by V. K. Sykes
“Ah, yes. Our first game is tomorrow night.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Talbot’s bushy eyebrows rose above his glasses. “That’s a tough tournament. Attracts a lot of teams from around the state.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard.” Actually Logan didn’t give a shit about the tournament. If he had his way, he’d spend each and every evening this week in bed with the woman who’d somehow carved her way into his life to the point that she was the first thing he thought of in the morning, and the last thing at night.
He handed Talbot some cash and waited for the elderly gentleman to ring up his purchases. On the wall behind him were numerous framed pictures and magazine articles featuring a host of local sports stars, though most of them featured Billie. He gazed at a picture of her standing beside a trophy nearly as big as she was. By the looks of it, she was about ten or twelve, with braces on her teeth, hair stuck in a wild ponytail, chin thrust out proudly as she held her stick and posed.
Underneath the caption: Most Valuable Player, Golden Sticks Tourney.
Mr. Talbot followed his gaze. “Damn, but she was something.”
Logan nodded. She sure was.
“She playing in this tournament?”
Logan frowned. Out of all the naysayers in town, he thought Talbot was one of the ones in her corner. Hell, even Duke Everett and most of the guys in the league had come around. The only trash talk he had heard lately had come from Sabrina and a bunch of her friends.
“Of course she’s playing,” he answered sounding more than a little defensive. “She’s part of the team.”
Mr. Talbot handed a paper bag with his purchases along with his skates. “Uh huh,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Shit. Talbot’s attitude surprised him. “I didn’t think you’d have a problem with her playing.”
“Normally, I don’t.”
“So what’s the problem now?”
Mr. Talbot’s eyes widened and then narrowed. He scratched his head and bent forward, his eyes kind and concerned. “You do know that there’s contact in this tournament, right?”
Stunned, Logan stared at Talbot and shook his head. The hell he knew.
“No, I…” his hands tightened at his side as a slow burn began to creep up his neck. Could she be that stupid? “Are you sure?”
Mr. Talbot set his hands on the counter. “Yes. The Cornucopia has always been a full contact tourney. Billie shouldn’t play and I told her that the other day. But that girl is about as stubborn as a mule and she just shook her head and told me I was overreacting.”
Logan grabbed his stuff. “Thanks for the heads up, Mr. Talbot. I’m sure I can convince her to sit this one out.”
Convince her? He’d make her see how dumb this idea was.
Ten minutes later he rang the doorbell, foot tapping impatiently, concern and anger battling inside him. He needed to keep a cool head—to do this right—because the Billie that he had gotten to know would push just as hard, if not harder, in the other direction if she felt threatened.
And damned if he was going to watch her get knocked around the ice by a bunch of hockey goons.
Bobbi opened the door, her bone straight hair swishing around her chin as she stepped back. Her eyes weren’t exactly cold, but they weren’t exactly welcoming either.
“Logan,” she said and moved out of the way so that he could pass.
Candles flickered softly from wall sconces in the hall and the smell of apples and cinnamon filled his nostrils. The worn wood floorboards were polished to a gleam and he instantly felt it—that sense of home. That sense of belonging.
That sense of family.
Herschel appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing dirty white coveralls and a ball cap, which his granddaughter Bobbi gave him hell for, and which Herschel pretty much ignored.
“Nice to see you again, Logan.” The old guy grinned from ear to ear. “I promise we’ve got any and all firearms locked up nice and tight this time.”
Logan couldn’t help but smile. “Good to know.”
He handed two bottles of wine over to Bobbi—a white and a red—and doffed his jacket. Herschel grabbed it and with a shrug, tossed it on the bench beneath the window just to the left of the door.
“Billie is in the dining room with Trent and Gerry,” Herschel said, ignoring Bobbi’s ‘his name is Gerald,’ shout.
He pointed down the hall. “After you.”
He followed the old man, Bobbi behind him, and paused in the entrance to the dining room. Billie stood beside her father, her hand on his shoulder while he flipped through a large scrapbook that took up at least two place settings.
“Wow, remember that one, Dad? That was the game we won in triple overtime.”
Trent Barker, nodded slowly, “Yes, I think I remember that one. You scored the winner.”
“I did.”
Suddenly Billie glanced up, eyes shining. “Logan.”
Holy hell, the way she said his name.
“Hey,” he said huskily.
Gerald pushed his chair back, straightened his tie, and stepped forward as if he was the man of the house.
“Forest.”
Logan shook his hand. He turned to Billie and his heart nearly stopped.
She was dressed in a simple pair of jeans—old, worn ones by the looks of it—and a soft blue sweater that hugged her curves in a way that would make any man’s mouth water. Her hair was loose, just the way he liked it, and hung down her back in soft waves.
“Logan,” she grinned and rounded the table. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”
Trent closed the scrapbook and pushed his chair away so he could stand—his eyes similar to Bobbi’s. Not real cold, but not exactly friendly.
“I hear you’re joining us for dinner.”
“If that’s all right, Sir.”
Trent’s hand shook as he grabbed the scrapbook off the table. “Well, let’s get on with it, I’m starving.”
