Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  “Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t. But yes, I like it. I used to be better at it, so I’m trying to relearn some of those behaviors.” He paused. “Not just with my captaincy.”

  She turned over, needing to see his face.

  Oh, how she liked this face. It looked older than thirty-one, which may have been the beard, but was more likely all that experience. Both good and bad.

  “You mean, being a dad?”

  “That, and being a man. Though I wonder if I ever really got it. You think the dad thing is innate, but in truth, I winged it for so many years. I tried not to drink around my daughters, keeping it for when I was at away games, but it inevitably crept in. I scared them. I—” Color tagged his cheekbones, and in his eyes, she detected shame. Her heart crashed in her chest, anxious to escape and soothe him. “I did something I regret. Lots of things I regret, but this one thing . . . I have to live with it, how I almost went to a place of no return.”

  Guilt hung over him, heavy and dark. She wanted to ask more, but figured it was hard for him to express even this much.

  “So this might seem like a dumb question. I know alcoholism is a disease, but is there more to it than that? Is there a reason why you couldn’t stop after one?”

  He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. A few moments passed while he gathered his thoughts.

  “For me, it’s mostly a lack of confidence. My dad and my Canadian cousins were all hard drinkers—it was ice time followed by brews and then more ice. Once I moved to Winnipeg to live with him, it was a way to fit in, keep up, please him. I see it now, that he was a raging alcoholic, but I always thought that wasn’t me.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Died ten years back, cirrhosis of the liver. But he got to see me play in the NHL and he held Cat once.” His smile faded with a different memory. “I’ve always lived inside my head, and drinking made me feel like I could be someone else. More interesting. More brave. You ever heard of Jake LaMotta?”

  “The boxer? Raging Bull?”

  “Yeah. He once said alcohol gives you false courage, but it’s really masking true fear. Alcoholics don’t like themselves much and they tend to diminish their talents. Here I was, with a skill someone’s willing to pay me millions of dollars for, and I couldn’t appreciate it. Sober me is serious and hard to know. Drunk me doesn’t have to make the effort. Sober me was—is—not all that likeable. Drunk me is the life and soul, your best friend.”

  She rubbed his jaw, enjoying the roughness of his beard. She couldn’t believe a man as strong and vital as Bren could ever lack confidence.

  “Sober you is focused, intense, all in. Sober you is a great dad. Sober you is awesome in the sack. Multiple-orgasms-in-minutes me approves wholeheartedly of sober you.”

  He chuckled. “Been a while since you had some. You’re easily satisfied, woman.”

  “I am,” she admitted, only to have him roll his big body on top of her. She loved the weight of him, the feel of his hairy body against her smooth skin.

  “You close?”

  “Jesus, St. James. You haven’t done any work yet!”

  “But looking at me”—he ground his already considerable hardness against her—“is enough, right? You just cream at the sight of me, dontcha?”

  “This from the guy who says he’s lacked confidence.”

  His brow darkened, and she immediately regretted bringing it up. She shouldn’t joke about something he’d felt drove him to seek comfort in an addiction.

  “It’s not just that. It’s—” He took a moment to find the right words. “I’ve always felt like I don’t deserve my good fortune. That all of my blessings were accidental. My career. My children. My wealth.”

  That he didn’t mention his wife did not go unnoticed.

  “For most of my adult life, I’ve imagined the rug of success could be ripped from under me at any second. I didn’t deserve it, so I’d inevitably be found out. As an imposter, a fraud. Know what I mean?”

  “We all feel like that sometimes. For me, it’s living in two worlds. Not Latina enough for some people, too Latina for others. Not officially Chase, but the daughter of an NHL great.” Though her sisters had never let her feel anything less than welcome, she still operated in this world as “other.” “So I know a little bit about feeling like you don’t fit in, but I made a decision after getting breast cancer that I wasn’t going to listen to haters, doubters, naysayers. I was going to be fearless. Try new things, meet new people, as Isobel says, ‘grasp life by the reconstructed tits.’ Or as I say, the Year of the V.”

