“So is she.” Yeah, special enough to also have grown up in the Lee household, with all the love, support, and kindness of a good family. And without all the unhealthiness of the Mahoney one.
“Not special enough if she can’t appreciate the great man that you are and see you working to be even better. I’m not saying that’s gonna be easy, or quick, but one day, if you work hard enough and really believe with all your heart, you’ll be half as awesome as I am.”
“You are such a son of a bitch,” I growl even as I laugh. “Fucking self-help book quackery? Really?”
“That’s why you love me,” Dom quips, nodding with a certainty that only he could possess.
“I do. Thanks, man.”
He points a warning finger my way. “But don’t do all this talk therapy and psychoanalysis mid-playoffs. Those are too important. To the team, and to you. I know how much you want that Cup. The rest of this can wait until it’s in your hands. If she’s the right one, she’ll understand that hockey will always be your first love. Then me, then her.” He’s held up a finger with each priority, one for hockey, and one for him, but instead of a third finger, he switches to flipping me off, like the fucking part is still the main thing this unnamed woman has on me. His shit-eating grin makes things feel ... normal.
They’re not, but for just a little while longer, I really want to pretend they are.
Chapter 19
Penny
“Good morning, sunshine!” Talia sings as she comes into the living room, but I can feel her eyes. She’s studying me like I might burst into tears, a curse-laden rant, or an interpretive dance combining both at any moment. To be fair, she was the unlucky-ducky recipient of a rage-fueled, tearful rehashing of what went down at Griffin’s last weekend, and since then has heard several different versions of “Can you believe this asshole?” all week when he’s texted me. So her expecting more of the same is reasonable.
“Hey,” I reply dully, not lifting my gaze from the ring I finished yesterday. Part of it is that I don’t want to unfocus my eyes, which are adjusted to the brightness of my work light. Most of it is that I don’t want to risk crying again.
Not because I’m sad. But because I’m mad. Okay, and a little sad. But can you blame me? Great sex followed by “that was a bad idea” would crumble anyone’s self-esteem.
“Coffee?”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “No, thanks. I need to finish my final checks on this so I can post pictures before I go to the post office. There’s always that chance someone will buy it instantly and I could send it out today with the other packages.” I gesture vaguely at the two boxes I’ve already prepared for today’s shipping.
When I first started the PLDesigns online shop, I would literally publish an item for sale and then stare at the screen, refreshing every five seconds—yes, I counted—while obsessively watching the site traffic. I was sure someone was waiting on the other end of the internet, ready to click Add to Cart the instant I made something available. Now I know better and usually post and run. But with current circumstances, I’m back to watching my order page like it’s a pot of water I’m waiting to come to a boil.
“How much have you sold?” Talia asks, coming back from the kitchen to sit on the couch. The strong scent of coffee comes with her, and I don’t need to look up to know she has a steaming mug in her hands.
“Just over two thousand dollars.” Normally, I’d be over the moon and dancing a happy jig at those sales. Two thousand in this short of time is a good chunk of change. But with the looming credit card bill, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Especially when I’ve already gone through my small backlog of pieces to see what I can redesign quickly. I’ve got the pink topaz ring I’m currently examining, and that’s it. Having consistent turnover and listings that sell quickly is usually a plus, but after this, I’ll need to source more as quickly as I can.
Being the amazing friend that she is, Talia already offered to loan me the money to cover the credit card bill. Twice, in fact. I thanked her for the willingness to help but assured her that I would figure this out on my own. In fact, the second time, I told her that I would sell my soul to the devil before I took her savings. I think she believed me when I started listing all the heinous things I would let him do to me for the 10K, which must be why she hasn’t offered again.
“That’s good.” She knows it’s not, but her support is still appreciated. “How was the game last night?”
Okay, guess we’re digging right into the nitty-gritty without lube.
I blink hard a few times, letting my eyes adjust to find Talia on the couch, where she’s curled up in a nest of blankets, coffee mug cradled in her hands and covered by a handknit mug cozy that one of herpatients made. It always makes her smile, but today her face is the picture of worry.
“We won.” She doesn’t give a shit about the team standings, so “win or lose” isn’t what she’s really asking. She wants to know what happened when I saw Griffin, when he saw me, and whether there were fireworks or a nuclear bomb in that moment. But that answer does actually lie somewhere in the game report.
“Aaand . . .”
I don’t know how to explain last night’s game to a non-hockey person. Griffin had been on a rampage, spending way more time than usual in the penalty box and going after people more than the puck. The highlight moment—or technically a lowlight one—was when he fixed a dislocated finger on the jumbotron. I gasped at the gruesome sight, and Layla jerked her head my way, demanding to know what the hell I’d done to our boy.
Ours, as in the Hawks. Because he’s not mine, not in any way that matters. He made that abundantly clear when I asked if he hated me and he didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t looking for him to confess some deep, dark, long-hidden love for me. Simply non-hate. Yet, after five years of family holidays, countless pregame meals, helping me move, and dozens of other interactions, he couldn’t do that. After reciting what I’d been wearing the day we met and screwing me stupid, he couldn’t say,I guess you’re kinda-sorta-maybe all right–ish sometimes.
What the hell was up with that? It’s not like I’m a stage-five clinger by any stretch, but some human decency and manners are the bare minimum. And I do meanbareminimum. My actual standards are considerably higher. Giving in to lust had been a moment of weakness on my part. I’m chalking it up to the unexpected chemistry in that first real kiss, and then the firestorm between us when Griffin asked if his kiss felt like hate. For the record, no, it did not. It felt ... hot, sexy, and exciting in a way I’d never considered. Mostly because I’ve never considered Griffin to be anything other than Dominic’s asshole friend.
The last few days, though? Oh, I’ve been doing someconsidering. Lots of it. But it would take more than a good dicking for me to accept the way Griffin treated me after. I don’t know what it’d take, and honestly, I hope to never find out. Because, again, I have standards.
“Let’s say he threw himself into his work the way I’ve been throwing myself into mine,” I finally answer Talia.
“Shiiit. Are the other guys still breathing?”
“Probably. Guess we’ll find out tonight when we do it all again.” I hold my hands up, shaking invisible poms, and fake a smile that feels more like a grimace than anything remotely cheery. I will definitely have to get my act together before tonight’s rematch against the Torches, or Layla will bench me.
