Page 146 of The Blame Game

That bad, huh?

Mostly weird. I’ll tell you about it tonight at home.

At home. Shea swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

But before he could come up with an answer, his phone rang. He blinked when he saw who it was.

“Uh, hey,” he answered tentatively.

“I thought I told you to hold out for three Cups,” his dad said. “I’m very disappointed in you, son.”

And Shea laughed, relieved.

Because, yeah, his dad probably had a lot of questions right now and that didn’t even include assuring him that the escort rumor wasn’t true—God, Shea did not want to get into that whole thing—and his mom was probably going to want to talk to him too.

He was honestly surprised that Emma hadn’t bombarded him with messages already.

But he and his dad had an inside joke about Shea dating a guy and they could laugh about shit again and fuck, that was everything.

“Well, I mean, he asked me to move in with him and I didn’t have the heart to kick a guy while he was down on LTIR,” Shea said. “I guess we’ll just have to get him that Cup before I bring him home to meet you guys.”

His dad laughed and Shea thought that maybe, whatever happened with Dom, at least he’d have this now.

He’d have his family back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Hey. Glad you could make it,” Dom said as he met Shea at the player entrance and let him into the back hallway of the practice facility. “Here’s your temporary access badge. Security will get you a more permanent one soon.”

“Thanks.” Shea took the badge. “A couple of my colleagues are filling in for my appointments, so I have the rest of the day off.”

“Glad it worked out,” Dom said.

The door closed, the bright afternoon sunshine outside disappearing and leaving them both blinking in the dimmer hallway.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, staring at each other.

Dom still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act around Shea when they were in public or, really, anywhere that wasn’t Dom’s apartment, where he was sure they were alone.

“How are you doing?” Shea asked, frowning.

Dom shrugged. “Everything hurts like a bitch and I’m scared shitless that they’re going to tell me I’ve already played my last NHL game.”

Out of nowhere, his throat went tight and he had to blink rapidly.

“Oh, baby,” Shea said softly, his tone worried as he reached out, his hand awkwardly hovering in the air beside Dom’s cheek for a moment before he let it fall.

Dom felt a sudden jolt, deep in his core, at the nickname. He’d heard Shea say that before. In that same voice.

He frowned, trying to remember when that would have been.

“Sorry. I—I don’t know what made me call you that. I won’t do it again if you hate it. And let me know how touchy-feely you want me to get. Even though we need to sell this to the public, I know you’re probably not a big PDA guy.”

“I’m not,” Dom said absently, wracking his brain for when Shea might have called him that before. “I mean, a little PDA is fine. You can touch me but I’m never going to be one of those guys who wants to hold hands all the time or make out in front of other people.”

“No, really? I’m shocked,” Shea teased.

Dom managed a half-hearted grin.

---