  “The Year of the V? I like that.” He coasted a giant paw over her hips, then her rear. “Voluptuous Violet and her very versatile—” He screwed up his mouth in query.

  “Vibrator?”

  His eyes brightened. “Voluptuous Violet and her very versatile vibrator ventured forth seeking variety, virility . . .” He rubbed evidence of his virility against her. “And . . .”

  “Victory!” She should add vindication and validation to that mix. To feel valued.

  “So you threw yourself into the world of pro hockey and crazy sisterhood and boosting team morale.”

  She laughed. “Visiting—see what I did there?—the locker room to avail of the perks of team ownership is my favorite thing in the world, Nessie! Of course, I was always hoping to catch a certain Scotsman with his globes of perfection on full display, but alas, the broody bastard never obliged.”

  “He has a sixth sense about imminent objectification. So what does victorious and valiant Violet want?”

  “Other than a versatile vibrator?” Shyness at sharing too much made her mentally squirm, but Bren just watched her intently, nothing but encouragement in his eyes. Ah, screw it. “I’d like to go to college, maybe be . . . a teacher? I’ve always worked at jobs with few prospects, always assumed striving for more wasn’t really in my wheelhouse. And then I got sick and I realized we’ve only got this one life. I’m still not sure what I want to do with mine, but I know I don’t want to waste a single minute.”

  He smiled, a heartbreaking curve of his lips. “Knowing that is half the battle. You’ll figure it out. Find your talent.”

  She stroked his jaw, letting her fingers tangle in his beard, shape the curve of his sensual mouth. “Just like you did. You’ve worked hard for everything you have, Bren. No one falls into fortune like yours by accident.”

  Not like her with her inheritance, “earned” by her mother’s gamble in hitting on a famous pro athlete. There was only one imposter in this room and it wasn’t the Scot.

  “I’m trying to think more like that,” Bren said. “I’m trying to count my blessings and recognize that everything given to me is a gift. Like you.”

  Her heart seized. “Bren, that’s . . . uh . . .”

  He grinned, evidently sensing her discomfort. “Now, don’t freak out, Vasquez. I’m not trying to change the rules. People enter our lives, and sometimes it takes a while to understand their purpose. Harper is one such person. Without her, I’d be out on my ass, probably separated from my kids and drunk in a gutter somewhere. Remy’s another. He arrived when I couldn’t be the leader my team needed. He carried the baton until I was ready to assume it again.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “And then there’s Violet Vasquez. Vibrant, vital, va-va-voom Violet. Your appearance in my life and in the lives of my daughters is a true gift. You’re special, I appreciate you, and I need you to know that, okay?”

  She barely managed to choke out a rusty, “Okay.”

  He licked the seam of her lips and tugged her mouth into a kiss, so sweet she could feel tears stinging her eyelids.

  “Now, speaking of gifts . . .” He rubbed his erection along her tingling flesh.

  Appreciation that he’d moved on from the serious conversation flooded her chest, yet the words he’d used to describe her lingered. Vibrant. Vital. A gift.

  She was in the right place at the right time, that’s all. A set of special circumstances had thrown them
together, but it was nothing more than a confluence of weather patterns.

  Nothing more.

  Skylar eyed her coffee cup like it might grow tentacles and wrap around her neck at any moment.

  “Nothing stronger, then?”

  Violet pulled clean plates out of the dishwasher and stacked them on the counter. “It’s 11 a.m. and I’m on the clock. What if I had to rush one of the kids to the ER?”

  Skylar’s expression said it all: in the event of misadventure, her kids would need to make their own travel arrangements. “Probably best not to have any booze in the house anyway,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, even though the kids were in the yard and couldn’t possibly hear her. “Remove all temptation.”

  Well, not all temptation, Skylar.

  Skylar, along with Jeremy and Lance (formerly Tarquin and Tristan), had become semiregular visitors these past few weeks. Apparently they were a year apart, but Violet couldn’t tell which was which. Both were curly-haired freckle magnets who made a lot of noise and smelled funky. No wonder their mother was fond of day drinking.

