She nods and reaches over to pat my hand, which is resting in my lap. “I know, honey. Not judging. Just saying I miss you, I guess.”
Yeah, right.
“Is your cell phone working?” she asks, and here is layer two of the guilt trip. “Because I left you a couple of messages.”
“You know I don’t listen to messages,” I reply because I’ve told her a million times I never check them and that it’s a waste of time for her to leave one. I’ll see her number on the missed call list and call her back, no need for voicemail. Only this week, I haven’t called her back. “And again, I’m crazy busy. I was going to call you back tonight.”
“Well, now you don’t have to,” she says, her tone light even though I know she’s ticked she had to hunt me down. “I can tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?”
“Daddy is being honored at the Winterhawks game Friday!”
When I don’t say anything, she glances over at me and smiles expectantly. I stare back passively so she elaborates, her hands flailing wildly for emphasis. “They’re retiring his number! You know what a big deal that is? The Winterhawks are yet to retire a jersey. This will be the first one. He’s been doing interviews all week. I’m surprised you haven’t heard one. He’s very proud.”
“I don’t listen to sports shows, Mom,” is all I say in a calm, flat voice even though I know what she’s going to do next, and I’m already angry about it.
“So we need to be there on Friday night, obviously,” she says, and my blood pressure spikes. “There’s going to be a video tribute and they’ll raise his banner and he’ll drop the puck for the game.”
“I’m not going, Mother.”
I don’t know why she bothers making a completely hurt and stunned face. She knew I was going to say that. Still, my mother is the queen of hurt and stunned faces. The world, it seems, has been wounding her and taking her by surprise her whole life. She’s the person who would tie herself to some train tracks and then be startled by the locomotive’s headlight when it barrels toward her. Her complete refusal to live in reality is the thing that makes me most crazy.
“Shayne, this is getting ridiculous and, quite frankly, embarrassing.”
“Nobody cares if I attend Dad’s stupid ceremony.”
“Everyone knows he has two children,” my mother replies in a clipped tone. “We were a very high-profile family in this city when your dad played, and you and your brother were media darlings.”
She says that a lot. All I remember is being dragged to arenas to sit in the family box with a bunch of other glammed-up housewives and their bratty children. And my mother always made us go down to the locker room when the media was finishing their postgame interviews and basically shoved us at my dad. He’d bend down and swing us around or hug us and at first I used to love it, because I was young and starved for his affection, and this was the only time he gave it. Then I got older and realized that the only reason he gave it to us after games was to entertain the media and impress his fans. Then that’s when I started hating it. I was eight.
“I hate hockey. I’m not going.”
Here’s the part where she tells me how I owe my life to hockey.
“You always forget, but your father’s career gave you a very comfortable life,” she lectures sternly; her thin lips, painted a pink that’s way too light for her skin tone, are turned down in a hard frown.
“More comfortable than a history teacher’s salary, right? I mean, that’s why you never went back and finished your own degree,” I mutter.
“Being a hockey player’s wife is a career, Shayne,” she retorts. “I’ve told you that.”
“Because Dad told you that when you wanted to go back to college,” I remind her, even though I know she hasn’t forgotten.
She doesn’t respond to that. Her lips are pressed tightly together and her grip on the steering wheel is making her knuckles turn white, so I take a deep breath and return to the original conversation, which is only slightly less unpleasant.
“I haven’t attended one of his events in years. No one will make a big deal out of it if I miss this one too.” She turns into the parking lot of Elevate. “And I’m not just being difficult. I teach flow yoga at seven on Fridays. Sorry. But thanks for the lift.”
I expect her to pull over at the curb by the door, but she turns left and starts scanning the row for a free spot. “I’m coming in to check on your brother and make sure he’s still going to be there for your father. Make sure we can count on one child.”
