Chapter 37

I want a beer, a bathtub full of ice, and to use Pat's face like a punching bag again.

Alas, I've already done that and gotten the lecture from Coach, and since I'm not interested in revisiting that glorious one-on-one, I'd bitten my tongue and had taken it out on the puck instead.

Good for my slapshot.

Bad for my body.

Hence, the need for that tub full of ice.

I pull into the garage, throw the gearshift into park, cut the engine, and exhale, rolling out my shoulders.

My mom is here. And Rory. I need to not be a total grump and enjoy the time with them.

It's almost Thanksgiving and soon enough it'll be Christmas. Then January and the back half of the season, when shit gets real and the team needs to focus on scrounging each and every point we can add to our tally.

Because I haven't been working this hard for this long to let one asshole derail everything.

Especially when we're winning and gelling as a team—with the exception of Asshole Pat.

Which is why I'm going to ignore the toxic lump, let him celebrate getting pussy and the occasional goal, and focus on my own shit.

See? I'm growing.

I haven't heard the You're not your father ricocheting through my mind for at least a week now.

Grinning, I reach for the handle, feeling a hundred times better just being this close to seeing Rory.

Until I see the dent in the wooden frame near the lock.

Frowning, I run my fingers over the marking.

Then shrug.

Maybe Rory was bringing in dog crates and my kitchen is full of a gaggle of rescue puppies.

Yeah, I'll take that particular brand of chaos.

Because it's time that she gets everything she wants—including saving all the dogs she wants.

Grin widening, I push open the door and walk into the house.

Music echoes down the hallway and my heart squeezes, remembering other days, other songs. Knowing that I would give just about anything to keep coming home to Rory dancing in my kitchen. I hang up my bag, my jacket then move down the hall?—

Only, she's not dancing.

But it's almost as good because she's sitting on the counter…

Waiting for me.

Something familiar at her side.

"Is that my old hockey stick from the garage?"

She stills, eyes lifting from the book she'd been reading—one I recommended—and connecting with mine. She sets the paperback to the side. "Yup." She slides down from the counter, leans back against it. "How was practice?"

I move toward her, cupping her face in my hands, tilting her head up and kissing her deeply. "Pat's an asshole," I say when I break the kiss, "but that's not a surprise." I tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. "How was your day?"

She stills.

"What?" I ask, leaning back, staring into unfathomable green eyes. "What happened?"

"I…" She presses her lips together.

My heart starts pounding, speeding up further when her eyes close for a long moment, panic making my voice hoarse. "Princess."

She inhales, exhales, and her lids peel back.

And I know what she's about to tell me is going to change everything.

Going to destroy it.

And—

"Where's Zeus?" I ask. "He needs a walk." I spin away from her, searching the room for my mom, almost desperate for her brand of interruption right now. I'd seen her jacket on the hook, her rental at the curb. She's got to be close. "Did my mom take him out? I can go meet them, catch up and give you some time to decompress. I know you've got a lot happening with the gala and?—"

"King," she whispers.

I freeze.

Because the way she says my name.

Fuck.

This is going to be bad.

"I need you to look at me," she says. "I need you to hear me." Another breath. "And I need you to recognize that I'm here and I'm okay."

Now I'm freaked the fuck out.

She lifts her hand, extends it in my direction. "Come here, honey."

I can't deny her that, can't deny her anything, even though my pulse is thundering through my veins and my knees feel shaky and my lungs can't pull in enough air.

It's like I'm sprinting down the ice at the end of a long shift.

And it's double overtime in game seven of a series.

And I'm trying to catch a motherfucker from the other team as he bears down on my goalie.

And when I'm close enough to stop him, I catch an edge, eat shit, and slam into the boards.

While the asshole goes on to score.

And…it's all over.

Because I'm too slow. Too incapable.

You're not your father.

"King," Rory says. "Come here, baby."

I close the final few steps between us, stilling when she takes my hand, laces our fingers together. "I'm here. I'm safe. I'm fine." A squeeze. "Okay?"

I nod, but my pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear her when she says,

"Phillip came to the house today."

A vice grip on my throat, my lungs. "Wh-what?" I rasp.

"He snuck into the garage?—"

I pull my hand free.

She takes it back, holds it tighter.

"Then he forced his way into the house and?—"

I stagger back a step, yanking out of her grip.

"I'm okay," she repeats. "Zeus is okay. In fact, he's a good boy who bit the hell out of Phillip's ankle?—"

My head flies up.

"But he's okay too. Just a little bruised, and left part of his tooth in Phillip's ankle," she says, then adds in a rush, "I took him to the vet and he's totally fine."

"And you?" I rasp out.

"I'm fine too." Quick words. Too quick.

"What did he do to you?"

A wince, her eyes sliding away. Then back, as though knowing her not looking at me is a hundred times worse. "He likes kicking," she says softly as rage and fury and panic and…failure tangle in my stomach. "I'm bruised too," she murmurs. "But Dr. Halston checked me out and gave me a clear bill of health." She moves a little closer. "I'm okay."

Okay.

She's okay.

Zeus is okay?—

You're never going to be there. Not when I need you.

I'm not.

You're not your father.

I'm not that either.

"You used the stick?" I ask, trying to quiet the voices in my head, to calm the panic, to just fucking think.

You're. Not. Good. Enough.

"Actually," Rory says softly, her mouth turning up just barely at the edges. "It turns out that your mom has some hockey skills too. She beat the shit out of Phillip and got him to stop." Teeth pressing into her lip, those eyes sliding away and then back. "And then I hit him with a vase and knocked him unconscious."

I rasp out a laugh, gaze going to the remnants of my stick on the counter, to the now empty spot where the flowers I'd bought for her had sat just that morning.

God. I can't do this.

My mom hit Phillip with my stick, hard enough to break it.

Fucking hell, but I cannot do this.

"He hit the ground like a sack of bricks," Rory says, relief in her tone. Probably mistaking my laughter for acceptance.

And I guess it is.

Acceptance that I can't be the man she needs.

A stick. A vase. A tooth from Zeus.

Kicking.

Fuck.

"—and we called the cops," she says. "They arrested him and Jean-Michel says he won't be able to get out on bail this time?—"

I wasn't here.

I wasn't fucking here.

Not today. Not on her wedding day. Not at her house.

Three fucking strikes.

"—and Pascal's already begun to check out the security system. He'll beef it up and you won't have to worry when you're not here?—"

You're not here. Not when I need you.

God, I had this beautiful moment, these beautiful weeks.

But it's still the same shit.

I'm not enough to make this work.

"—but we can meet with the security company and the detective, make sure you feel comfortable?—"

That snaps me out of it.

"Make me feel comfortable?"

"I—" Brows drawn together, her mouth opens and closes. "I'm sorry?"

"You were assaulted again," I grind out. "And you're worried about whether or not I'm fucking comfortable?"

"I know this is a big trigger for you, honey," she says. "And I know that you have to go out of town." She takes another step toward me. "I just want to make sure that we both do everything we can to alleviate any concerns that might crop?—"

"Stop."

She freezes. "King?"

"Stop."

I can't hear my name on her tongue, can't hear her voice, not when?—

You're not good enough.

Rose's is far too loud in my head.

Christ.

I'm not good enough.

And I never will be.

I turn away.

"Don't go," she whispers.

My toes dig into the floor, jaw clenching so tightly that my teeth protest.

"Just stay," she says, still whispering. "Just stay and talk to me. Tell me what's running through your head."

"I can't."

She touches my shoulder. "Try." A beat. "Fight." Another. "For me." I turn to watch her throat work, eyes glimmering with tears. "Fight for us."