“No.” My voice comes out rough, low. “My father.”
Thorn goes still. We’ve talked about a lot over the years—injuries, losses, personal shit—but never this. Never him. “You said he was gone.”
“He was. Still is, as far as I’m concerned, but he found a way to remind me he exists.” I pace once then lean against the edge of his desk. “He knows I have custody of Aubrey. Knows Oakley Kate is back. That’s what’s got me twisted up. He shouldn’t know either of those things.”
Thorn exhales slowly, nodding once. “I’ll get with the security team. Make sure no one gets in without their passes. You want my two cents?”
“Always.”
“Give your lawyer a heads up. Don’t call him back. Don’t engage. Whatever he’s after, it’s not closure. It’s control. You give him an inch, he’ll take your whole damn life.”
I stare down at my still-shaking hands and force my fingers to steady. “He’s not getting near them.”
“Good.” Thorn claps me on the shoulder. “Go home. Clear your head. We’ll handle prep without you today.”
I want to argue, to insist I can push through it like everything else. But my body’s already moving before my brain catches up. “Tell Rooks to text me the schedule,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.
Thorn nods. “And, Silas?”
“Yeah?”
He gives me a look that hits dead center. “Whatever’s waiting for you at home—stop trying to handle it like a penalty kill. You’re allowed to lean on people, too. Let Oakley know what’s going on. I’ll give Hannah a ring and tell her to put that dog of hers to work guarding your girls.”
I don’t answer as I let the door shut behind me, because the second I get back home, I am going to do exactly what Thorn suggested. And God help me, but I’m going to lean on the one person I shouldn’t.
By the time I pull into the driveway, it’s after eight. The porch light is still on, casting a soft glow across the brick. Through the front window, I can see the faint flicker of the TV from Aubrey’s room and a sliver of movement in the hall.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. The call, my father’s voice, hell, even saying the word “father,” still has me on edge. I can feel the anger in my bones, sharp and electric.
I finally let out a long breath as I walk inside and take in Kate’s shoes by the door and Aubrey’s backpack slumped against the wall. My family. The only one that’s ever mattered.
Bypassing the laughter coming from Aubrey’s school room, I move straight to my bathroom. I showered at the rink to cool down my emotions, but nothing compares to hot water beating down on my tense muscles as I try to wash away the weight pressing on my chest. I run soapy hands down my chest andstomach until my fist wraps around my dick. It seems to help until the sound of a soft gasp cuts through the steam.
When I glance through the glass shower door, the girl of my dreams is standing in the doorway, the sweetest shade of pink tinting her cheeks.
Chapter 29
Oakley Kate
For once, the house doesn’t creak with footsteps or laughter. Just early-morning stillness and the faint hum of the coffee pot. Silas is at practice and Aubrey is with Hannah for another slumber party.
I test my foot against the floor—tentative, careful. It’s not perfect. There’s still that strange tug where the incision healed, the dull ache where the pin lives.
But I can stand.
And that’s enough.
The first steps are slow, uneven. But when I make it to the kitchen on my own, I can’t help whispering, “Who’s a badass? This chick.”
I’ll never understand how Aubrey’s little school-and-craft room that’s literally a ten-by-six hole in the wall can get so messy so fast. I just cleaned it two days ago, and already there are four bottles of water, two empty cups, and a random spoon.
Once I drop those in the kitchen, I head for the master bath. If you’ve ever smelled day-old base layers worn by a hockey player, I truly feel for you. Your nose may never be the same.
My earbuds thump to a low bass song as I move through the house, completely missing the sound of the shower running.
I don’t know when Silas snuck in from practice, but hot damn.
He was never one of the bulkiest guys on the ice, but the muscles he did pack on were always drool-worthy. Still are. As the water cascades over every ridge and crevice, I let my eyes roam what I’ve been missing. The birthmark below his left shoulder blade. The dimples above his ass that somehow still exist with twelve percent body fat. The forearm flexing in rhythm with his hips.
