“Yeah.” His laugh is bitter. “I barely get a call when I fuck up on the ice. The only reason he was willing to see me on Thursday is because I’d be coming to the city and he wouldn’t have to drive up here.”
I stroke my fingers along his shoulder. “You don’t know that. He clearly wants to see you. This place is a lot farther away than Dad’s apartment…”
“Wanna bet he doesn’t show up?”
I pull a face. “I don’t bet on dead certs.”
I retreat a little so I can look at him in the bright lights of our living room. Leading my fingers along the line of his jaw, I tap his bottom lip. Not liking the bitter twist to that perfect mouth.
A part of me has to accept that getting either of the Bradley men into no-man’s land for talks isn’t going to happen. Yet.
Even if I managed it, I’m not sure Allan deserves my help.
“You’re playing on Sunday?”
“Only if Dyers isn’t.”
Tonight, he allegedly had the stomach flu.Seems like it’s going around because wouldn't you know? Coach was still down with that too!
“What are you doing?—”
“You.”
I snicker. “If you let me finish... Are you staying with me for the holidays?—”
“I hate to say it, Denny, butduh. Of course, I’m staying with you. We’ll fly to Florida together.” His gaze turns knowing. “How are you feeling about Francis since she sent over that pie?”
I pull a face as I find the remnants of said pie on our coffee table—we ate it for breakfast.
“She can’t help that she’s only three years older than me and that my dad’s a pervert. Maybe I should cut her some slack. Being pregnant obviously makes her feel permanent so she wants to play nicey nice with his kids.”
“Your dad married her. How permanent’s that?”
I pat his cheek. “It’s cute how naive you are.”
“A kid doesn’t keep someone married,” he points out.
No, webothknow that.
“I’ll ask Mom and the boys to tell Dad we’re staying in a hotel for Christmas.”
His brows lower. “Huh?”
“Keep up, Zach, or did I fuck you so hard you dropped a few IQ points?”
“I think you’ll find that I did the fucking.”
My lips twitch. “That way Dad will leave us alone and if yours asks where we are, he can’t snitch?—”
“Ha. Unlikely. My dad doesn’t give a shit where I am?—”
“That’s not true,” I immediately argue. Allan hasmanyflaws, but he gives a damn in a general, unfocused sense where his career means more to him than his son.
He grunts. “He likes it when I’m not in the same city as him.”
“That’ll make you playing for the New York Stars impossible. Unless you have a Tardis?”
That earns me another grunt so I prod his side.
