Chapter Six

B urgess skated full speed after the puck, biting down hard on his mouthpiece in frustration when Gauthier got there first. By a hair, but still. They crashed into the boards together, battling it out for the control, a maze of elbows, shoulders, and sticks as more Bearcats entered the mix, resulting in more rattling of the plexiglass and a whistle being blown. “This is practice , assholes.” Coach McCarren’s voice ripped across the ice like metal being sawed in half. “Try not to get injured three weeks before the season starts, would you, please?”

Everyone shoved at each other at once, breaking up the suspended scuffle.

Once the pressure of bodies released from all sides, Burgess’s burst of adrenaline capsized, and he became all too aware of the obnoxious throb in his lower back. Coupled with the fact that Gauthier had outskated him, irritation welled in Burgess like black oil out of the ground, his gloved fist bashing into the glass before he could stop himself.

As soon as Burgess performed the action, he regretted it. Losing his temper was endlessly amusing to the rookies, Corrigan and Mailer, and he’d been providing them with way too much entertainment lately.

“Oh shit,” Corrigan shouted. “Dad is touchy today.”

Mailer chewed on the end of his mouthpiece. “He’s going to turn this car back right around if we’re not careful. No Disneyland for us.”

“If I was your dad,” Burgess drawled. “I’d have abandoned you in the parking lot a long time ago.”

They laughed in unison and clinked their sticks together, thrilled to have gotten a response out of him beyond his usual death glare. As far as Burgess knew, Corrigan and Mailer had met post-draft, but somehow, they’d morphed into virtual twins already. That afternoon, they’d walked into the locker room with matching Orgasm Donor sweatshirts talking about their romantic escapades the night before when nobody asked.

Burgess might be old for hockey, but he wasn’t old . Still, he couldn’t remember being as young and ridiculous as these two.

“You want to get back to practice, clowns?” Burgess asked, tightening his right glove. “Or is it getting in the way of outfit planning?”

Corrigan belted a laugh. “Don’t feel left out, Dad. We can get you a sweatshirt, too.”

“But only if you’ve donated at least one orgasm in the last month,” Mailer was quick to interject, bashing his shoulder into Corrigan and getting one in return. “Do you qualify?”

Had he donated any orgasms recently?

Only to himself.

“Since I’m your dad, Corrigan, why don’t you just ask your mom if I qualify?”

Mailer doubled over laughing while Corrigan’s smile slowly melted off his face. Gauthier skated behind Burgess and they traded a fist bump without looking at each other. Really, that jab had been way too easy—and he liked to think he was above mom jokes at this point—but shit talking was a vital part of the hockey lifestyle that wasn’t going away anytime soon. And when it came to insults, offense was the best defense. Honestly, didn’t the kid deserve it for buying such a ridiculous sweatshirt?

Coach McCarren blew the whistle again and they resumed the scrimmage, but Burgess struggled to keep his mind on the game. Which royally pissed him off. Because now he was thinking about the fact that he hadn’t donated an orgasm in over a year. Had it been a one-night stand on the road in Anaheim, maybe? The memory had been archived almost as soon as it happened, so trying to recall the woman’s face only produced a blurry profile. Might as well admit it, his love life sucked. He loved sex. Who didn’t love sex? Hookups were great while they were happening, but as soon as they were over and he had a while to reflect, they just seemed to serve as a reminder that his marriage had failed. He’d failed.

There was no reason he couldn’t enter into a new relationship. Hell, his ex was already engaged to a new dude—congrats to them. He even sort of liked the dentist she called her fiancé now, which was saying something, because he didn’t like many people. But a relationship with a new woman meant eventually introducing her to Lissa. That’s what held him back. He wasn’t even solid with his daughter. What made him think bringing a new face into the mix was a good idea? Nah, Burgess stayed in on his nights off. Didn’t date. Refused offers from the players’ wives to fix him up with friends and sisters and cousins. Too much work.

He’d rather lust after his beautiful new au pair, who already found his aggression on the ice alarming and had serious and well-founded trust issues with men. Jesus, after her revelation on the roof after dinner, he’d stayed awake all night replaying her ordeal in his head, unable to control his rapid-fire pulse, his only solace being that Brett could never hurt Tallulah again. If her tormentor was still alive, he didn’t think he’d be able to function. This woman was so much braver than he gave her credit for. Not only was he outrageously attracted to her, he admired her like hell, this vivacious grad student who would now live with him.

