Page 100 of Caught from Behind

Then he does, his eyes finally coming to mine.

Cold and unyielding and everything I deserve.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I—” I shake my head. “Some bad stuff went down, my head wasn’t right, and I took it out on you.” I take a step forward, reach out to take his hand, freezing, my heart wrenching when he jerks out of reach. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough and you’re not under any obligation to forgive me?—”

He snorts, looks at the computer, unceremoniously dismissing me.

And…I don’t blame him.

“—but you’re my friend and I was a jerk and I am really, truly sorry.”

I wait for him to say something, to look at me again.

Instead, he just keeps his focus on the computer screen and I hear clicking as he starts typing.

Right.

I’ve apologized. I know I can’t push this further.

“I’ll see you later,” I murmur and then I go to my station and give Donna the best blowout she’s ever had.

After that it’s a blur of one client after another, my schedule doubly packed because I’ve slotted in several clients that I rescheduled from yesterday, but when I finally get a break and head to the front of the salon, running through the possibilities of what I can say or do or how many apple fritters I can buy him to smooth things over…

Kit’s gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Riggs

“Got a live one on the hook,” my dad mutters as we walk back to my car.

It’s sunny and beautiful for the moment, but I can already see the clouds thickening as they climb over the Sierras to the west. Soon enough the sky will darken and the gorgeous day will be ruined. Already, there’s a chill in the air.

And if that’s not a fucking allegory to the shitstorm of my morning so far, then I don’t know what is.

“I love her,” I say without preamble.

My dad’s brows shoot up, but I just keep walking, bleeping the locks and climbing in the driver’s seat of my SUV.

His door opens after a second and then he’s sitting next to me. “Son,” he begins.

“Don’t,” I mutter, jabbing at the button to start the ignition. “I put up with your shit because you’re my dad, but if you say anything about Ella, I’m going to send you fucking packing.”

He huffs, crosses his arms. “I’m just saying, I don’t think you need the distraction.”

“Sometimes having something to focus on besides hockey evens out the ups and downs.”

“Professional athletes can’t afford to have ups and downs.” He slants a look in my direction and I see the familiar scowl on his face out of the corner of my eye—the one that precedes a lecture. “Especially, ones who are overpaid like you. If you want to see the full life of your contract?—”

“I need to pull my weight,” I say. “I fucking know.”

“I’m just saying?—”

“You know what makes me play like shit, Dad?” I ask, whipping my head in his direction, matching his scowl with one of my own. “You really want to know?”

He rolls his eyes, turns his stare out the window.

“Being kicked when I’m down,” I growl. “Hearing ninety-nine negative things to every vaguely positive statement. To never have my own dad on my side, never taking my back, never reminding me that life—including hockey—has good days and bad days.”

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