“Good,” Billie tugged Logan’s hand and pointed to his seat. “Because I expect you to eat an entire bowl, dad. I’m not kidding.”
Logan thought about the tournament and decided he was better off discussing it with her when they were alone. There was no sense in getting into it with Billie right now. And hell, if he knew anything, it was that he was going to get into it with her.
The thought was strangely exhilarating.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to do that just yet.
Logan has just passed the bread basket across the table to Bobbi when Gerald cleared his throat.
“So, I hear the Pirates are playing in the Cornucopia.”
Billie set her wine glass down. “Angry, Gerry, they’re angry,” she said with a smile.
“Excuse me?”
“The team is called the ‘Angry Pirates’.” She paused, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Do you know what an Angry Pirate is?”
“Billie!” her sister hissed. “Seriously? At the dinner table?”
Gerald looked from the woman who sat beside him and across the table to Billie. “I don’t get it. What’s an Angry Pirate?”
Billie filled her wine glass and passed the bottle over to Herschel who topped his up as well.
“Well, my friend,” she began. “An Angry Pirate is the exact opposite of a Happy Pirate.”
Logan tried not to smile. He’d been well educated on the sexual meaning behind the term when Dearling had gone into great detail about it one night after a game. The urban dictionary was that man’s best friend.
“You see, Gerry—”
“We are not discussing Angry Pirates at the dinner table.” Bobbi glared across the table and reached for the white wine. “I mean it, Billie.”
Gerald turned to his girlfriend. “You know what an Angry Pirate is?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, a slight smile skirting her mouth as she set her glass on the table. She glanced at Billie. “It’s the exact opposite of a happy pirate, right?”
Billie nodded. “Yep
, exact opposite.”
Logan ate a delicious goulash—who knew Billie’s talents ran into the culinary world as well. He enjoyed her family a lot and it was nice to see them together when their father was having a good day, and if he appeared a little confused at times, it passed.
“So about the tournament,” Gerald began again. “When do you play?”
“First game is tomorrow night,” Billie answered.
“Which tournament is this?” Trent Barker enquired.
“The Cornucopia, Dad. Remember I told you?”
Trent’s brows furrowed and he set his spoon down. “That’s a full contact tournament in the city.”
For a moment there was silence and Logan glanced at Billie. She stared at her wine glass.
“Are you crazy?” Bobbi threw her napkin on the table, her eyes wide. “You can’t play contact hockey.”
“Why not?” Trent asked, a confused look creeping into his eyes. He rubbed his hands along his forehead. “Has something happened?”
Herschel, sensing that things were about to go south, rose from the table and tugged on his son’s arm. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and get that nice apple cobbler out of the oven?”
Trent nodded. “All right.” He rose and paused before following his father out of the dining room. “Is everything okay with you, Billie?”
“I’m fine.”
Logan pushed his bowl away, appetite lost.
Trent glanced around the room. “Well maybe you shouldn’t be playing this tournament after all. You don’t want to injure yourself before heading back to college, now would you?”
“I’ll be okay, dad.”
Logan watched her father leave the room, well aware that the atmosphere had just changed dramatically.
“You can’t play in the tournament, Billie.” Bobbi stood and folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t.”
Logan decided it was time to chime in. Right or wrong, she had to know this was crazy. He turned toward her. “She’s right.”
Her face was blank—for just a moment—and then heat flushed her cheeks as she kicked back her chair and took a step away from all of them.
“I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “And I’ll play if I want to.”
Logan loved her fire. He loved her attitude and drive and…
He swallowed as his heart took off. Holy. Hell.
He loved her.
He loved Billie-Jo Barker.
For a moment he wondered if everyone was staring at him because they could see his heart and soul on his sleeve, but then he realized it was his turn to say something, so he did.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you play in a hockey tournament where there will be a bull’s-eye tattooed to your ass.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s one hell of an ass, but trust me, every hotdog out there will be gunning for it.”
She threw her napkin on the table and gulped another half glass of wine. Jesus, this family drank wine like it was soda pop.
“I’m playing, Logan.”
“No,” he took a step closer to her. “You’re not.”
“Are you kidding me? Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean you get to tell me what I can or can’t do.”
“We should leave, Bobbi,” Gerald muttered, getting up from the table.
“Leave?” Bobbi retorted. “It’s just getting good.”
“What about your concussion?” Logan threw at Billie.
“What about it?” she retorted.
He glanced at her sister. Did they all know that Billie was certifiable?
“You were sent home, Billie. Don’t tell me it wasn’t serious.” He was angry now. What the hell was she trying to prove?
“Okay, it sucked. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Which one?” he asked dangerously. “The concussion you suffered last year or the one you had a few months ago?”
“What?” Bobbi moved toward them. “You had more than one concussion?”
Billie ignored her sister and instead, focused her pissed off eyes at him. “How did you know that?”
“I Googled it.”
“Jesus, is nothing sacred anymore? You’re Googling my injuries?” She exhaled. “Look, what happened in Europe sucked, but I’m recovered. My head is good and I can damn well play hockey in a stupid tournament in the city.”
