Chapter 6

Ivan

The flightto New York seemed quicker than usual. We'd all gathered in the back of the plane for a game of poker. Eighteen-year-old Connor Brooks didn't know how to play, so the first few hands had been teaching him the game.

"Some of it is common sense," Gabe told him. "Two pairs are better than one pair, and a royal flush is better than a flush. Three of a kind is higher than two pairs, and four of a kind is almost the highest hand you can have, except for a straight flush or a royal flush."

Connor nodded. "I found a chart online, so I can follow it."

"A lot of it is luck," Jensen added. "Sometimes you've just got a shit hand, and while you can bluff, at the end of the day, you need to have a solid feel for the game and who you're playing with because if you literally have nothing, and all I have is a pair of deuces, I'm still going to beat you unless you can convince me to fold."

"Let's just play and see how he does. We'll use the chips, but no one buys any until he plays a couple of hands to see how he does," I suggested.

Everyone agreed. It wasn't like we were playing for the money. It was fun to get competitive and sometimes I'd walk away with close to a thousand bucks, but we could afford it and when we played those kinds of games, everyone involved was experienced. We might give Connor some shit, and he might end up losing a little here and there, but no one was going to steal money from him like this.

Not his first time playing.

"I don't own a tuxedo," Connor said after we'd played a few hands and he seemed to be getting the hang of it. "So, I don't think I can go with you to that charity event. I got the email today with the details and it's black tie."

"You don't own a tux?"

He frowned at me. "When would I have worn a tux?"

"Senior prom?" Jensen asked.

"I rented one."

"I know someone in the fashion industry," I replied thoughtfully. "Let me see if she knows someone who has one you can borrow."

Connor shrugged. "All right. I was just thinking someone else might want to go."

"Yeah, but no one else that's not attending the event brought our tuxes on the trip," Canyon pointed out, giving him a look.

"Sorry." He gave him a sheepish grin.

We'd have to take the kid shopping once we got back to L.A. but in the meantime, I texted Cheyenne hoping she could help.

IVAN: You know anyone in New York who might have a tux our rookie can borrow for Thursday night? It never occurred to us he didn't own one.

CHEY: Do you all own tuxes?

IVAN: We make enough appearances for it to be a worthwhile investment. Connor's young, and he might even grow some more, but he needs one.

CHEY: Lucky for you, I do know someone. Davide Luneste is an up-and-coming designer of men's clothes, and I did an ad for him a few months ago.

IVAN: What were YOU wearing in a men's clothing ad?"

CHEY: What do you think? Nothing. I was mostly hidden behind the guy, but yes, I was in my birthday suit.

IVAN: I want to see this ad.

There was no response for a minute or so, and I mentally grimaced, wondering if I'd gone too far. I was about to apologize when a picture popped up on my screen that practically made me sigh with wonder and longing.

She was truly strikingly beautiful.

In the ad, she was hanging over the guy's arm, her hands one on top of the other on his shoulder, most of her body hidden behind him with the exception of the bare curve of one shapely hip and leg.

And just that glimpse had me sporting a semi.

IVAN: Wow. Do you EVER take a bad picture?

There was another slight pause and then a picture popped up that made me laugh. She was with people who looked like family. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail, she was covered in dirt, surrounded by goats, and everyone was laughing. She looked like she was having a great time, and as beautiful as ever.

IVAN: I don't think we have the same definition of what a bad picture is.

I found one of my own, on a night when I'd gotten in two fights, had stitches over my right eye, dried blood on my lip, and a snarl on my face.

I sent it and waited.

CHEY: Oh! Your poor face. That looks like it hurt.

Leave it to Chey to be sympathetic instead of grossed out.

I'd been with Marina when it happened, and she hadn't even called to check on me. I probably should have known then that it was never going to work between us.

IVAN: It was fine, but that's a terrible picture.

CHEY: No, it's not. It's a picture of a hard-working pro athlete who had a rough night.

I wouldn't have thought it possible to like her even more, but I did.

"Are you playing or texting?" Jensen demanded, motioning that it was my turn to ante up.

"Uh, yeah." I absently threw a chip in the pile, then went back to our conversation.

IVAN: I appreciate you saying that, but I looked like hell for the next few weeks. My face turned every shade of green and purple while it was healing.

CHEY: I'd put some makeup on you to help cover it up. [smiley emoji]

I chuckled.

IVAN: Thanks. I think.

CHEY: Anyway, I'll reach out to Davide, see what he can come up with. Send me Connor's measurements, ok?

IVAN: Will do. And thank you. I owe you one.

CHEY: You owe me nothing after saving me from Damien and Jim the other night.

IVAN: Rent-a-hockey-stud is open for business.

