But the two of them had been bad about that ever since I’d left to play in the NHL. Until then, I’d been the one making sure everything was the way it should be, since Mom’s death and Dad’s injuries. But once I’d left home, Megan and Shelby had almost been on their own, taking care of our father in ways that no one ever imagines having to do for a parent, because our aunt was needed to help care for our grandmother these days. The only way I’d been able to live with myself was that at least now I could help out financially. I still took over as much as I could every summer, but it didn’t seem like enough.
“Tell me,” I insisted. Because no matter what, family came first.
“We can handle—”
“Tell me,” I repeated. The more she put it off, the worse I would assume it to be. At this point I just needed to know, whatever it was.
“He kind of lost it at the adult day care facility today,” Megan finally said. “He assaulted one of the orderlies.”
“Assaulted?” I pinched the spot above my nose and between my brows, where a headache was suddenly threatening to split my head in half.
“They’re not going to let us bring him back anymore. They said he needs to be in a full-time facility, somewhere that they’re better prepared to handle someone with his needs.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I can be on a plane tomorrow morning. I’ll talk to the GM and coaches, and—”
“Whoa, buddy. Hold your horses. I’m not telling you this so you’ll come racing home to save the day. Shelby and I can figure this out. We’ve got it, okay? I just thought you should know what’s going on.”
“But you might need—”
“We might need you to stay in Portland and keep earning the big bucks, because if we can’t find a government-run facility that has a space for him…”
She had a point, not that I cared to admit it. I wanted to go home to take charge. To fix things. Everything. Whatever I could. To do what I’d always done. In Canada, you never had to pay for healthcare, but there were better facilities out there. Places we could pay. Back when this had first happened, I’d looked into the possibilities available to us. If we needed to get him into one of those, then I needed to earn as much money as possible in the years I had left in the NHL.
And I needed to figure out how I could make as much money as I could in retirement, too, somehow continuing to capitalize on the career I’d put together as a player. Coaching? Commentating on TV? I didn’t have any idea what I’d be best suited for other than playing defense, but I needed to start figuring that out, ASAP. Retirement was going to creep up on me before I was ready for it. I was on the wrong side of my career already.
Most likely, Dad would still need this kind of help for decades after I retired. Hell, he might outlive me, and then what? I couldn’t run the risk of forgetting that. Or the fact that my sisters were unlikely to be able to make the kind of money I could make by being involved in professional hockey in some capacity or another, so I was our best chance of being able to afford the care Dad needed.
But I’d just gone and put the biggest wrench possible in my future with the Storm, and my contract only took me through the end of this season.
Just how badly had I fucked things up this time?
“HOW’S THIS FEEL?” I asked Bea, being overly careful not to dislodge the half dozen pins shoved between my lips. My words were muffled, but I had no doubt she could work out what I’d said. The truth of the matter was that I’d stabbed myself in the tongue, lips, and even the throat enough times already to know that letting go of the pins right now wouldn’t be my brightest move. “Too tight? Just right?” I gave the fabric another tug at her waist to smooth everything out, not that my creation needed any help in that department. My work was almost impeccable. I just needed to tighten up a couple of seams, and she’d be good to go.
She shimmied in place before raising a dark brow. “I don’t know how you do it, but you’re a miracle worker. Nothing jiggles, and I can still breathe.”
I took two of the pins from my mouth and placed them so I could fix the seam after Bea left. I’d had it almost perfect but not quite. And for her, it had to be exactly right.
Then I pushed the remaining pins back into the cushion strapped around my arm. “All right. Arms up so I can strip this off you without dragging any of these through your skin.” It would be one thing for me to stab myself with these tiny daggers, but I would not do something like that to a client. And especially not Bea.
She complied and allowed me to strip the fabric over her head. Then she stood there in her underthings, with all her “saggy, baggy skin,” as she tended to call it, on display.
If you asked me, she was way too hard on herself. That loose skin was like battle scars, the way I saw it—proof that she’d worked hard to become a better version of herself. Besides, what woman didn’t have some part of her body she wasn’t too fond of? Stretch marks, chunky ass, varicose veins, too much belly, cellulite, flat chest…we all had something we’d prefer to change, but that didn’t make us any less beautiful than the next woman.
Still, I’d never met anyone less self-conscious before in my life than Beatriz Castillo. Or at least when she was around me, she wasn’t self-conscious. Maybe she was in some areas of her life. But she let me see her exactly as she was, in all her imperfect glory. I adored that, along with almost everything else about her.
A couple of years ago, Bea’d had gastric bypass surgery. She’d lost almost 150 pounds at this point, and she looked ah-mazing if you asked me. She’d shown me pictures of herself from before all the weight loss, and it was hard to reconcile those images with being the same person, until I saw her without clothes and witnessed the evidence of her dramatic physical change for myself.
However great she looked now, she still had a lot of problem areas (in her opinion) of loose, sagging skin that would honestly never firm up, no matter how many crunches or arm curls she performed. Not that anyone ever had to know about these issues if she didn’t want them to, unless they saw her naked.
