess you changed your mind there, too, huh?
” The sarcastic accusation is caustic, meant to dig into Briar’s scars.
“Whoa,” I warn, physically stepping in front of them as I move to block her from his verbal attack.
The fact that she doesn’t even flinch is telling, putting my already-raised guard on extra high alert.
“I’m helping Harley with some skills and drills, and he turned his ankle a little.
Kid’s tough, though. He’ll be okay.” I’m intentionally turning Tyler’s attention back to Harley so he’ll leave Briar alone.
She’s been through enough—both with this asshole and tonight.
“You didn’t need to come down here,” Briar tells her ex, leaning out from behind me. “I’m required to notify you in the app of any emergencies. Consider yourself notified. But Harley is fine. We’re just waiting on the X-ray results.”
“X-ray? He broke his leg?” Tyler barks.
Is he even listening? I clearly said he turned his ankle.
“His ankle,” Briar corrects. “And no, not broken. Possibly sprained or strained at the worst, more likely a tweak that’ll be fine tomorrow.”
The doctor hasn’t officially said that, but he didn’t seem too concerned after the exam. His actual words were, “Kids are bendy so joints go loosey-goosey sometimes.” It’d been intended to settle Briar’s nerves, but it’d made Harley laugh, which was almost as good.
“So this is your fault?” Tyler says, turning his vitriol on me.
He’s puffing up his chest, trying to seem larger, which is laughable.
I easily have a couple of inches on him, at least fifteen pounds of muscle, and fight on the ice for a living.
Ten to one odds he usually berates people he perceives to be weaker than he is.
Too bad he miscalculated with Briar. She’s strong as hell.
I smirk, unbothered by his posturing, until he takes a step forward. Into me? I don’t give a shit about that. He can bring it if he’s so inclined. But Briar is right behind me, and I don’t want him any closer to her. “Look, man—”
“Dad?” a weak voice says, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.
Tyler gives me a hard look, but rushes to the other side of the bed to get closer to Harley. “Yeah, buddy. I’m here.”
“Why are you yelling at Dom? He was helping me. You should’ve seen the shots I made tonight. I did so good. Right, Dom?” Harley glances at me for assurance, and my heart melts for the kid. Fucking trooper, this one is.
Nodding, I confirm, “You did great, kid.”
“You should’ve been there, Dad. I missed over and over, but Dom told me to keep trying because practice makes progress, and he was right. I did it!”
I can’t help but smile at Harley. His pride in himself is a beautiful sight.
Tyler, however, looks like he wants to kick my ass.
Well, he can try if he wants. I know his game.
I’m better at it than he is, mostly because I’m not playing.
I don’t read people to manipulate them. I get to know people so I can be a good friend, a good brother, a good teammate.
So I hold my fist out to Harley, initiating a fist bump that I know will reinforce his confidence, while simultaneously pissing his father off. It’s a win-win in my book.
“Sounds like you practiced a bit too much,” Tyler suggests sourly. “Maybe if Dominic had stopped before you were too tired, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
He means it to be a dig on my coaching skills, but Harley’s proud smile falters and that makes me want to punch this fucker in his smug, smirking mouth.