Page 137 of Lace 'em Up

I’m going to fight for it.

Thirty-Seven

King

I want a beer, a bathtub full of ice, and to use Pat’s face like a punching bag again.

Alas, I’ve already done that and gotten the lecture from Coach, and since I’m not interested in revisiting that glorious one-on-one, I’d bitten my tongue and had taken it out on the puck instead.

Good for my slapshot.

Bad for my body.

Hence, the need for that tub full of ice.

I pull into the garage, throw the gearshift into park, cut the engine, and exhale, rolling out my shoulders.

My mom is here. And Rory. I need to not be a total grump and enjoy the time with them.

It’s almost Thanksgiving and soon enough it’ll be Christmas. Then January and the back half of the season, when shit gets real and the team needs to focus on scrounging each and every point we can add to our tally.

Because I haven’t been working this hard for this long to let one asshole derail everything.

Especially when we’re winning and gelling as a team—with the exception of Asshole Pat.

Which is why I’m going to ignore the toxic lump, let him celebrate getting pussy and the occasional goal, and focus on my own shit.

See? I’m growing.

I haven’t heard the You’re not your father ricocheting through my mind for at least a week now.

Grinning, I reach for the handle, feeling a hundred times better just being this close to seeing Rory.

Until I see the dent in the wooden frame near the lock.

Frowning, I run my fingers over the marking.

Then shrug.

Maybe Rory was bringing in dog crates and my kitchen is full of a gaggle of rescue puppies.

Yeah, I’ll take that particular brand of chaos.

Because it’s time that she gets everything she wants—including saving all the dogs she wants.

Grin widening, I push open the door and walk into the house.

Music echoes down the hallway and my heart squeezes, remembering other days, other songs. Knowing that I would give just about anything to keep coming home to Rory dancing in my kitchen. I hang up my bag, my jacket then move down the hall?—

Only, she’s not dancing.

But it’s almost as good because she’s sitting on the counter…

Waiting for me.

Something familiar at her side.

“Is that my old hockey stick from the garage?”

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