Besides, they were all things that could be easily disguised with smart clothing choices—which was what I was trying to give her. It all started with an independent study one of my fashion design school profs had assigned me over the summer, to prepare for a course the following semester. I was supposed to do a makeover for someone with an abnormal body type, and Anne Dennison had hooked me up with Bea. But I’d been enjoying what I was doing so much I’d decided it was time to start my career and forget all about finishing up my degree. This wasn’t a field that required a specific form of education, after all, and I’d taken more from my business-related courses than I had from the artistic courses. So, I’d been designing a line specifically for Bea and other women like her, who needed a bit more structure in their clothes in certain areas while still giving them flattering silhouettes.
She was constantly complaining to me about her “chicken-wing arms” and her “tummy flap,” among any number of other issues that were more problematic in her mind than in reality, but what seemed to bother her the most were her boobs. With a properly fitted bra on, her boobs looked full and luscious to me.
But right now, after taking off the top I’d just fitted her with, her breasts had apparently decided to do their own thing. Without batting an eye due to me seeing her like that, Bea bent over at the waist, tugged on the bra straps, and shoved her bits of flesh around. “My tits hang low, Dani,” she said dejectedly.
“You and millions of other women. It’s called gravity.”
“Well, gravity’s affecting mine more than most. These puppies are as flat as pancakes but as long as your best dildo.”
I let out an undignified snort of laughter.
“I’m telling you, honey,” she insisted. “My boobs put the flap in flapjacks.”
“You need to stop being so mean to yourself around me.”
“Not being mean. Just being honest. Let’s face it…my tits hang low. They wobble to and fro. I can tie �
�em in a knot, I can tie ’em in a bow…”
I grabbed one of the pins from my cushion and held it out toward her like a weapon. “If you seriously start singing about tying up your tits—”
“You’ll stab me? Just be sure you aim well. Maybe you can cause enough damage that they’ll have to do some reconstruction.”
Clearly, she wasn’t ready to give it up yet.
“Do you want me to fit you in this last piece or not?” I demanded.
She rolled her eyes as she finished tucking her breasts into the cups of her bra. “Got to fold them up just right, or they go all wonky on me. A few months ago, I was wearing a sports bra at the gym. Apparently, it’d gotten all stretched out in the wash. Bad news. I nearly put out an eye when one of these puppies tried to get free. Trying to do jumping jacks is seriously out of the question when you’ve got flapjacks for boobs.”
“Sounds like quite a chore to deal with,” I drawled, holding out the top I wanted to see her in.
“Oh, you have no idea. I’m constantly rolling them up and shoving them in, squeezing things just so to make everything look like I’m a normal woman.”
“You are a normal woman.”
“I know, but I just don’t feel like one most of the time.” Bea grabbed hold of her tummy flap with both hands and shook it, making it jiggle like Jell-O. “How many normal women do you know who have all of this hanging around?”
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Well, it’s not like anybody knows it. And with the clothes I’m designing for you, even those who do know will be fooled into thinking that your tummy is as flat as an ironing board.”
“That’s my titties you’re thinking about!” She shook her chest to emphasize her point.
Not that it worked on me. “Honey, if I had two ta-tas like that, I’d be shaking them around for the whole world to see, too.”
“What you need to be showing off is that butt.” She let out a low whistle, waggling her brows. “We’ve all got to work with what our mamas and the good Lord gave us, and they gave you a nice derriere. Of course, a little surgical help wouldn’t hurt me any.”
“No change on that score, hmm?”
“Unless I win the lottery…”
Bea had been saying for the last few months how much she would love to get some plastic surgery to take care of these areas that bothered her. But since, as a teacher, her income was severely limited and health insurance wouldn’t approve something they considered to be cosmetic, she’d just have to learn how to come to terms with all the new flaws in her body.
She had a good attitude about it, though, in comparison to a lot of people I’d known over the years—people who really didn’t have anything to complain about in terms of their bodies. At least I’m healthy now, she was always telling me, and it’s not like anyone has to see this stuff but me. Everybody has their flaws.
At least some part of her believed that, but I wasn’t sure she’d convinced herself entirely. The cold, hard truth was that in all the months I’d known her, she hadn’t gone on a single date. Here she was, a young, twenty-something hottie with a vivacious personality and a heart of gold, but she spent her weekends at home making lesson plans and grading papers. Now, I was all for women putting everything they had into their careers, but there was no good reason they shouldn’t have a little fun while they did it. And Bea’s job, however much she loved it, was more high-stress than most. She needed some time to enjoy herself away from the job.
Maybe I was the one who’d have to help Bea rediscover that side of herself. Or just discover it for the first time, as the case might be. “I’ve got one more piece for you to try on today, but I want to show you something first,” I said. And I’d be damned if I didn’t talk her into wearing the heck out of it.
Bea narrowed her eyes at me. “Mm hmm,” she murmured. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to drop the hammer on me?”
I didn’t bother to answer that question. Instead, I set down the top, took out my iPad, and pulled up the design I’d worked on last week. I’d put it together with the idea of getting Bea to go out on a date.