I wait impatiently as she slowly noses into a vacant stall. I just want to get out of the car and away from the guilt trip. She turns off the car and opens her door. I do the same and as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I turn to her with a smile and a wave. “I have to run ahead. I’m late for a class I’m teaching. But thanks for the lift. Have fun Friday.”
She mutters a good-bye, and I know she’s still upset with me. I just don’t care. I made it clear to my father five years ago that I would not be a part of his career again—and I would never take another dime from him. And I hadn’t. That money was blood money and it was the blood of this family that it shed. I was not going to be a part of it.
I rush straight to the nutrition class, shoving my coat and bag in the corner of the room and lecturing in my street clothes, which I know Trey would hate. He wants us in his Elevate Fitness gear at all times. But hey, at least I got here in time. When the class is over, I head toward the changing room to get into the right clothes and start my shift at the juice bar. Trey calls my name across the foyer and stops me dead in my tracks. I turn and find him standing by his office door, a scowl on his face. He waves me over.
I walk over and squeeze past him into his office. He lets the door close behind me and says firmly, “You’re going.”
“Where?”
“To the Winterhawks game on Friday. To Dad’s ceremony.”
“Trey.”
“Shayne. You are going.” He crosses his giant arms across his huge chest. His chin juts out defiantly. “I canceled your yoga class and I’ll drive your ass myself. You. Are. Going.”
I glare at him. “You know how I feel about him. About his career. About that fucking sport.”
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t care,” he returns harshly. “Shayne, I’m the one who had issues because of hockey. Dad is the one with concussion syndrome, not you. If we can go, you can go.”
“My issues with what hockey has done to this family aren’t just about your drug problem and Dad’s health, and you know it,” I reply hotly.
I turn to leave because I am done with this conversation, and he can cancel all the classes he wants, but I’m not going. I reach for the door and he says, “You know how I deal with it? I choose to believe that Mom and Dad’s marriage would have been a joke even if Dad were a car salesman or a doctor. That they’re just fucked-up people in general and would be no matter what he did for a living.”
I stop and turn back to look at my brother. He runs a hand over his shorn head and rubs the back of his neck. He’s trying to chill himself out. He’s done that since he was a kid. “Look, Shaynie. I know you hate the things that have happened. I’m not a big fan either. But he’s your fucking father. We’re your family. Sebastian Deveau is going to eclipse Dad’s scoring record and this is the Hawks giving him his last hurrah. Just suck it up and give him a few hours, okay?”
“Can we talk about how you clearly knew Sebastian played hockey and didn’t tell me?” I change the subject and cross my arms angrily over my chest.
“That’ll teach you for having one-night stands in my laundry room.”
And shower room, I add silently.
“And let’s talk about how hypocritical it is that you keep banging him.”
“Let’s not. And that’s over. For good.”
Trey unfolds his arms and sighs, his massive shoulders heaving up, then down. “It’ll be easier for me at this ceremony thing if you’re there.”
&
nbsp; I can’t deny him now, and he knows it. I sobbed a promise to him when he woke up from his coma that I would help him through, and I meant it. I would help him through life without hockey. Life without drugs. So if he needs me, I have to be there. “You’re serious? You mean that?”
He nods. I want to scream but instead I nod back. “Are you picking me up at my place or do you want to leave from here?”
“From here.”
“Fine.” I turn to leave, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me back into his wall of a chest for a hug.
“Thank you, Shayne.”
“You’re welcome.”
Chapter 22
Sebastian
“But it feels fine,” I argue to the trainers and the team doctor. The doctor gives me a skeptical look. I shrug. “I mean, it doesn’t hurt any more than it usually does. I’ve played with worse pain.”
“The point is, it doesn’t hurt less,” the doctor points out. “We’ve been taping it and icing it and you’ve been doing therapy treatments and it’s not getting better. So this is plan B.”
“Benching me in the last regular season game of the year? With a tribute to the team’s most iconic player?” I snarl like a petulant child. “That’s plan B?”
