Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Riggs

"That's not good enough," my dad says, pacing across my hotel room. "You play like one of those morons who joins a team for fun. "

Spoken like having fun while playing hockey is the cardinal sin itself.

And it is exactly that—at least according to my dad.

Sport is to be dominated, to be controlled. It should be work from the moment the season starts and all the way to the end of it—and work in the off-season too.

So, really, work…all year round.

No fun. Not ever.

Yup. My dad's a blast to be around. A grumpy, surly old bastard who is never satisfied.

Which is why I don't bother to reply to what he thinks is the worst insult he can give me.

What he doesn't understand—won't ever understand—is that there aren't any insults, any tough love, any criticisms as a form to further motivate me that will actually hit home. Maybe there was a time they affected me, that his sharp words cut deeply?—

I bite back a sigh.

Or maybe there's a part of me that hopes for the days before this shit, before he changed.

When he was my dad .

When we'd get up early and head to the rink, grabbing Dunkin on the way, the sticky glaze from the donuts I downed like potato chips lingering on my fingertips all through practice. When we would hang out in hotels during tournaments and watch movies that I didn't understand because the plots were over my head. We'd stay up too late and then still get up early, stocking up on the free breakfast before I'd get to do my favorite thing in the world?—

Play hockey.

Now, though…that's long gone.

The love of the sport is softened, changed. It's become a job that I enjoy, that I want to work hard and excel at. But it's a job, and nothing more, and it's certainly not the same sport that used to sing to my soul.

Still, it's those memories with my dad, the dumbass hope that things will be different…

That has me continuing to answer his calls.

And not kicking his ass out of my room.

It's why I'm propping up the door of my hotel room, watching him pace and listening to him be an asshole.

I don't know how he tracked down which one we're at—except that I do, I guess. We're playing my hometown team tomorrow and there aren't that many hotels in this city that can cater to the needs of a professional sports organization like this one can.

And my dad has the connections—not to mention, the bullying skills—to get that information.

But I'm tired.

All I want to do is to sleep. Pretend that we didn't lose the previous night, traveled for several hours, get bussed to the hotel, and then arrive in the lobby where my dad was waiting for me. I want to pretend this isn't happening. Pretend that I'll actually get a good night's sleep for the first time in a few days and not spend hours lying in bed thinking and dreaming about what it felt like to have Ella's hand wrapped around my cock.

Pretend it was easy to turn her down, to drive her home like I didn't want to stay parked on the side of the road and pull her into my lap, feeling the tight sheath of her cunt squeezing my dick.

She was drunk.

Again.

Christ.

"And, for fuck's sake," my dad snaps, jarring me back into the present, "how goddamned hard is it to break out the puck? You skate, you pass, you create an option, and you move your fucking feet!"

I grind my teeth together, resist the urge to glance up at the ceiling—because that will give my dad more fuel for his rant—as I debate my options.

If I stay silent, I'll have to keep listening to this shit.

If I tell him to leave, he'll make another fucking scene—a worse one that will likely prevent my teammates from getting the rest they need.

Maybe I muzzle him then drag him down to the lobby, shove his ass in a cab, and?—

A knock behind my head.

My dad cuts off and I grind my teeth together as I open the door.

"Hey."

My spine goes stiff when I see Knox standing there, tablet in hand.

He holds it up in my direction. "Ready to watch that tape now?"

We have no plans to watch tape at nearly three in the morning.

But I'm not dumb enough to leave the lifeline he's tossed me floating in the waves, drifting away and out of reach.

I glance over my shoulder at my dad, thankful to see a sliver of approval in his eyes. He likes how hard Knox works, how my teammate and friend plays. He doesn't get that we have the same routine, that we're in the gym together often, that we usually tag team in those extra hours on and off the ice.

Knox is determined and focused.

I'm…never good enough.

It's fine. I came to termsmany years ago with the fact that I'll never make my dad proud.

"I'll see you after the game tomorrow," my dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. "We'll break it down before you fly home to Tahoe."

Great.

Just what I want.

At least with the team's plane planning an imminent take-off, the verbal reaming won't last long.

"Sounds good," I mutter, stepping away from him so that Knox can come in.

