Chapter 22 Dominic
Dominic
“She’s off-limits,” Kipson declares before I even sit down.
“Sofia, you mean?” I respond pointedly as I fall into the booth across from him.
He glares at me so hard that I begin to measure the distance between us, making plans in case he throws hands. “Yes,” he grits out.
“Fine,” I agree. “That’s your fuckup to deal with. For now. So why are we here?”
Here is O’Neal’s, where, much to my surprise, Kipson invited me today.
So either he’s going to kill me or he has a friendship bracelet kit in his hoodie pocket.
One or the other for sure. And let’s just say I still don’t think he’s the “BFF4EVR” type.
This has trap written all over it and my guard is up.
“Tell me about the Hawks,” he orders after the waitress sets two beers down in front of us.
“You gotta sweet-talk me first.” I lift my brows, taunting him and risking my life in the process. I like to live dangerously, and I think Kipson appreciates my irreverence for his grumpy attitude. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself that tick below his eye means.
“Tell me about the Hawks . . . please.” I think it actually pained him to have some manners, and I decide that’s as sweet as he’s capable of in his current state.
“What do you want to know? We won the Cup last year, probably gonna win again this year barring injury. Stupidly traded their greatest defenseman, so they’re down one of the best players this season. You can look their stats up yourself.”
He growls. “Tell me about the team.”
I take a drink of my beer, thinking before I answer. I could just tell him what he wants to know, but that’s too easy. For us both. And ultimately, that doesn’t serve my purpose, which is to fix him. “To start, they had the best defense in the league—”
“Because of Mahoney.”
“He is pretty good,” I say agreeably, “almost as good as me.”
He grunts out a bare laugh. “Neither of you are as good as me.”
I grin, letting him have that one because a joke, even a snarky one, is a step in the right direction and the tiniest start of what could grow into a camaraderie between us. “I’d rank us one, two, and three. Me, best. Griffin, great. You . . . mostly alright.” I wave my hand in a so-so gesture.
It’s a test. He could stand and leave at the hint of an insult, even if it’s meant as a good-natured tease. He could also stay and tell me why the sudden interest in my old team.
Old team?
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not a Hawk. Not anymore. I’m not entirely sure I’m truly a Blizzard, either, though.
I’ve been talking to the guys a bunch. Our group chat pings nearly constantly as guys share pics of their lunches, their PRs on treadmills and weight bars, and general updates about their days.
We’ve done meals out that have nothing to do with pregame prep, but rather, with friendship.
I’ve hit the gym with several of the guys, most notably Pacholek and Sabine.
And we’ve gotten to know each other better, as men, not just the stick in the next locker.
I’m not saying we’re a true brotherhood yet, but we’re closer than we were a few short weeks ago.
“What about the rest of them? Howe, Krivosky, Jack Off?” He throws out players’ names like he’s reading from a roster, but I think the most important one is the one he listed first—Howe, who happens to be the Hawks’ goalie.
“Howe is like that mean old bull on the verge of being put out to pasture. He’s mostly chill, but occasionally grumpy as hell, so you don’t fuck with him too much because you’re pretty sure he could still mow you down before you made it to the fence.
Goalies tend to set the tone for a team.
Like how Anderson does for the Blizzard.
” I add that little tidbit as a teaser, jerking the line I’ve got Kipson hooked on.
Two steps forward, one step back. It’s a dance, getting me closer to figuring out exactly what he wants to know. But he doesn’t so much as blink at the comparison. Is his lack of reaction, a reaction? Or does he truly not care?
“Krivosky is the comic relief of the locker room, annoying the fuck out of everyone. But make no mistake, any one of them would go to bat for him. I would too. Jacofovich isn’t only the captain on the ice.
He’s Coach’s right hand and keeps the rest of the motley crew in line.
And if you want any more insider information, you have to tell me why the fuck you’re suddenly interested in the Hawks. You looking for a team trade?”
“No,” he answers quickly. Too quickly.
“They’ve got their right defense handled, so you’re shit out of luck there.” I give him a sideways glance. “But that’s not why you’re asking anyway, is it?”
He’s quiet for a long minute. Long enough that I consider that I might’ve pushed too hard, too fast. But nah, that’s not like me. Maybe he’s just not ready to face the ugly truths I’m shining a too-bright spotlight on.
“You said we’re not a team.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer and instead, wait him out.
“How did they become a team?”
