“Jamie,” he says, “needs to make sure he takes these next few years seriously. It’s hard to unlearn poor formation. He’s too good for that.”
“Did Liz pay you for this?” I ask. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
He shakes his head, eyes clouding with confusion, then he peels off a glove and extends his hand. “I’m Roe Monroe,” he says, like that makes all this make sense. “And I don’t know anyone named Liz.”
Everything snaps into place. The bad boy of hockey with the blown knee . . . the headlines, the rumors, the highlight reels.
I sneer. Of all the people to have around my son. Roe Monroe. Not to mention this has been going on forweeks.
I lean in to make my point. I should have been on top of this sooner, but that’s my own fault. My own blindness where hockey’s concerned.
“You need to stay—”
“Thatcher!” Alex’s cheerful voice breaks in, approaching quickly. “I see you’ve met Roe Monroe!”
Alex works with the Iceguard and all the kids teams. He more or less manages the rink, among other duties. I look around at the empty ice, realizing that maybe we got a bit loud.
Roe steps to the side, and I realize how close we’d gotten. A spicy, clean scent drifts off him and it makes my stomach flip.
Alex hits the ice in his Converse while still talking, and launches into even more small talk, herding me off the ice before I can say another word.
I know what he’s doing, and I let him, but only for Jamie’s sake.
That was probably as close to a confrontation one could get in Fox River Falls without chins wagging.
But as I look back, Roe’s still watching me. Montana-blue eyes sharp. A brow raised.
He smirks again, or hell, he’s probablystillsmirking. The urge to remove it from his face has not ebbed.
And I know, without a doubt, this conversation isn’t over.
Chapter three
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Donna Wu: Glad I was late to pick up my kid from practice yesterday. I got to see sparks fly between our most eligible bachelor carpenter and the bad boy of hockey.
Ash Patel: I heard they almost fought.
Donna Wu: Now that you mention it, it could have been a fight.
“Stay away from my kid,” I say, parroting Jamie’s dad as I set down my non-alcoholic cocktail with emphasis. “He was going to say that to me.”
I take another drink, glad for something to do with my hands. I decided I didn’t need any alcohol since I was so worked up, but maybe taking the edge off wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
For whatever reason or rules that govern the randomness of addictions, alcohol has never been a problem for me, despite how prevalent its abuse is in the NAPH.
But still, I’m cautious about a whole lot of shit I wasn’t cautious about before, and I know I’m going home alone to a quiet place, and my apartment here feels like it used to on the road with the Knights. The idea of numbing out to something is always on my mind, so I don’t need my defenses to be down because of a beer or two.
Benji raises his eyebrows. “So you said. Of course, he could have been about to say,‘Stay in your lane,’or‘Stay golden, pony boy,’or a whole host of other things that begin with the wordstay.”
I look around the table for more support as I sit in The Blue Line, the coffee shop and hangout, with Diggs and Benji. LJ got traded last week, out to the west coast, but to an NAPH roster, so that’s something.
“Anyone hear from LJ?” Benji asks, and we all shake our heads. Not that he was going to call me anyway.
“I’m not surprised about the trade,” I say. “LJ was going to go somewhere when the NAPH cut folks in training camp, and the Knights have their hands full with that young hotshot . . . Dom something.”
