“Language,” I scold, and he immediately apologizes. “How do you know what he looks like?”
“Please, we’ve been following his socials for years. Him and The Flash. Both of them are hot.”
I hate to admit it, but I have to agree, and unfortunately for me, Luka Hart has gotten under my skin in a way that no man has before. I guess that’s why it’s been so easy to stay out of the spotlight for anything but my killer skills on the ice all these years. But one look from this kid and my stomach is in knots. My eyes search for him in every room, and I have no idea why. I look for him at every trainingsession, and it’s messing with my performance. That pisses me off more than his reckless plays on the ice.
The youngest of the Raines brothers, David, walks in from the living room.
“So, Luka’s like you, only younger and hotter?” he asks.
“Funny,” I reply, but he’s not wrong there either. Luka’s so fucking hot he makes me want to scream. I won’t tell them that, though, they’d be trying to set us up, and I don’t need them doing that. I’m good with waiting until they’re all grown and out of the house before I even consider dating. I can’t even imagine wanting to bring a guy back to this place with them here. It’s one thing to be raised by your brother, and another to know he has . . . needs. Though my needs haven’t really been met in a long time. You would think the longer you went between . . . it, the easier it would be, but it just makes you think about it more. Like when the hotshot rookie flashes his dazzling smile your way, you can’t help but picture those lips wrapped around something else. Urgh, nope. Pull yourself together, you still have to feed these two.
I was twenty-two when Mom and Dad died. I was at the start of my rookie year with Philly too, and man I was on fire. I’d scored a killer contract, and had the fans up against the glass cheering my name at every game. It was wild. I was wild. Then they died and I grew up real quick, but there was never even a second that I questioned taking on guardianship of my younger brothers. They were eleven and nine at the time, and while the majority of their classmates were spending their time playing video gamesand hanging out with friends, these two were being dragged to ice hockey training sessions and NHL games. You would have thought, being surrounded by hockey, they’d want to follow in their big brother’s footsteps too, but Benji’s determined to play something called Banana Ball, and David is headed to Boston University on a lacrosse scholarship next fall.
I blame Aunt Peggy. She would come and stay with the boys when I was at away games and they couldn’t come, plus she was the one who signed Benji up for baseball and took David to his first lacrosse game too. I can’t be too mad, though, seeing as I don’t know how we would have gotten through those first couple of years without her. Given the boys are sixteen and eighteen now, I can leave them for a few days to fend for themselves as long as the fridge is stocked well before I go. It’ll be so weird when they’re both in college. Quiet.
“Is Luka any good at least?” Benji asks.
“He’s okay,” I reply, and David laughs.
“Wow, high praise coming from you. This guy must be awesome.”
“Shut up and eat your dinner,” I say, serving up their spaghetti.
“Yes, Dad Bro,” he replies, and I can’t help but smile. I never really wanted to be a dad, at least I never thought I did, but raising these two has been the highlight of my life—them and the NHL.
“So, Dad Bro, when are you going to start putting yourself out there?” David asks, waving his fork in my direction. “You can’t keep using us as an excuse not to date. Even Benji’s had more dates than you, and he’s only just pushed his way through that awkward teenage stage.”
“Fuck you, I’m not awkward,” Benji interjects, then immediately apologizes for swearing. “Sorry. But also, he’s not wrong.”
“I don’t have time to date.”
David turns to me with a flat, disbelieving stare.
“I call bullshit, and I’m not apologizing for swearing.”
“Just eat your dinner already, you two,” I say, twirling a helping of spaghetti around my fork. The scent of the rich tomato sauce fills my nose, and my stomach growls. It’s one of the few things I actually know how to cook well, which means it’s on the menu at least three times a week in the Raines household. I remember when Dad would cook spaghetti for Mom. He’d dish out our plates from a giant pan in the middle of the table, while telling us the story of when he’d first cooked it for her. “The food of love,” he’d called it, often in a really bad French accent. He never really could nail down an Italian one.
David kicks me under the table.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Just remembering Dad,” I say.
Benji scoops another helping from the pot in the middle of the table. “Ze food ov love,” he says, and soon enough we’re all doing our best impersonation of our father and laughing around the table.
***
We’re three days into training camp and two scrimmages down, and I’m acutely aware of every muscle in my body as I walk into the locker rooms for day four. There was a time I could be on the ice all day, sleep for seven hours, and be right back out there without even a tiny drop in my performance. Those days are long gone. Now I work twice as hard to skate, maybe ninety percent of what I used to deliver. I’m almost thirty, so it shouldn’t surprise me, but it still sucks. I don’t want this part of my life to end, and not just because then I’ll have no excuse not to enter the dating world.
“Hart,” Coach Dennings calls from the doorway, drawing the attention of the room.
“Yes, Coach,” he replies like an eager child being called on by the teacher.
“I want to see you in the power play one unit with Raines, Kirkston, and White. Head to the team meeting room at five. West will meet you there.”
“No problem, Coach,” he replies, still with that almost childlike excitement in his tone.
“Umm, Coach, you really think the rook is ready for that?” I ask as he passes me to leave.