So much easier than casual dating, right?

Wrong. The complications were mounting—yet he only seemed to welcome them.

Great. Let’s get complicated.

Corrigan received a pass from Gauthier and blew toward him on the ice, not a hint of restraint or caution in his stance. Not protecting the puck. Was he just that cocky, or did he have so little fear of Burgess handing him his ass?

He could either learn a lesson today or in a future game when it could cost them a win.

Burgess sighed, knowing it had to be now.

Digging his teeth hard into the molded rubber in his mouth, Burgess shoved off the ice and put his shoulder down, colliding with the rookie, slapping the puck out of Corrigan’s possession at the same time, Corrigan going down in a screech of metal on ice in the process. The fall was far from enough to hurt him, just to rattle him into keeping his guard up and respecting the defense next time.

Briefly, when the action continued toward the opposite end of the ice, Burgess thought of verbalizing the lesson out loud, but decided against it. If the rookie couldn’t figure it out on his own, he didn’t belong in the league.

A while later, when practice had ended, Burgess sat on a bench in the locker room with a white bath sheet wrapped around his waist, hair wet from the shower and dripping onto his bare shoulders. He grimaced at the painkillers in his hand, lamenting the fact that he’d been forced to add another one, bringing the total to four. How many more would he add to his repertoire before he told the Bearcats trainer he had a problem?

Thing was, it wouldn’t end there. The trainer would tell the coach, the coach would speak to the franchise owner, and he’d be traded or benched or forced into retirement, despite leading the team to three Stanley Cup titles. Already, he was beginning to lose speed. Throw in an injury and he was royally fucked. What the hell else was he supposed to do at thirty-seven? What else was there besides hockey?

Nothing. Not anymore.

As a younger man, he’d made his fair share of trouble. He’d been born with a constant flow of adrenaline. Drive. A thirst for sport that never seemed to wane. What he couldn’t get out of his system on the ice, he put into women and drag racing on abandoned roads. Swimming contests against his teammates in ice-cold lakes that were half frozen over. He was the biggest dude, so he kicked in the door of the school gymnasium after dark and gave his fellow small-towners a place to party. It was a good—or hell, maybe a bad thing his hockey abilities caused his coaches and teachers to look the other way when he got out of line or he could have ended up down the wrong path.

He didn’t, though. Once he got to college and realized he couldn’t get by on natural ability alone, he straightened himself out, focused on school and being an enforcer on the ice. He’d worked harder than anyone. Graduated. Got drafted. Looked for stability and learned to ignore the burn of extra adrenaline in his veins.

After the divorce, he’d invested even more of himself into the sport, mentally and physically. Without it? Now? He didn’t know what life would look like. Didn’t know how he’d be useful , especially knowing he sucked at being a family man. Hockey—he was good at it. The only thing he was good at. And he just wanted to be himself as long as possible.

Gauthier dropped onto the bench beside him, staying quiet while he rooted through his Bearcats duffel for a T-shirt, pulling it on over his head. “Advil isn’t going to cut it for long.”

“It’s not cutting it now.”

“At least go see a private doctor, man,” Sig said. “You could be making it worse.”

Burgess was already issuing a grunt of denial. “Leave it.”

“The way you left Corrigan on his ass?”

“Yup. Just like that.”

“Those fucking sweatshirts.”

“I say we burn them.”

Sig raised an eyebrow at Burgess, as if to gauge whether he was serious. When Burgess remained totally straight-faced, Sig got to his feet and padded to the end of the row of lockers, presumably to double-check if the rookies were still in the showers, which, of course, they were, since they probably didn’t have any responsibilities to get back to at home. The sound of a towel snapping, followed by a pained yelp, echoed through the locker room, strengthening Burgess’s theory. Christ, these shitheads.

Satisfied that they weren’t going to get caught, Sig found Corrigan’s and Mailer’s bags on the floor of the next aisle down and returned with the sweatshirts wrapped in a towel. “Here, you take one, I’ll take the other.”