It was a formfitting LBD—little black dress—with a modern, built-in corset to give shape to her waist, tuck in her tummy flap, and put the girls on display. Of course, I could make it in any color, but what woman didn’t need at least one awesome LBD in her wardrobe so that when that date did come along, she’d be ready for it?
“Oh no,” Bea said, shaking her head before she’d even taken a good look at it. “I’ve already told you how I feel about dresses.”
That she had. She refused to wear them to work because she was always getting down on the floor with her kids. Totally understandable, but this dress wasn’t for work, so that argument wouldn’t fly this time.
“And I’ve already told you I think you’re an idiot, but that’s beside the point.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t say anything else I might regret. I was already pushing it by calling her an idiot, but seriously. I’d had more than enough of her picking on herself in a way she’d never dream of doing to someone else. That didn’t mean I needed to take over where she’d left off, though. Bea was my client, and no matter how close we’d gotten in recent weeks, I still needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism. Time to get back to that. “You have awesome legs,” I said. “Sexy legs.”
“Maybe from the knee down.”
“Which is all that’ll be visible in this dress. And it covers all the parts you always want to have hidden while at the same time emphasizing all the things I think you need to let the world see.”
“And just where do you think I’m going to wear something like that?”
“Some hot date that you’re going to let me set you up on.”
“I don’t have time to date.”
“You choose not to have time to date. There’s a difference.” A very important difference.
“I haven’t seen you dating since I’ve known you,” Bea said in an obvious attempt to deflect the conversation away from her and onto me. “Why should I do something that you’re not doing?”
“I’m working on it,” I said, hoping I didn’t blush. I didn’t embarrass easily, but for some reason, I felt insanely shy about what had gone down last night between me and Dirty Harry. Probably because it had ended so abruptly, and I was still more than just a little confused about that.
She raised a brow in question. “Really? Who are you working on it with?” She sounded more intrigued than dubious, which made me want to laugh.
Dirty Harry, the sexiest ginger-haired hockey player on the planet, I thought to myself. But that was my own personal name for him. And since there wasn’t anything official between us—hell, he’d run off last night after giving me the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life, without so much as a see ya later—I wasn’t sure I should spill the details yet.
I’d been resisting the urge to bang down his door all day. If I didn’t hear from him by sometime tonight, I’d take the necessary steps to get answers. Twenty-four hours was more than enough time for him to wallow in whatever but-I-promised-your-dad bullshit he was feeling and get over himself, thank you very much.
But for now, he needed time to come to terms with the fact that I was going to win. When it mattered (and when it came to playing Monopoly with my siblings), I always won. And this mattered.
Being the baby of the family had its advantages. I’d had to fight tooth and nail to get my way sometimes, but I’d damned well learned how to do it better than just about anyone in my acquaintance. I didn’t lose, damn it.
“Just one of the guys from the team,” I replied coyly. If things worked out the way I wanted them to, maybe eventually I could introduce Bea and Harry. Ooh! Or another thought. I could convince Harry to bring a teammate with us on a date, and I could drag Bea—in this dress I intended to make for her—along, too. Double date. Bam! Done deal.
At least in my head, it was. But now that the idea was starting to flesh out in
my mind, I knew I could make it happen in reality, too.
“Your dad’s team?” Bea asked. “The one your brother-in-law plays for?” There was no missing the laughter in her tone.
“What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Although how much he might or might not know was debatable. Still wouldn’t hurt him, though.
“Mm hmm.” She glanced down at the screen of my iPad again, and this time she actually looked at what I’d come up with. “Snug sleeves on that?” she asked, her near-black brows drawn studiously together.
“Have I ever made you anything that didn’t have snug sleeves?”
“No, but—”
“But you’re way more nervous about someone seeing your arms than you should be. Seriously, Bea, no one cares if you jiggle. No one but you.”
“They don’t jiggle. They flap. I could probably fly away on them if I tried.”
“I thought we’d decided you weren’t going to be mean to yourself anymore.”
“Maybe you decided it.”
“Which means it needs to happen,” I replied, tamping down my frustration. “Besides, most guys like the jiggly parts the best. But it’s the same firm-but-stretchy material I used for that jacket you tried on earlier.”
“Ooh, the warming fabric?” she said. Another issue she’d been dealing with since her surgery was being cold all the time, so I tried to take that into account with everything I made for her. I’d given her long sleeves, even for the summer pieces I’d made. And there were a lot of new textiles on the market. Near the newer technical products at the fabric store, like the moisture-wicking ones, I’d come across this textile that reflected the wearer’s body heat back on them. For someone cold-natured like Bea, it would be hard to find something more ideal.
“One and the same,” I replied. “And it’s going to have the panel built in over your mid-section to keep your tummy tucked in like you’re used to. But seriously, the best part of this dress is the corset. It’ll do amazing things for your shape.” Because regardless of how much weight she’d lost or how much she might still want to lose, this woman had some of the most flattering curves I’d ever seen. If only she’d stop trying to hide them all the damned time.
Defensive Zone Page 5