CHEY: Sign me up! Talk later!

I put my phone away and told Connor to text me his measurements.

"My what?" He frowned.

"Have you never been fitted for a suit?" Jensen asked him.

Connor shook his head. "Nah. My mom buys them off the rack."

We all looked at each other.

"Jesus." Mason Harrington, a defenseman who played on the second line, rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Were we ever this young?"

"I've been six-five since high school," Jensen said. "And I've been getting custom suits that long."

"I'm only five eleven," Connor said, making a face. "I can still buy them off the rack, so why would I spend a lot of money when I don't have to?"

"Fair point," I said. "But now you do have to. You play in the NHL. You need to look the part. You can't show up at charity events in an off-the-rack suit."

"How come?" He looked genuinely confused.

"Because we said so," Gabe muttered. "Trust us, okay?"

"Okay." Connor was pretty easy-going, all things considered. "But I can't spend ten thousand dollars on a suit. I don't make the money you guys do."

"You don't have to spend that much," I replied. "You're probably going to borrow the tux for Thursday and then we'll work on buying you a couple of suits when we get back to L.A. There won't be time to shop on this trip."

Talk turned back to poker and before I knew it, we were in New York.

"So, you're taking Chey to the event Thursday?" Gabe asked me as we headed up to our rooms in the hotel elevator.

"Yes." I nodded.

"Anything happening there?" He knew I liked her.

I shrugged. "I don't know. She kind of ghosted me over the summer, but now I'm seeing her twice in a week."

"She's super focused on her career," he said. "But she's a great girl. I think you should ride this momentum. Don't let her slip away."

"How do you propose I do that? We're on a road trip. She's working. I never know when she's going to be in L.A. or if I'll be there at the same time."

"Give her a reason. If you give her a reason to go home, like Saylor's opening and such, she'll make the time."

"What do I have to offer her?" I asked. "I mean, we're not in a relationship. We're friends who've gone on a few dates, but it's been totally platonic. I gave her a kiss good night, but we're talking the kind that doesn't lead to anything else."

"No tongue?" Connor interjected.

I'd forgotten he was there.

"Hey." I nudged him with my elbow. "Behave. I like this woman. But to answer your question, no tongue."

"How come? Did you try?"

I chuckled at his naiveté. "Because when you really like a girl, and you want more than sex, you absolutely, under no circumstances, randomly just stick your tongue in her mouth." I paused. "Hasn't your dad had a conversation like this with you?"

Connor looked horrified. "Jesus. No. My parents are great but super religious. They would die before talking to me about sex beyond the very basics of biology. I don't think they even know how to French kiss."

"Do you?" Gabe asked pointedly.

Connor turned a color of red that told me just how innocent he was and made me feel bad for him.

We could tease him all we wanted, but at the end of the day, he was in the big leagues. He was going to have puck bunnies and random women throwing themselves at him constantly, and he needed to know how to handle it. This was how starter wives and unplanned pregnancies happened.

"You lost your cherry yet, kid?" Gabe asked bluntly.

Connor turned even redder, which I wouldn't have thought possible.

"I think we have a project," I told Gabe.

"Please don't tell the other guys," Connor whispered miserably. "I just want to focus on hockey. If they start giving me shit about that, in addition to all the shit they already give me, I can't…" He swallowed. "Please. This year is important to my future."

"Of course it is." Gabe gently clapped him on the back. "And while you need to expect some locker room hazing, this kind of stuff is personal unless you want it out there. They won't hear it from us."

"Thanks."

"But we're going to talk about this some more. Because it's going to happen sooner than you think." He paused. "Unless…are you religious? Are you planning to wait for marriage? I totally respect that if?—"

"God, no!" Connor interjected, shaking his head. "I just never had the opportunity. And, you know, I'm kind of dorky." He flushed again.

"We're working on that."

"There's no rush," I added. "If you're not ready, focusing on hockey is exactly what you should be doing. You're young but you're legally an adult and can make important decisions like that on your own timetable."

"No pressure, kid." Gabe spoke sincerely. "We've got your back, whatever you decide."

"Thanks." We got to our floor and Connor waved before going in the opposite direction.

"I don't know what just happened," Gabe said when Connor was out of ear shot. "Did we just become fathers to an adult child?"

"I prefer to call us big brothers," I said, laughing. "I'm not ready to be a dad."

"I'm already a dad," Gabe said, referring to his nine-year-old daughter Brandy, with his ex-wife. "If I have more, I want them younger than Brandy, not older."

"We've got this. We'll be his adopted big brothers, and Coach can be his alternate dad."

"We'll get him a big D to wear on his jersey," I quipped.

We both snorted with laughter.