“Sounds like fun.”
McKenna nodded. “It was. We’re an open-presents-on-Christmas-Eve family, though.”
Tank put his other hand over his heart as if struck. “Sacrilege. What about poor Santa?”
“My mom never wanted to lie to me…about anything. So while I got money for lost teeth, candy on Easter, and presents for Christmas, I knew it all came from her.”
Tank frowned. “That kind of takes the magic out of it.”
McKenna shrugged. “I mean, I was still getting the cash, candy, and gifts. Though, I think I’ll do it different with my kids. Because you’re right. The magic part would have been fun. How about you? What would you do differently with your kids compared to the way you were raised?”
Tank wasn’t sure how to answer that, because he hadn’t even considered kids a part of his future until a couple months ago. Then…he realized exactly what he’d do differently. “I wouldn’t push my kids into anything they didn’t want to do, and I wouldn’t give a shit if they were the best at everything.”
McKenna frowned, and he sighed.
“Jesus, that came out bitter, didn’t it?”
She tilted her head. “Your dad?”
Tank leaned his head on the back cushion of the couch. He never talked about his parents. Ever. Yet tonight, it was as if he couldn’t keep the words in. “You know he played hockey, too?”
She nodded.
“He never made it out of the minors. Never got his shot to play professionally. He was thirty-three years old when an injury took him out for good. He holds the distinction of being one of the oldest players to never make it to the NHL, not that he brags about it. That’s not one of those records anyone wants to hold.”
McKenna grimaced. “Couldn’t have been easy to be that close for so long and never make it.”
“It wasn’t. Which was why he was determined the same thing wouldn’t happen to me. He had me on skates three minutes after I learned to walk, and drilling was more important than homework in my house.”
Tank tried to temper his tone, but his father’s determination to see his son succeed where he’d failed had destroyed any chance that the two of them might’ve had a close relationship. His father had been more coach than Dad.
“My dad was pissed about not getting his shot, so he turned full-on cliché, living vicariously through me. He took credit for my victories to anyone who would listen. Then, when we got home, he’d diminish and downplay any success I had by reassuring me—all the fucking time—that there were at least a thousand other players in the world who were better than me, and that I needed to work harder.”
“Jesus,” McKenna murmured.
“When I first went pro, my dad was always in the stands, always making sure the cameras found him, so he’d finally hear his name on TV. It used to drive me fucking nuts how he’d give interviews to absolutely anyone, trying to make it sound like we were one of those famous ‘hockey father/son duos,’ like the Howes or the Hulls or Nylanders or Domis.”
“I’m sorry, Tank. That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
Tank lifted his head from the couch, turning toward her. “I dealt with it through the first season because I always tried to keep peace for my mom’s sake, but then she had a stroke and died. Dad and I had it out right after her funeral. A lifetime of hate spewed out of me, and I told him I never wanted to see him at another one of my games.”
“You were grieving,” McKenna said, as if she thought he felt guilty and needed comforting.
“No. Everything I said to him that day had been bottled up inside me for twenty years. I don’t regret saying it because I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean. My dad is a narcissistic asshole who’s never loved anyone more than himself. Mom knew that, but she stayed. For me. I really think her stroke was the result of living with such a hate-filled man. He never hit us with fists, but trust me, words can wound even worse.”
McKenna cupped his cheek with her hand, her thumb lightly caressing it. “I’m glad you cut ties with him. He doesn’t deserve to have you in his life.”
Tank wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. “Mouse,” he whispered.
For the first time, McKenna initiated the kiss…and damn if hers didn’t blow his out of the water. Because this one wasn’t driven by horniness or even passion. It was one of caring, compassion, and, while he knew it probably couldn’t be—could it?—even love.
Tank had never, not once, felt love in a kiss, but this one sure as hell stirred that emotion inside him.
She broke the union too quickly, and he was about to pull her back toward him when she slipped off her glasses, tossing them to the coffee table before diving in for seconds.
Her hands traveled from his face to his shoulders, gripping him tighter, and Tank followed suit. All traces of softness and gentleness vanished, giving way to a hunger that was downright ravenous.
The kiss lasted for minutes, hours, days. When they finally needed air, they broke apart, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.