And there it is. Finally. I don’t feel victorious because it’s not about me. I feel proud of him for realizing there’s a problem.
“Honestly? I have no fucking idea,” I reply smoothly. “They were a well-oiled machine when I got there. It’s been a generational thing with the Hawks, one group passing on the culture as rookies become veterans, and new rookies come into the nest.”
“Motherfucker,” he spits at me, then takes a healthy swallow of his beer.
“Buuut,” I drawl out, “I saw how it worked, how it got passed down. I was that baby bird once, and I know that the culture is reproducible. Or at least I think it is.” I nod, pretty sure.
“And that’s what you’ve been doing here?” he asks, seeming not altogether sure of my motives or intentions despite me being crystal clear since the beginning.
“Yep. And I think it’s working. The pregame dinners have been great.
Minus Anderson, but I’m calling him a phase two project.
The zoo event had zero bloodshed and significant teamwork.
As far as I can tell, we’re this close to having our periods synced up.
” I cross my fingers and close my eyes like I’m hoping it happens soon.
Kipson nods slowly, like he’s thinking over my assessment of our progress, but I stand by it.
We’re eons away from where we started. Bill even divulged a secret that he swore he was going to take to the grave since he knows Coach’s rules.
What’s more, we’re all hiding that secret with him now and Coach has no idea, nor will he.
“Where does Briar Johns fit into this plan of yours?”
My heart stops beating in my chest, drops down to my ass, and then climbs back up to my throat. “What do you mean?”
He looks at me like I’m stupider than he thought I was. “I know you’re fucking Coach’s daughter.”
“You don’t know shit,” I snap.
I am not fucking Briar. I’m falling in love with her. Not that I’m going to tell Kipson anything of the sort.
“I know that you were navigating all over that zoo like you could lead a damn tour,” Kipson tosses back easily. “Yet you’ve only been here a couple of months?”
“I’ve been exploring the city, tourist style,” I counter. “Especially since I didn’t have any friends to hang out with.” I try to make it sound like a jab, but it deflects off him with zero reaction.
“Or you’ve been going there to see Coach’s daughter.
Playing, animal-style.” I really hate that he’s calling her “Coach’s daughter” like that’s all she is.
Even worse, I hate that he makes what Briar and I are doing sound dirty, and not in the good way.
No, he makes it sound like . . . the Blizzard way.
I grit my teeth, refusing to answer even though it wasn’t a question in the first place. I was expecting a trap about team dynamics, not about my personal life, and I’m feeling unprepared, a sensation I don’t particularly enjoy.
Reading people is what I do, but as I stare at Kipson, I can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.
Is this the gotcha moment? Is Coach about to jump out from the next booth and fire me?
Or is Kipson going to use this intel to blackmail me into leaving him alone?
That seems more likely, I think. At this point, I’m not sure what his angle is, but I need to suss it out . . . quick.
“I know that she was making eyes at you the whole time we were at that fundraiser shindig. I know that every time Anderson spoke to her, you looked like you wanted to murder him with your bare hands.” He chuckles, admitting, “Though if Anderson had said one word to Sofia, I would’ve done the same.
Still might.” There’s truth in the words.
Even now, he’s one too-sharp verbal barb away from attacking Anderson.
Maybe I can use that?
“Did he ever try anything with her?” I ask like I care, and on some level, I do. But that concern is far down on my priority list, way beneath “protect Briar.”
Kipson doesn’t let me redirect us. “Nuh-uh, I said she was off-limits.”
“So you expect me to pour my guts out while not returning the favor? Got it. Seems fair.” I roll my eyes as I tip my head back, taking a long drink of my beer.
“There are guts to be spilled?” he says, one brow arched in victory over a stupidly cocky smirk.
Score: Kipson 1, Lee 0.
I drop my beer to the table, locking my gaze on him with my mouth firmly closed.
He shrugs. “Yeah, Anderson tried flirting with Sofia. She told him off, which hurt his feelings. And I didn’t have her back like I should’ve. Told her he was just fucking around, not being serious. In way-too-late hindsight, he was testing limits. Hers, mine, the team’s.”
Damn. That’s some shitty behavior from a friend. From a teammate. “That motherfucker.”
“Your turn,” Kipson says flatly. “I shared. Now you.”
I could tell him the whole story—of talking to Briar that first night, of connecting over hockey drills with Harley, of how beautiful and strong and resilient she is, of how I’m falling for her faster than sanity should allow. Instead, I ask, “What do you want from me here?”