Burgess accepted the Orgasm Donor sweatshirt and shoved it into his bag, covering it with his sweaty socks. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered.

“Fuck you, mom jokes. You’re never too old for this.”

“Touché.”

Not two seconds later, Corrigan and Mailer went strolling into their row, midconversation about—what else?—women. “What can I say, I’m partial to blondes,” Mailer drawled, earning him a snort and a shove in the back from Corrigan. “Hold up. Speaking of blondes,” Mailer called in Sig’s direction. “Gauthier, is your stepsister coming to the season opener? I saw her on your Instagram and she is fine as hell.” He jerked his chin. “You going to introduce me?”

“Bring her up again and I’ll introduce you to the fucking floor,” Sig said, training a deadly look on the younger man. “And she’s not my stepsister.”

“Yet,” Burgess reminded him while pulling a pair of briefs up beneath the towel, then dropping it completely.

“Yet,” Sig repeated with forced calm. “Teammates’ families are off-limits, rookie, unless express permission is given. You don’t have it now and you won’t have it ever.”

“You just said she isn’t family yet,” Mailer pointed out.

“I know what the fuck I said,” Sig snapped.

Mailer raised an eyebrow. “ Do you?”

Sig turned an incredulous look on Burgess. “I’m going to kill these fucking kids.”

Burgess bit back a smile. “You were exactly like them your first year in the league.”

“Nope. Uh-uh.”

“Yup. Worse, even.” Burgess finished fastening the button of his jeans and tipped his head toward the exit, dropping his voice to a low rumble. “We should get out of here before they realize their dumbass sweatshirts are missing.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Simultaneously, they snapped their lockers shut, throwing their duffels over one shoulder and sailing toward the side entrance of the room, which emptied into the team parking lot. “Say hi to your mom for me, Corrigan,” Burgess called over his shoulder, smirking over the resulting wave of laughter throughout the locker room.

“Too old, my ass,” Sig muttered, following him outside into the September dusk. They happened to be parked beside each other and they wordlessly got to loading their gear into the rear cab of their SUVs. “Listen, uh... speaking of Chloe,” Sig said after tossing his bag into the interior and shutting the door. “I hear she didn’t quite pull off the whole cheap room ruse. Apparently, Tallulah saw through it pretty fast.”

Burgess experienced a twinge of pride that he really had no right to feel. “I should have known she would. She’s smart as hell.”

Sig shook his head. “She must have chewed your ass out.”

“Started that way, but she’s moving in tonight.”

“No shit?”

Burgess confirmed with a monosyllable, still in shock that it was happening after the rocky start they’d had.

“Chloe says she’s a jaw-dropper, B. You interested in this girl as more than a nanny?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

Burgess gave him an exasperated look. “Are we really going to stand here and talk about girls like a couple of rookies?”

“As long as we don’t use the phrase ‘smash that,’ we get to live.”

“Still no.”

“I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

Burgess stomped to the driver’s side of his SUV and hauled open the door. “You won’t.”

A grin spread across Sig’s mouth. “Do I spy a twinkle in your eye, Cap?”

He snatched his shades off the dashboard where he’d left them, put them on, and slammed the door on Sig’s knowing face—just in time for the side door of the locker room to fly open, two rookies in towels bursting onto the pavement in nothing but bare feet and towels.

“Dude, give them back,” Mailer shouted, jabbing a finger at Sig, who dove into his ancient truck at the speed of light, laughing as he went. And two very mature grown-up men drove out of the parking lot blaring their horns and waving Orgasm Donor sweatshirts out their windows. In other words, just a typical day of hockey practice.

“L ate to my first day of class,” Tallulah muttered, while hustling down the empty hallway. “Awesome.”

She rounded the corner into the lab, giving a tight smile when every pair of bored, jaded grad student eyes landed on her. There was one seat left open beside a guy about her age that she recognized from orientation. Glasses. Commiserating smile. Slouched and grouched, like any self-respecting career student.

Thankfully, the seat was also in the back and she slid into it without the professor commenting, quietly taking a notebook and pen out of her backpack while waving at some of the other friendly faces she’d met a couple days prior.

