Page 45 of Lace 'em Up

You’re not your father.

I still, ice pouring through my veins at the cold, female voice in my mind. It blasts through the false reality I was building, steals any of the teasing I was going to allow off my tongue just moments before.

Reality hits hard.

Luckily, though, the two women sitting at the island with me don’t recognize the sudden turn in my brain.

They’re too busy bonding.

Christ.

This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done—including punching Pat in full view of the public, fans pulling out their phones and recording the action on the ice.

It’s probably circulating social media as we speak.

It’s likely going to give Jean-Michel even more reason to dislike me.

Refusing to let him take her to his place, to Chrissy or Rome’s either.

Then falling asleep and giving Rory the opportunity to go back to that bastard’s house to retrieve her things—thus putting her in Phillip’s crosshairs.

Now I’m blasting the Eagles’ drama in the locker room back into the public eye when we’ve been on a winning streak (both in the standings and amongst our fan base).

I can see the headlines already.

I can see Jean-Michel’s disapproving mug.

It’s superimposed on the other faces who’ve looked at me like that throughout my life—former coaches, my parents on occasion, women I’ve dated, exes, and…Rose.

Who’s not just an ex.

But the ex who made me realize that I will never have what my parents have.

Because I’m not that man.

Because—

A palm lands on my thigh, squeezes firmly enough that I snap out of my thoughts, realize that I’ve been leaving my mom and Rory to talk.

Which is fine.

They’re both good talkers.

The problem now is that they’re both staring at me.

Waiting for me to answer a question I didn’t hear.

“Well, for me,” Rory says, her voice gentle, her grip on my thigh still firm. “I first saw him on the ice.” Her lips quirk as she glances up at me. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice,” she admits, expression contrite. “I thought he was a bit of a playboy and I’m not a hockey fan”—she shrugs, her smile self-deprecating—“or wasn’t a hockey fan, anyway. But it’s hard not to be swept up in the sport when my boss owns the team.”

“Oh,” my mom asks, “do you work for the Eagles then?”

A shake of Rory’s head, sending her blond locks drifting across my arm. “No,” she says. “I work for Oak Ridge—the vineyard that Jean-Michel owns.”

I know that look on my mom’s face.

Apparently, so does Rory because she grins. “Yes, the wine is delicious. And yes, I can get you some.”

My mom laughs. “Am I that obvious?”

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