“But there’s a difference, isn’t there? It sounds like he doesn’t want the trouble of a relationship. He wants to continue doing his thing, but he also wants the good feels you get from being a dad. Some people can compartmentalize. A man whore can still be a great parent.”
Was that Jason? I’d done some light Internet research when I started my list, and he didn’t date more than the average single hockey player. However, all his former girlfriends were invariably attractive, blonde, and significantly younger than my old bones. Some were barely out of college—if they attended any institutions of higher learning at all. Not a pair of glasses in sight, either.
Rosie was still talking. “Maybe he’s the kind of guy who knows a good opportunity when it comes his way. He sees all the research and preparation you’ve put into this and thinks: hey, this chick has the right idea! No haphazard family planning with her. Organized, too, so no chance she’d screw up Little Janky’s violin practice schedule or her playdates with Arabella and Cordelia.”
“Little Janky?”
Rosie grinned. “Jason and Franky. Keep up.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He knows you’d make a great mom, sis. He’s right.”
“Thank you.”
She took a sip of her wine and carved out a slice of Brie for a cracker, then passed it to me. I popped that baby into my mouth whole.
“Or maybe he just wants to get into your pants.”
I spluttered, sending bits of cracker flying everywhere. “What? That’s not on the table.”
“But does he know that?”
“Of course—well, I don’t know. We didn’t discuss the particulars.” How the sausage is made. That cheeky grin and adorable dimple were stenciled on my eyeballs. “It would be a very strange way of making a conquest. No, that’s not what he’s after.”
My sister’s sly smile grew wider by the second.
“He’s a hockey player. I wouldn’t be so sure.”
I took a seat about ten rows up behind the bench and gave the men on the ice a wave.
“Take your time,” I called out. This morning, I was meeting my dad for breakfast, and while we could have connected at the Sunny Side Up Diner, I liked visiting the rink, an old haunt of mine. In days past, I spent a lot of time here as my dad wound down his career. My teenage self was a wee bit obsessed with hockey players. Determined not to be the plain Jane wallflower who was too shy to talk to members of the opposite sex, I strove to be the most unusual of women: a nerd who was popular with boys.
All my crushes were on the single players, of course. Theo Kershaw before he fell for Elle, Cal Foreman, Dex O’Malley, Bast Durand before they found their true loves. I was notorious for hanging around outside the locker room. Unfortunately, I was (a) too young, and (b) the daughter of Rebels legend Bren St. James. As if anyone would dare look my way.
At least, that’s what I preferred to think. Not that my glasses and weirdness and propensity to suffer allergic reactions to everything might be off-putting to professional hockey hunks. By the time I reached college, I had learned to stay in my lane. Good boys with high GPAs who at first saw me as the perfect study partner, then competition for the internships and TA positions they felt were their God-given right. No guy wanted a girlfriend who was smarter than him, and while my weakness might be muscle-bound jocks, nothing real could ever come of that.
So I retreated into my work. It never failed to fulfill me until the day my sister’s twins were born just over a year ago and I realized I was doomed to be the eccentric aunt unless I did something about it …
On the ice were four players, the usual configuration for my dad’s early morning “practices.” Although he had retired over twenty years ago, he still came out a couple of times a week with his old teammates, Remy DuPre and Vadim Petrov. Sometimes Levi Hunt joined them, which meant there was a lot of center action—and ego—on the ice. Today it was easy to spot who was who. Vadim was more fluid and had barely lost a step despite his bum knee. Remy still had the brute force while my dad maintained his superior stick skills, even in his late fifties. But their fourth wasn’t Levi. It was a younger player, one with a bit more stride in his glide, and he was playing defense while the three veterans pounded him with everything they had.
Jason Isner was haunting my waking hours as well as my dreams.
Of course I had seen him play against his peers. He was a formidable force on the ice, and the Rebels had paid millions to bring the Green-Eyed Monster to Chicago to fill the void left by his brother’s retirement. I still watched hockey, still cheered for my home team, so that thrill I felt watching his power and skill on full display was normal. I enjoyed the game and the people who played it. That was all.
Three on one, Jason seemed unperturbed by the hockey hurricane blowing his way. He deftly defended the goal, and while he had no one to pass to, he still found a way to retrieve the puck and blast it into the opposite net. Over his fifteen-year career, he had developed into an all-rounder, almost as good on offense as he was defense. He even scored points quite regularly, which was unusual in today’s game where the skillsets were so siloed.
When they finished, I headed down to the rink wall. Remy greeted me first.
“Francoise, I wish you didn’t have to see that.” My New Orleans-raised uncle always called me by the French equivalent of my name.
I kissed his cheek. “Why, because the three of you were soundly beaten by one player?”
“The shame,” he said ruefully, but there was humor, too. Remy was never one to take himself seriously.
“You are here to feed your father.” Vadim was someone who did take himself seriously. “This is good. He is wasting away.”
“I doubt that,” I said as I accepted Vadim’s hug. “But I’ll make sure he’s fortified.”
