It makes me want to smile. I could spend all day irritating this guy and feel it was time well spent.
“You can’t be serious, Thatcher.”
“Yet I am. Deadly serious. Why on earth would I want someone with your reputation mentoring my twelve-year-old?”
Damn, that was harsh. I almost regret the words once they’re out. It’s just that Monroe is well into my personal space when I say it, and those pouty lips are smirking. He acts like he’s won something, but I had no idea I was even playing a game.
Not to mention Jamie. Fuck,Jamie. I practically got the silent treatment last week when I had that run in with Roe, despite being saved by Alex. Jamie may have been in the locker room, but he knew something was up. It isn’t often he puts his headphones on and buries his face in his phone, but he did that night.
And I let him.
Then all weekend there were these careful words offered to me from my son, like a gift or an explanation.
Roe helped me with my slap shot.
Roe says to take the shot on the five-hole early, it’ll throw off the goalie.
Roe mentioned my stick should be angled . . .
The truth wasn’t hard to read between the subtle lines of Jamie’s words. Then there was what I overheard him saying to his friend and hockey teammate Arch when Arch stayed over with Jamie Friday night.
Jamie idolizes Roe. A full-on, stars-in-his-eyes, hero worship.
Jamie and Arch watched clips of Monroe from when he played for the Knights. They waited until they thought I’d turned in for the night. But I hadn’t. I’d stopped on the stairs that lead up to Jamie’s room and the bonus room and listened to the reverent tones in my son’s voice.
I blink back to the present.
Monroe’s eyes narrow, his sharp jaw jutting out, but somehow, he gives me the impression he’s enjoying our back and forth. Those blue eyes watch me as if he already knows all my secrets.
He’s not buying my protest. Instead, he’s acting as if he’s waiting for me to figure out that he’s already gotten his way and I just don’t know it yet.
Infuriating.
“Did you talk to Jamie about it?” he volleys back.
“Did I ask my twelve-year-old to weigh in? No, I did not.” I push past Roe’s relentless smirk to reach for something—anything—in my toolbox.
I’m helping upgrade the visitor locker room at The Keep because it’s a great job, but also because I can keep whatever’s salvageable, and there’s a decent side market for upcycling the former components of the beloved team’s beloved space into other items. It’s also the locker room the Juniors use unless there’s a game, so I could hardly turn down the job. And it’s incredibly close in here with Monroe in my space.
I’ve spent the better part of this week walking by the rink when this asshole is showing off on the ice. During practice, he often warms up without all his gear. Nothing but his black base layers—compression fit, no less—that stretch tight across his muscles, moving with him as he skates.
“Oh!” Alex darkens the doorway, gaze pinging between me and Roe. “I’m glad Mr. Monroe found you, Mr. Thatcher.”
“Thatch is fine.”
“Roe.”
We both correct Alex at the same time, and he just smiles. “Of course. So, I’m guessing you’ve had a chance to talk? About the mentorship?”
Monroe takes a step back from me, thankfully. It was getting hard to breathe with him so far into my space, the spicy scent of his soap all around me. For some reason it makes my head fuzzy, like it’s spinning.
But then he has to go and open his mouth again.
“Thatch was telling me how Jamie has really been listening to some of my advice,” Roe says with a straight face, yet still that damn smirk pulls at his full lips.
I blink, stunned by his sheer audacity.
He looks right at me then turns to Alex. “I can’t wait to see Jamie play tomorrow night. Watch him put a few things together in the heat of the moment.” Roe arches an eyebrow at me, as if he’s daring me to correct him. Daring me to wipe the smile off Alex’s face.