“Yep. And a brace.” I cringe. “I’m sorry, Sebastian.”
I look past the trainers to Coach. He gives me a smile that I’m sure he thinks is encouraging, but it comes off as more of a grimace. “We warned you that you were a game-time decision.”
“Je sais,” I mutter in French. “I know.”
“But take the skate. Be out there for the tribute since you’re the reason he’s losing his scoring record,” Coach relents. “Then get your ass up to the box, okay?”
I nod sharply because I don’t have any fucking choice. And really, he’s letting me be out there for a big team moment so at least that’s something. But fuck, I want to play. We’re playing the Barons, and I love getting under Devin Garrison’s skin out there on the ice. Jordan’s brother has an unspoken grudge against me, which is stupid because he got the girl. But Devin can’t forget that Callie once flirted with the idea of being with me. Well, I honestly don’t think she ever seriously entertained the thought. By the end of the night I knew it and she knew it. But at the time he wasn’t clued in to the fact that she was already his, so he hates me. I enjoy that extra rush I get by having to try harder because one of the best players in the league is out there to show me up. And now I’m not even playing.
I leave the training room and return to the locker room to grab my stick and put on my skates. I drop down between Westwood and Garrison and shove a foot into a skate. Jordan runs a hand through his hair and gives me a tentative smile. “In or out?”
“Out. But I’m lacing up anyway,” I mutter.
“Great. Now I’m going to be Devin’s only target out there.” Jordan groans. “So are they doing surgery? How long are you out for?”
“They haven’t used the S word yet,” I reply and stand. “Just giving it some real time off first to see if it gets stronger.”
Jordan gives me a real, sympathetic smile as he stands. “I’m sorry, Seb. I went through this bullshit too. I know how hard it is not to play.”
Avery stands and starts for the door. We follow, grabbing our sticks from the equipment manager as we exit. As we wait in the tunnel, I see a group of people in street clothes at the end, near the door we use to hit the ice. Five people, two males in suits facing me and three females with their backs to me. They’re all in shadows, but I still recognize Trey, and the man standing beside him is Glenn Beckford, the legend himself. Standing side by side I realize they look incredibly similar. And the pieces fall in place like cinder blocks crashing heavily, one by one, in my brain. Trey is Glenn Beckford’s son, which obviously means…
I have that weird feeling, like the ground just shifted or I just lost a skate edge on the ice. My insides somersault. I push past Jordy and grab Avery by the shoulder just as the lights dim and one of the staff starts opening the panel that leads to the ice and do what she told me to do the other night in my car. “Is Trey’s last name Beckford?”
Avery blinks at me, confused. “Yeah. I didn’t mention that?”
I should have asked Avery sooner, but I was trying to push her from my mind and I was distracted by this damn wrist injury. I’m totally embarrassed and slightly horrified by the fact that I could tell you Shay has a beauty mark on the inside of her left thigh, but up until two seconds ago I hadn’t even thought to ask her what her last name was. The revelation that Shayne and I are doing this whole relationship as screwed-up and backward as humanly possible feels like a slap to the face.
The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen…” Avery moves to the front, just behind Chooch, who always leads us onto the ice, and we all march along behind him. “Your Seattle Winterhawks!”
I’m in front of Garrison now, behind Dixon, as we file past Glenn Beckford, who is beaming at us. My teammates all reach out and tap their gloved hands on his shoulder or against his outreached hand as they pass. A spotlight from above comes down and aims it on Glenn to show the fans the moment. I know it must be on the Jumbotron because the roar is deafening. My eyes are on the back of the long-haired brunette who, as soon as the spotlight hits them, takes a step back and turns away from her father and comes face-to-face with me. Our eyes lock.
“Hello, Miss Beckford,” I whisper as I pass. She just stands there and stares at me, looking almost sad.
