Page 53 of Wild Ride

“You asked Cade Burnett for a wine rec?”

He shrugged. “People always know more about that kind of stuff than I do. All the guys on the team are experts at something. Burnett and wine. Kershaw and soap operas. Grey and sneakers, like which ones are collectible.”

“Kershaw and soap operas?”

He chuckled. “Theo Kershaw’s a huge Days of Our Lives fan. Never misses an episode in the player lounge. Hunt and Bond, too.”

“What’s your specialist subject then? Surely you’ve got some weird, specific knowledge that sets you apart.”

“Sure. How to slip a hundred dollar bill to club security so I’ll be left alone or how to get the bartender’s attention with the barest rise of an eyebrow.”

“These are good skills.” She tried to be empathetic, though those situations weren’t exactly relatable to a mom in the burbs. “But you’d rather be known for something else. Or your hockey.”

“First world pro hockey player problems, right?” After placing the last dish, he turned, folded his arms over that expansive chest, and assessed her.

“I’m sorry for everyone being nosy at dinner and putting you on the spot about your childhood.”

“It’s okay. It’s not a secret or anything. In fact, people don’t really ask me much personal stuff.” He paused, thinking on that. “Probably because I don’t seem like the kind of guy with an interesting interior life.”

That was a very self-aware thing to say.

“Is it something you want to talk about?”

His mouth quirked in what looked like surprise. “You don’t have to do that.” In his voice she heard an ache, a longing to share something he usually kept hidden.

“You can tell me anything. But only if you want to.”

“Sure, my sad sack childhood makes for great foreplay.”

She tilted her head. “Some women love when a guy gets vulnerable.”

“You mean, all these years I’ve been leaving this very useful strategy out of the Dex O’Malley playbook?”

She smiled. “Not sure you’ve suffered. You’re never short of attention.”

“True. But maybe I could try it out—this new, vulnerable little-orphan-Dexter?”

So he had to frame the sharing as self-deprecation, a silly joke. She could run with that.

“How long were you in foster care?”

“Eight years, from ten until I aged out. I spent time with a few families, but I was a bit of a terror, always making trouble. Some of the stories …” He rolled his shoulders back, pushing away something. Maybe a bad memory or three. “Another day, perhaps.”

All that uncertainty and rejection had to have messed with his head, wondering if the next foster situation was going to be the one. She saw it with the puppies and kittens they fostered. When the animals came back, they seemed to know deep down that their situation was no longer as stable.

She bent over to get a dishwasher tablet and inserted it in the compartment before closing the door. When she straightened, she found him dragging his gaze away from her ass.

“Do you still keep in touch with any of the families?”

“Anton, mostly. He was my coach and I lived with his family for a while. Without him, I’d probably be digging roads or part of a chain gang. Hockey saved me.”

“Being part of a team must be nice. Band of brothers.”

His brow creased. “It’s okay, but most of the guys are in a different place than me. I’ve moved around a lot and I’m not so good at making connections.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She put her empty wine glass on the counter. One was enough or she’d start spouting nonsense.

Such as how cute he looked with that forlorn puppy dog expression.

---