“To cool off from being around me.” I wink at him.
“That’s so not the case,” he says, blushing and clearly flustered.
Lord help me if he continues to be this fun to tease. Perhaps this roommate thing won’t be so bad. I can entertain myself for hours making him squirm. Have him regret initiating this arrangement by Tuesday. Get him to the point where he’s begging Coach Chris for a roommate change in Milan.
He starts unpacking his bag and putting things away, placing some pieces in the drawers and hanging others up. Occasionally he holds an article of clothing up as if inspecting it, then pairing it with something else until he has a full outfit laid out on his bed.
“Hot date?” I ask him as I pull my toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and two-in-one shampoo out of my duffle.
“I wish.” He sighs and checks the watch he’s putting on his wrist. It looks expensive and I notice he has a small case filled with a few different options. It’s something I’ve never gotten into, but I can see the appeal. It’s a nice adornment on his wrist.
“I’m running late, actually,” he says. “My father made reservations at the steakhouse overlooking the casino.”
I may not know Connor Kennedy Sr intimately, but the opinion I do have of him makes me think I’d prefer oral surgery after taking a puck to the face, to sharing a meal with the man. Connor Jr looks like he feels the same way; his lips have pulled tight while he tucks his light-blue button-down shirt into his gray slacks that are hugging his muscular thighs and ass in a very enticing way.
Looking at his serious face while he finishes getting dressed makes me feel like I’m intruding, so I tuck my things under my arms. I give him one last look over from head to toe before I step into the bathroom. He looks sharp, despite the look of dread in his eyes.
“Don’t be offended if I’m not here when you getback,” I say. I have plans to grab a bite to eat with Bouchard, but Connor doesn’t need to know that.
He looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at me, a playful glint emerging on his face replacing the sadness that was previously there. “Only if you promise to not be offended if I don’t wait up.”
Connor
By the time I make it from our room all the way down through the casino and into the restaurant, I’m ten minutes late. This place is vast, and the dim lighting doesn’t hide the look of disappointment on my father’s face, or my mother’s indifference as she sips from her wineglass. Funny, in my dread of meeting my father for dinner, I’d forgotten that my mother chose to join him on this trip. She probably used it as an excuse to pack her schedule with spa treatments and a discreet nip and tuck or two.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say as I take a seat. “Practice ran long and then I had to get cleaned up. Plus, this hotel is massive. I must have walked two miles to get here.” Shit. I’m rambling. A bad habit of mine that I have when I’m nervous. To shut myself up, I take a sip of water.
“Tell me what I heard isn’t true,” my father says, and there’s so much that could be attached to that, I don’t know where to even start denying. I just hope I haven’t been caught doing something I shouldn’t with someone I shouldn’t have been with again. I’m not sure I can go through another payoff and series of NDAs being signed because some asshole I slept with decided to film it then blackmail me with it like what happened during my rookie season.
I try to shake off the thought, but the fear of it happening again doesn’t leave me. My heart rate kicks up and my palms start to sweat. Quickly, under the table, I rub them on my napkin. I don’t know why panic is beginning to rise through me. I haven’t been with another man since then, so I can’t imagine that’s what his assertion is about. But after his reaction to that video being sent tohis office with demands for a payout, followed by him immediately going into action shutting down all talk about me being gay, I can’t help but always be paranoid when he’s staring at me with his nostrils flaring.
I take another sip of water and swallow around the lump of dread in my throat. “What are you referring to?”
“Gavin Marshal,” he says through his teeth with the maximum level of disdain. “Why on earth did you volunteer to be his roommate? You know what I… what theleaguethinks about him.”
Oh. Of course. I should have known. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I down what’s left of my water in one gulp.This settles my nerves some, but not all the way. But then again, I doubt I’ll ever not be nervous around my father. He’s never been someone I can let my guard down around, no matter the circumstance.
“Here. Have some wine,” my mother says and passes me a glass she’s just poured from the bottle on the table.
My dad pulls it away before I get a chance to take a sip. “He’s working,” he snarls.
“Oh, please,” my mother says. “When you wereworking,you used to drink like a fish. Let the boy have a glass of wine if you’re going to treat him to the hockey-dad version of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Suddenly, I’m happy for my mother’s presence and I smile at her gratefully.Even though I know deep down inside her comment to my father has less to do with sticking up for me and more to do with sticking it to him, it still makes me happy. They’ve been like this for years.
“Fine.” My father passes me back the glass. “He can have one glass.”
Two, I think but don’t say, as I’m absolutely cracking open the mini bar in our room when I return from this dinner to calm my nerves.
“Now, back to Gavin Marshal,” my father says. “They never should have let him on the team.”
“He was chosen, same as I was,” I say, which earns me an angry look that causes me to begin rambling again. “And he’s a good playmaker. Best in the league, to be honest. You should have seen him on the ice today. He outskated everyone. He’s going to be a great asset at the games.”
“Asset.” My father scoffs. “The Olympics are about sending the pride of your country to represent your nation, not its goons. And certainly not its trash.”
My lips pull tight, and my blood begins to simmer. “He’s not trash, Dad. He’s a millionaire like the rest of us.”
“Hardly,” he says as he flags our server down. He holds up his menu and points as he orders. “The petite filet for my wife, and my son and I will each have a New York strip.”