I close the door, not bothering to say goodbye.

He's my dad, yeah, but he hasn't done anything to earn my respect—not in many years.

"You good?" Knox mutters, perching on the end of the bed.

I grunt and look through the peephole in case my dad's lurking there.

Thankfully, Knox doesn't bother to press me for more of an answer.

A good thing since I don't have anything else to say.

And anyway, he has plenty of words to fill in the blanks for me as he flops back on the bed and starts talking about what he's going to do with our off day when we get back home.

"Not skiing," he says, tossing the tablet to the side, "even though Ella will no doubt be out on the slopes now that the lifts are up and running." Because there was a Snowmaggedon not long before, dumping enough snow in the Sierra Nevadas that towns and roads were shut down and ski resorts had more of the white fluffy stuff than they knew how to deal with. "I'll stay in the lodge and pick up some ski bunnies, I guess, since I don't want Coach on my ass for doing something against my contract."

Because our bodies belong to the team.

Because we've agreed to live and breathe and bleed for hockey.

Tearing an MCL on a black diamond run with his sister wouldn't make the powers that be happy.

Same as Knox wouldn't be happy knowing that his sister was open to a fuck on the side of the road—and then a fuck or three back in my bed, because I wouldn't be happy with having her just once.

Making the horn go in repeat as I pumped up into her. Bending her over my kitchen counter. Fucking her on the stairs. Tossing her into my bed, kissing my way up her body, and?—

"Hell," Knox grumbles. "Ella keeps telling me that she wants to ski, but I think she's more excited about hanging in the lodge, charming the bartender into free drinks, and finding some asshole to take her home for the night."

I scowl.

He sighs, tucks his hands behind his head. "I need to get her hooked up with someone who'll take care of her, not take advantage."

Like I could have on Christmas.

Something I don't say because I like my teeth where they are.

"What about you?" Knox says. "You're awfully monkish for a single, relatively attractive"—I roll my eyes—"professional athlete."

"It's late," I mutter. "You should go to bed."

"And risk coming across your dad lurking in the hall?" he asks before glancing at his watch. "We have at least ten minutes to wait before I can slink my ass to my room."

He's not wrong.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Why are you"—he waves a hand—"all monk-like?"

I debate whether or not he'll let this go.

But I know Knox too well.

He's got the stubborn Adler gene.

I've got to give him something.

Give him enough so that he'll be satisfied.

And then I'll dream about fucking his sister.

"I'm not like you. I don't love whipping my dick out and dunking it into whatever pussy I can find." Sex means something to me. It's more than mutual pleasure, more than a drunk fuck on the side of the road—no matter how good that would have been.

I had my fair share of road pussy, of puck bunnies, until?—

I shudder.

Until I learned that it doesn't mean anything unless feelings are involved.

For me, at least.

The rest of the world, including Knox and Ella, can do what they want.

Knox sputters out a laugh. "Gross, man," he mock grumbles, rolling over to face me. "You know it's not like that."

I just lift an eyebrow.

He shoves an elbow under himself, glares at me. "It's not."

I shrug, not biting on the argument, and reach for the door handle to encourage him out as I quote, "We Adlers are free and loose with their lovin'." Something he said the first time Ella left with a guy in front of us— something that had Lake and I out of our chairs, ready to pummel the asshole until he saw reason and left her alone.

Knox talked us down, let her go.

More than once.

I grind my teeth together, ignore the familiar rage that wants to well up inside me.

Not mine.

Knox sighs as he pushes off the bed and I freeze.

Because the sound is decidedly not free and loose.

"That was before," he says, walking toward me.

My fingers convulse on the handle, clenching the metal tightly enough I'm surprised it doesn't groan in protest. "Before what?" I ask, something like fear coiling in my belly.

"Before I realized that my sister needs handling before she fucks up her life."

" Handling ?" I croak, knowing that Ella would blow a gasket if she heard that shit.

Knox's mouth curves. "Yup. Handling. " He claps me on the shoulder as he strolls out into the hall, mischief in blue eyes that are identical to Ella's.

Hell, even the mischief itself is identical.

As is that impish smile.

"And you're just the man to do it."