  “Any idea what’s going on with Kendra?” Skylar asked, fishing.

  “No.” Bren never talked about her. She never came up with the girls, either, though she supposed their grandparents might be keeping them in the loop. “I expect she needs some time.”

  Skylar snorted. “Yeah, right. That woman never appreciated what she had. But then he wasn’t exactly the easiest to man to love.” She shook her head. “Those poor kids.”

  Violet put the plates away in the cupboard. The kids seemed fine with Bren, now that they were no longer in a toxic environment. This man was incapable of hurting them. Violet would go so far as to say he was very easy to love.

  By his girls, she added.

  “You know she got knocked up on purpose to catch him.”

  Pulse rate booming, Violet turned back to Skylar. “That’s a pretty serious allegation to make.”

  “Well, she told me. He’d just been drafted to the NHL, big contract, barely nineteen, and the future looked bright. She didn’t want to risk him slipping from her grasp, so she made sure he’d be put in a position to do the right thing. The kids were like trophies for her.”

  She supposed it shouldn’t have been that surprising. People did shitty things to other people all the time. Exhibit A: her own mother’s behavior in trying to trap Clifford into a big payday. And here was Violet with her hand out waiting for the ultimate prize.

  Oblivious to Violet’s discomfort, Skylar nattered on. “I’ve never met anyone less cut out for motherhood. Half the time, she was always sending them to friends’ houses. Rehab, my ass! I’ll bet that whatever Kendra’s doing, she’s not thinking of her daughters.”

  A noise at the kitchen door made Violet turn. Caitriona had just stepped inside, and the look on her face said it all. But how much had she heard? Without another word, she walked through the kitchen and out of the room.

  Skylar made a grimace. “Sorry.”

  Thanks, Skylar. “Could you keep an eye on the others while I take care of this?”

  Violet headed after Caitriona and found her in her room. On first seeing it several weeks ago, Violet had thought it a little on the pink side. Even now, the Disney princess wallpaper threw her, because Cat wasn’t really princess material. Seemed a bit old for it, to be honest. Perhaps her mom liked her girls to act a certain way.

  She was sitting on the bed, her Beats on, her iPad in her hand but not having moved beyond the home screen. She made no acknowledgment of Violet.

  Violet sat down. “Hey, kitty cat.”

  Nothing.

  “Fair enough. I’ll just poke through your stuff and be generally annoying.” She headed to a dresser littered with Post-its with tightly cramped text that she recognized as Cat’s. One said: The heart fixes what the mind can’t. Another: You can’t hurt me, only I can. Deep stuff.

  “Writing poetry?”

  Caitriona jumped up and snatched the notes from Violet’s hands. “That’s private.”

  “You left it lying around.”

  “In my room. Which you shouldn’t be in.” She sat back on the bed. “Mrs. Nichols doesn’t know anything. Mom didn’t like her. Said she was fat and had fake boobs.”

  “That’s a mean thing to say.”

  Caitriona shrugged, picked up her headphones, then put them down again. Violet waited, sensing that the girl needed time to think through what she wanted to say.

  “Mom always said the truth was more important, even if it hurts people’s feelings.”

  “That’s one opinion. Another one is that kindness is the most important thing of all. There’s always a way to make something sound better.”

  “You mean lie?”

  “I mean be diplomatic.”

  Cat thought on that for a second. “Mrs. Nichols told the truth down there in the kitchen. Mom was always trying to get rid of us, and it’s true—she hasn’t called us.”

  “Mrs. Nichols doesn’t know what’s going through your mom’s mind. No one does but your mom, and when she’s ready, she’ll reach out.” Violet sat on the bed. “That’s my truth.”

  “Lies to not hurt my feelings?” The words might have sounded tween-jaded, but Caitriona’s mouth wobbled, the answer to this hugely important to her.

  “A different way of putting it. What I do know is that your parents love you. I see how nuts your dad is about you. I wish my dad had loved me so much.”

  “I thought you had the same dad as Harper and Isobel.”

  “I did, but he wasn’t around. He wasn’t in my life in any meaningful way.”

