I startle when the passenger door opens, and Clarkson slides into the seat.
“You trying to bail?” he asks, eyebrows arched curiously.
I make a face. “Wasn’t going to.” However, it sounds like a great plan now.
“Good. Come on, then.”
Neither one of us makes a move to get out.
“Got something on your mind?” he questions casually. He’s not pressing. If I tell him to fuck off, he’ll shrug and make other conversation. That’s how he’s always been.
“Do you ever get sick of playing therapist, Clarkson?” I ask of the captain who’s always had a knack for knowing the rightthing to say. “You really need to start charging people for all your precious words of wisdom.”
I’d watched him offer advice to plenty of people during our time with the Penguins and saw what a difference he made. He’s always believed talking it out helps unravel the blocks that get in our way on the ice. Not once has he ever expected reciprocation if it meant strengthening the team. Guess that hasn’t changed, even if our jerseys have.
Clarkson raises a shoulder. “If there’s something bothering you, I’d rather hear about it now versus seeing it six beers in.”
Fair point. “I haven’t been drinking” is my only response.
To which he raises his brows in disbelief. Reasonable, considering I tend to wind up so drunk that he has to drag me to a spare room to sleep it off. I’ve clearly never shied away from drinking, even after watching my parents drink until they’re numb. I’d like to think I know my limits better than they do and can stop whenever I want.
But lately…Lately, I haven’t wanted to risk it.
Maybe because alcohol doesn’t get rid of anybody’s problems. It only adds to them. I can drink reality off for a night and wake up to it the next morning with a wicked hangover that only makes it worse. It doesn’t make me feel any better than them. Numbing is still numbing, and I’d rather feel the effects of life rather than bury them.
Clarkson’s phone goes off, and his jaw clenches when he sees his stepsister’s name on the screen before sending it to voicemail. I’ve been around him long enough to know that’s not normal. Unless we’re at practice or a game, he always picks up her calls.
“Everything good?” I ask hesitantly.
He and Belle have been tight-knit for as long as I can remember. Nobody knows the depth of their relationship or thehistory of their family. But he’s been protective of her for years, and I have a feeling it isn’t because their parents got married.
His shoulders go rigid as he glares at the screen. “Fine,” he grumbles.
Clearly, he isn’t. “That’s a woman’s response when she’s pissed off. Want to try again, or is this going to be a full-on back-and-forth where I call you out for lying and you deny it? You suck at it, by the way.”
His glare turns to me, but all I do is grin.
I’m not sure what he mumbles under his breath, but he eventually sighs. “Belle and I are disagreeing about something. She’s being a giant pain in my ass right now.”
Is that all he’s going to give me? “Hasn’t she always been a pain in your ass?”
His lips twitch a fraction upward before neutralizing.
My grin widens. “That’s a yes,” I muse.
He rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to her later. We should head in before the rest of the guys try cramming their way into the back seat.”
I snort. “They’re too afraid of me to willingly get in my vehicle.”
Clarkson knows I’m right because he says, “That’s because you always look mad when we’re together. They don’t want their dicks ripped off if you’re in a mood.”
I stare at him. “Maybe that’s just my face.”
“Maybe,” he relents. “But I’ve seen you smile before. There’s obviously something going on that’s putting you on edge. Don’t know if it’s the press, your father-in-law, or a combination. But you have more people on your side than you think you do.”
Here he goes with his sappy bullshit again. “The team should get used to my resting bitch face. I have a feeling it’ll be there for a while.”
He tilts his head. “Why?”