I pass her and smile at Trey as I gently tap my glove on Mr. Beckford’s shoulder. He smiles at me. My skates hit the ice and I glide across it to the other end. I find a loose puck, skate over to Chooch in the net, and release a light slapper. A sharp, quick bolt of pain sizzles up my wrist. Fuck.
Still I skate around, passing the puck to my teammates, gliding by the centerline and making eye contact with Devin Garrison, who levels me with a venomous scowl. My eyes keep drifting back to the corner glass, by the door we enter from, where the Beckford family is still standing, watching warmups. Glenn is talking animatedly. Trey is smiling almost forlornly. A pretty pregnant woman who must be his wife is holding his hand. The woman I can only assume is their mom, because she’s got Shay’s nose and wide mouth, is beaming as our PR manager talks to her. Shay is kind of off by herself, a few feet from her family. Her lips are a glossy peachy-pink and her eyelids shimmer. She looks fucking edible even with the unhappy look on her face.
I’m so confused. Why wouldn’t she tell me she was the daughter of a hockey legend? And why would the daughter of a hockey great hate the sport that made her father an icon?
I can’t help myself, and I skate along the boards behind Chooch’s goal and glide right by the glass where she’s standing. I’m flush with it and when our eyes connect, I wink. I look back over my shoulder after I’ve passed. She’s staring after me; her cheeks are pink and she’s got a faint smile playing on her lips.
Yeah…this isn’t as over as I thought it was. Not yet.
Chapter 23
Shayne
The ceremony is shorter than I thought it would be, which is a blessing. But they show a video—a montage of the great Glenn Beckford on and off the ice. It’s filled with a lot of fights and goals and the locker room after they won the Cup for the first time thanks to my dad’s goal in overtime of game seven. All of that is painless to watch. But it’s interspersed with images of our family, which my mom must have supplied. My dad trying to teach me to skate when I was four, my dad on the ice with Trey when he was seven. All of us gathered around the Stanley Cup at a party in our backyard. My dad’s not looking at the camera. His arms are around me and my mom, but his eyes were looking left, at the wife of a teammate he was screwing. I know because later that night, I walked in on them half naked in the upstairs master bathroom.
When the picture flashes up on the screen, my mother reaches over and takes my dad’s hand, and I want to burst out laughing. I told her,
in tears, what I’d discovered and she told me, with no emotion at all except annoyance, to calm down and pull myself together. Now was not the time or the place. I heard them screaming at each other later that night and fully expected my mom to tell Trey and me we were leaving him, but she never did. My father, for his part, apologized for what I saw and promised he would never do it again. He meant the fucking in our bathroom part, not the fucking other women who were not my mom part. My family is a joke. My dad is a joke, and this whole ceremony is a joke.
My expression must reflect my feelings because Trey takes a small step closer and leans into me. “Shaynie, rein it in. You look homicidal.”
I blink and force my face to relax and look indifferent. It’s all I can do. Happy or even serene are unreachable emotions right now. I really don’t want to watch the rest of this, so I decide to look for something else to focus on. And that’s when I find him—Frenchie—staring at me from his position lined up with his teammates in front of the team’s bench. Those insanely blue eyes are focused on me, and when I meet them with my own he smirks his sexy smirk, and a wave of heat rolls through me and settles between my legs. But more than just sexual attraction, I feel calmer when I look at him.
Finally the video stops and they darken the lights and I can’t see Sebastian anymore. Then a spotlight focuses on the jersey, the one with my dad’s name and his old number, that they have strung up at the end of the ice, and they start to raise it with some ridiculously dramatic music. Trey is standing stoically beside me, his face passive. My dad has got his chest puffed out proudly and he’s smiling. My mom is fucking beaming and wiping at her watery eyes. Of course she is. Riding the coattails, or skate blades, of her husband’s success is all she’s ever had. It’s all she gets out of this marriage, and once again I feel a surge of willpower. I will not end up like her.
Winning It All (Hometown Players Book 4) Page 13