  Caitriona’s brow crimped—so like Bren. “My dad won’t always be here. He might leave like last time, go into rehab again. And then we’ll have no one.”

  These girls had put up with a lot of uncertainty in their short lives. They had to be terrified of what might come next.

  “He made some mistakes, but he’s trying his best to be better. Sometimes people hurt us, and the only way forward is to forgive them.”

  Cat’s eyes, as blue as Bren’s, blinked at her. “Did you forgive your dad?”

  Violet had never thought about that. She’d arrived in Chicago filled with curiosity, a need to figure out her place—not just in the Chase family, but in the world. It had never occurred to her that Clifford might be deserving of forgiveness. He certainly hadn’t asked for it.

  Instead he’d dropped her into this foreign country, one where she had to forge new connections and her own path. His mind games might have sent her here, yet they also ushered in the most fulfilling period of her life. Still her heart rebelled at having to thank him for it.

  “I’ve forgiven him,” Violet said, surprised to find she meant it. “As for your dad, he’s hurt you both and he knows it, but now you and Franky are his number-one priority. Nothing else matters to him, not hockey or the Cup or even pepperoni pizza.”

  Caitriona made a sound, like she was trying not to laugh. “He likes pepperoni pizza!”

  “No, he loves pepperoni pizza, but he loves you and your sister more. So much more. And that’s saying a lot, isn’t it? You’re better than pizza, Cat!” Violet shook the girl’s shoulders until those bubbling giggles in her throat broke free.

  “I suppose!” Serious again, she said, “I don’t want him to get back with Mom. They don’t make each other happy.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” The thought of Bren with this woman made Violet sick to her stomach. She told herself it was just a reaction to the idea of him in an unhappy situation that she wouldn’t wish on anyone. But eventually, he would meet someone. Bren was too hot a commodity to stay off the market for very long.

  And now the thought of Bren with anyone else made her not just ill, but . . . angry.

  Shaking the negativity to the room’s pink corners, she refocused on Caitriona with a motion to the Post-its. “So, tell me about these. Are they quotes from something?”

  �
�No, they’re song lyrics.” A blush suffused her cheeks and she added in a whisper, “That I wrote.”

  “Wow! You’re writing songs? That’s awesome. Do you write music, too?”

  “Just in my head. I know a little about notes from piano lessons, but I don’t want to play it on that. It’s too . . .” She waved a hand, looking for the word.

  “Formal?”

  “Yeah. Mom wanted me to play, but I wanted to do something else. Guitar, maybe. Mom said I’d end up being a drug addict.”

  That was quite the leap. “Not exactly seeing the connection. You know who plays the guitar and isn’t a drug addict? Remy. In fact, his dad is a Grammy Award–winning musician. Also not a drug addict.”

  Caitriona’s face lit up. “That’s so cool.”

  “Yep, it is. Maybe he could show you a few chords. Is that what they call them? See if it’s something you want to follow through with.”

  “Maybe.” The word was casual, but there was hope in those two syllables that made Violet’s heart burst with the joy of making a connection. Caitriona was a tough nut to crack. Also not unlike her dad.

  “In the meantime, you could try one of those songwriting apps. Something that helps you get your ideas down so you don’t lose them on little bits of paper and have Mrs. Higgins cleaning them up or the nosy nanny asking all sorts of dumb questions.”

  “They’re not dumb. Well, not totally.” She hit the app store on her iPad and ran a quick search. “There’s a lot of them on here.”

  “Then we’d better do some research.”

  TWENTY

  “Looks like you have visitors, mon capitaine,” Remy said.

  Bren looked over the Cajun’s shoulder to the tunnel in the Rebels’ practice facility. His heart leaped at the sight of Violet with Caitriona and Franky, all of them waving.

  He waved back and a couple of the guys went, “Aw!”

  “Shut it,” he muttered as he skated over.

  As his daughters hugged him, he raised his gaze to Violet. “What’s all this about?”

  “The girls wanted to take you to lunch.” She had that mischievous sparkle in her eye he loved, so something was definitely up.