“That’s nice. Does that mean she’s going pro?”
“She quit.”
Mom set the knife down and turned quickly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Why did she quit?”
“No idea.”
“You didn’t ask?” She frowned. “Lach, if you genuinely like this girl, you can’t treat her the way you treat the others.”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask her yet.” I shot her a look. “And I treat ‘the others’ just fine.”
“Sure.” She shook her head, pushing off the counter and opening the fridge.
“They’re puck bunnies. Technically, they’re the ones mistreating me,” I argued. “If they wanted a relationship, they’d go after Lee.”
“Don’t bring your brother into this.” Mom shot me a warning look. “Do you want a relationship with this girl?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, surprising myself.
“You don’t know?” She shut the fridge and turned around quickly, giving me her full attention.
My knee started bouncing nervously. The thought of being stuck in a relationship made me sweat, even if the relationship was with Lyla.Especiallyif the relationship was with Lyla. It would be a distraction and pressure me not to mess things up with her. I couldn’t commit to that right now. I knew this, yet this need to possess her made me want to try. It was fucked up and selfish, but I couldn’t help it. When I was with her, I felt the same anticipation as when I tried to score a point. The feeling of striking the puck on just the right trajectory and watching it sail through the air with the potential for anything to happen. It happened in less than a second, but it always felt like time slowed as I held my breath and waited for the outcome. That was how she made me feel. Like I was holding my breath in anticipation. One thing was feeling like that on the ice for a few minutes, but to feel that way every time someone walked into the room? It had to be bad for the heart.
“I’m about to enter the draft,” I said, since it was one of the many reasons I couldn’t pursue a relationship.
“What is Lang saying about the draft?”
“Everything is set. There’s nothing to say.”
“He’s your agent. He should be keeping you updated,” she said. “Are you still the number one pick?”
I cocked my head. “What do you think?”
“That arrogance will bite you in the ass one day.” She pointed at me. “Speaking of which, your father came by.”
I stiffened. I hated her mentioning him as if he showed up regularly and was a decent father. The only commendable thing anyone could say he’d done was throw money at us. He’d paid for this house, our education, my hockey equipment, Liam’s computer shit, and his college tuition. Even if I explained the situation to a stranger and told them that he was an absent father who was never there for us and only showed up a few times a year, they'd say it could be worse. He could be an absent father who didn’t pay for shit. That would be preposterous, though. The Duke family was rich as fuck. My mother practically made a killing just by birthing us. I would say it was why she’d always come to his defense, but it wasn’t.
My sweet, naive mother was in love with the fucking asshole. I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could love a man who didn’t love your children and, in our case,hischildren. The entire situation was mind-blowing. My mother kept up with her appearance and looked much younger than she was. She was fun to be around and had a heart of gold. All things that should make any man shower her with attention, but nope. She chose Henry Duke, who couldn’t give a shit if he tried.
“Did you tell him to fuck off?” I asked when she didn’t add anything to her statement.
“Lachlan!” She whipped the kitchen towel at my arm. “He’s your father.”
“He’s dead to me.”
“You need to stop saying that.” She turned back to the oven. “He wants to start trying with you guys.”
“Trying what exactly?” I sat up straighter.
“To be more present,” she said quietly.
I blinked. “Why?”
Why the fuck would he want to try now? Because he knew I was going pro and suddenly wanted to show me off? I knew that couldn’t be it. My father showed up to some of my games and watched me play with the same expression he probably had when he was going through his taxes. Afterward, he’d take us out to eat, let my mother ask questions, and quietly listened to our answers. We’d always get a pat on the back and one of three things: “Good job,” “You did good out there,” or he’d pick one thing we mentioned during our flash quiz answers at dinner and say something about it. Then, he’d leave and not show up again for weeks, sometimes months. It made no sense that he wanted to try now. Maybe he wanted to tell us directly that he would no longer pay for our shit and that we needed to get “real jobs.” Maybe he wanted to come around since I was about to graduate from his alma mater, and he wanted to show face so people wouldn’t forget who he was. Fuck him. My face must have shown that I was brooding because Mom waited a long moment before finally speaking.
“You’re his heirs,” she said.
“So?”