That morning, she’d been forced to drop her belongings off at Burgess’s apartment, because check-out time at her hotel had been 11:00. She wasn’t about to rack up charges for another day, even if the detour had ultimately made her late. While at the penthouse she now called home, they’d compared Tallulah’s schedule and Lissa’s, finding there was blessed little conflict. The custody agreement Burgess had with his wife was pretty amicable and straightforward. Lissa spent the weekdays at his place, weekends with Mom and the fiancé, allowing for adjustments due to special occasions, vacations, or illness.

For instance, today was Friday, but Lissa’s mother had a late business meeting, so she’d pick up Lissa in the morning, instead of tonight. Burgess had explained they didn’t want Lissa to feel like a business arrangement, and Tallulah couldn’t agree more. They were doing it right.

What is his ex like? Tallulah wondered, fully ignoring the professor as he flipped through the syllabus, reading it word for word. More interestingly, what had Burgess and his ex been like together? Really, it was none of her business at all . And she totally hadn’t Googled Burgess Abraham Wife on the bus ride to campus. A few pictures had come up of them at the ESPY Awards a handful of years ago, Burgess rocking a tux, his ex-wife looking happy enough to be there.

Not a lot of chemistry. At least in the pictures. There, she said it.

Was that a salty thing to acknowledge?

No! It was just an impartial observation.

Which had perked her up more than her triple-shot latte.

Ughhh.

“As you’ll read on page three of the syllabus, there will be three individual assignments during the semester and one project where you’ll be working in pairs. I expect equal effort, people.” He stopped and made eye contact with all of them, letting the directive sink in.

“He knows we’re not in our first year of undergrad, right?” mumbled her table partner.

“Seriously.”

“To make things easy,” continued the professor, “your assigned partner is whoever you’re sharing a table with today. No doubt you’ll need to meet outside of class at least once to complete the assignment, so it behooves you to spend some time getting acquainted.”

Tallulah kept her breathing steady, even sending her seat partner a quiet nod, but on the inside, her thoughts were tripping over each other. They’d have to meet outside of class. She’d have to meet with a stranger.

It’s going to be fine.

You have to start believing in good people again sometime.

She wouldn’t spiral over this. During her remaining weeks in Antarctica, she’d sworn to herself the fear wouldn’t hold her back anymore. That phase was over. She just hadn’t expected to be tested so soon, so often. But maybe this was normal life and she’d just been hiding from it so long, she’d forgotten.

The rest of class went by in a blur, Tallulah only registering half of the professor’s presentation. When he dismissed them, Tallulah gathered her notebook, pen, and copy of the syllabus, looking up with a forced smile when three classmates stopped at the edge of her table. “Hey again, Tallulah. Happy Friday,” said Tisha, if Tallulah was recalling her name correctly. They’d spoken briefly at orientation, enough to know Tisha had grown up in India, started her education in medicine, but switched to biology upon realizing her passion lay in lab work and research. “We figured we’d start the semester off right and meet up for drinks tonight. Around nine. You know, in order to establish an official whining circle.”

Tallulah nodded. “Negativity. The only way to cope.”

“You’re welcome to join,” laughed the guy beside her. Evan, maybe? “You, too, Finn.”

“Sure,” responded her table partner.

That’s right. Finn.

Tallulah started to decline. They all seemed genuinely nice and there was nothing out of the ordinary about tossing back a few drinks with other students, especially ones who shared the same field of study. But did she know them well enough?

Stop saying no to opportunities. It’s time to say yes again.

“Okay,” she said quickly, before she could talk herself out of it. “Take my phone number and let me know where you’ll be.” An idea occurred to her. “Would you mind if I invited my friend Chloe?”

“Not at all,” answered Tisha, holding out her phone to Tallulah. “Go ahead.”

“Cool.”

On his way out of the room, Finn’s elbow brushed Tallulah’s and she faltered in the act of entering her contact information into Tisha’s phone. “See you tonight, Tallulah,” he said, adjusting his glasses, before touching her elbow as if to apologize for inadvertently grazing it, which made no sense and only made her creep antennae bleep faster. “Might as well get to know each other now, since we’ll be partners, right?”

She laughed, but it came out flat. “Yeah.” She handed the phone back to Tisha and dried her clammy palms on the legs of her jeans. “See you guys tonight.”