“It’s not just a stupid tournament and you know it. There are a lot of ex-junior players entered and they don’t play to lose. Those guys are as fast, if not faster, than you. They’re big guys with a lot of skill.”
“Yes!” Her shiny eyes were wide and she looked at him as if he was the biggest dummy on the planet. “That’s why I want to play. Don’t you get that?” She glanced around the room. “Doesn’t anyone understand that?”
“I get that one bad hit and your brain could be toast,” Logan said through gritted teeth.
“I know how to play smart and I know how to take a hit. What happened in Europe, both times, were bad hits from behind. I had no way to protect myself.”
“You don’t think that could happen here?”
“I’ll stay out of the corners and I’ll keep my head up.”
He rolled his shoulders. This was like talking to a brick wall. “You can’t know what’s happening behind you all the time. You don’t have eyes on the back of your head.”
“No, I don’t,” she said her mouth tight. “That’s what you’re there for.”
He took a step forward, all of the warm and fuzzies he’d felt for this woman gone, replaced by an anger that took hold of him hard. The thought of her hurt and lying on the ice made him crazy. How could she not see that?
“I won’t do it.”
Her eyes widened and he knew that finally he’d gotten her attention.
“You’re not going to play?”
“No.”
He stared into her eyes and felt his whole world shift. He heard murmurs from the back of the house—Herschel and Trent—and glanced away, a little shaken at the depth of his emotion. His need to protect. His need for Billie.
Bobbi stood behind Gerald—and Billie was right, the guy was a turd. He had no idea what her sister was doing with him.
“Well, well, well, this is unexpected.”
The voice came from nowhere and they all turned to look at the tall, slender woman who stood just inside the doorway.
She wore a form fitting leather jacket, one that emphasized either one heck of a padded bra, or implants. Her jeans were snug, her boots, a pair of those furry things that looked more like slippers. Her hair was cut to just below her shoulders, vivid red chunks intermingled with the inky black strands. Her dramatic makeup screamed LA but her attitude was all New York.
“What are you doing here?”
The question came from Bobbi and her tone left no doubt that things were going to get a whole lot more interesting than they already were.
“It’s Thanksgiving in a few days. Where else would I be?”
Betty-Jo Barker strode into the room as if she’d never been left.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Warm apple cobbler!”
Herschel’s face did a comical sort of crumble when he saw the third Barker triplet. “Betty,” he cried.
She was across the room and in his arms in seconds.
Billie swallowed painfully, her throat as tight as her chest—which was making it hard for her to breathe.
Could this night get any worse?
She glanced at Bobbi, saw the shock on her sister’s face and knew this trip home was a surprise. Bobbi would have told her if Betty was coming home, she would have given her some warning.
Billie hadn’t seen Betty in nearly two years. She’d shown up at one of Billie’s games in Sweden, on the arm of some jacked up player. Betty had paid more attention to her teammates than to her own sister, monopolizing everyone’s attention in her over the top way, and after a very uncomfortable dinner, they’d parted ways. The whole thing had been bizarr
e and Billie knew her sister was using, but she also knew that Betty wouldn’t listen to anyone but herself.
Billie was very aware that Logan stood a few feet from her, hands clenched at his side and not for the first time, she wished that a hole would open up beneath her and swallow her.
Betty patted Herschel on the cheek, dug her fingers into the warm apple cobbler and as she sucked the hot dessert from her tips, her gaze wandered the room, until she stopped on Logan.
“So,” she said, licking her lips. “Where’s Dad?”
“Oh, he was feeling a tad tired,” Herschel said. “He went up to his room to rest.”
Worry furrowed her brow—just for an instant—but Billie saw it. “He’s doing all right?”
“As well as can be expected,” Bobbi inserted, her eyes hard as she gazed at her sister.
Herschel set out a stack of plates, his eyes misty. “Just damn glad that my twins are together for the holidays.”
Logan glanced her way and Billie mumbled, “Don’t ask.”
Betty’s finger snapped out of her mouth with a wet pop and Billie’s stomach rolled at the calculating look in her sister’s eyes as she settled on Logan.
Panic hit her and sweat broke out on her forehead. There was no way Betty could know what Billie had done all those years ago, and Logan wouldn’t bring something like that up, he had too much class.
Betty’s eyes never left Logan, though she tipped her head to the side, a long, crimson chunk of hair falling past her collar. “So, Gerald Dooley?”
“Here we go,” Bobbi muttered.
Gerald cleared his throat and nodded. “Hi, Betty.”
Betty’s lips were shiny from the tongue that had darted out to swipe the corners and Billie, still frozen and afraid, was mesmerized by the perfectly formed mouth. Of course, Billie’s was exactly the same—but it wasn’t. Betty had always had an innate sexuality that permeated every pore in her body.
“You manage to get into Bobbi’s pants yet?”
Gerald’s face flushed a deep red. Guess that answered that question.
Herschel frowned. “That kind of talk isn’t appropriate for the dinner table. Cut it out.”
Betty giggled, but it sounded harsh and forced. “Sorry, Gramps.” She slid into a chair, which was funny since every other adult in the room was standing.
