Page 21 of Hate to Love You

Lot.

More.

What have I done by agreeing to this madness?

It’s weakly that I say, “I’m sure it’ll blow over.” Because deep down, I need to believe that’s precisely what will happen.

Zara squeaks and claps a hand over her mouth.

I groan. Do I even want to know? Nope. Don’t think so. But still, the question tumbles from my lips, “Now what?”

Whatever she’s found can’t be any worse than all the posts blowing up Facebook and Instagram.

“Well, it’s official, Nat. You and Brody are exclusive.”

“What are you talking about?” I mutter.

She turns her phone around, and I glimpse Brody’s Facebook page. When I shift my eyes to hers in confusion, she huffs in exasperation and points to the bottom corner of his page.

“It’s Facebook official. Brody McKinnon is in a relationship with Natalie Davies.”

Aw hell.

Chapter Eight

Brody

While my roommates are still sleeping off last night’s drunken festivities, I’m up and out the door by five. The sun has yet to rise as I get in my truck and drive over to the community rink. Ever since I started at Whitmore freshman year, my dad has rented out extra ice time on Sunday mornings so we can run through drills and work on conditioning. Around eight, we head to my father’s house, and I hit the weight room he installed in the basement. It has all the bells and whistles, including a sauna which I relax in for about twenty minutes before hitting the shower.

Since this is the only time during the week I’m able to stop by for a visit, my dad’s wife, Amber, prepares a huge brunch for the three of us. By the time I sit down at the table with them, I’m physically exhausted but feel good. My endorphins are buzzing and I’m ready to tackle the week. Usually, we discuss any new developments with the Milwaukee franchise or potential endorsement deals that are in the works. Around noon, I head back to campus and hit the books for the rest of the day.

You know that old saying about how there’s no rest for the wicked?

It’s absolutely true.

My dad, John McKinnon, played for the Detroit Redwings for a decade back in the day. After retiring from the NHL, he opened a sports management company to represent professional athletes. He started out with a couple of hockey players and has since branched out with twenty-five agents working for him. He reps guys from the NHL, NBA, NFL, and the MLB. My game plan is to play in the pros for as long as I can and then join my father at his company, which is why I chose to major in business with a minor in finance.

Since Dad played professional hockey, he knows what I’ll be up against when I make the move to the pros next year. It’s an entirely different level—faster play, higher skill set, and a hell of a lot more physical and rigorous—and some guys can’t hack it. You’re no longer a big fish in a small pond. Everyone playing in the NHL is the best of the best. Because of this, he works me harder than any coach ever has. And I appreciate it. I’m a better player for it. So even though I only grabbed a few hours of sleep last night, you won’t hear me bitching and complaining about hauling ass at five to get here.

Eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, hash browns, and a bowl of fruit have been laid out in the sunroom where the three of us sit down to eat. Famished from my workout, I dig in, loading my plate with a lot of everything.

Amber and Dad recently celebrated their three-year anniversary. She’s fifteen years younger than he is and used to work for him. I’ve never actually sat down and counted out the months, but I suspect there was a rush to the altar because she was pregnant with my two-year-old sister, Hailey.

The fact that my father married again after so many years doesn’t bother me. Maybe I’d feel differently if I were still in the house, but I’m not. Plus, Amber has always gone out of her way to make me feel included. And Hailey is a pretty cool kid. She’s always smiling and happy to see me when I stop by on Sunday mornings.

“What happened to your face?” Amber asks as I dig in.

I shrug. “Took an elbow to the eye fooling around with Sawyer. No big deal.”

I’d almost forgotten about the shiner Reed gave me last night. I should have been quicker and blocked him. At least I bloodied his nose and gave him a black eye in return.

You’re welcome, asshole.

“It looks painful.” Her brows draw together. “Maybe you should ice it after brunch. I think there’s a bag of peas in the freezer.”

“Nah, it’s fine. But thank you,” I add. I really do like Amber. As far as stepmoms go, my dad could have done a lot worse.

Dad’s cell rings, thankfully interrupting our conversation. Neither Amber or I say a word while he’s on the phone. Once he wraps up the call, she asks, “Are classes still going well?”

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