Page 47 of Breakneck Hockey

“No need for that,” he said. “You’re Francisco Domingo’s son, aren’t you?”

“Stepson,” I said.

Rhett shrugged. “Same thing. My father says it’s about who you know, and Francisco is a great man to know.”

We were fast friends after that. My stepdad’s name got me in the door with him, but Rhett appreciated my lust for adrenaline, and we bonded over hockey.

I was going through a lot of shit when I met Rhett, so he’s seen me go through it. I saw a therapist after what happened to my dad until I said all there was to say, and I wasn’t getting into trouble anymore. Well, much trouble. I’m still me after all.

That’s how you get me—adjusted enough.

Adjusted enough was the going psychological term when I was going through therapy. Adjusted enough to live a “normal” life, not completely free of the past, but free enough to prevent me from becoming a serial killer. Adjusted enough to keep my cool in most situations, except on the ice.

And when it comes to Casey Alderchuck.

I sift through the selection of bottles on the kitchen counter, swirling them, looking for signs of life. Rhett snatches the vodka out of my hand.

“Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

I yank the bottle back. “Hair of the dog, or I’m gonna puke all over that nice fit you’re sportin’.” Taking a hefty swig breathes life into my veins as alcohol burns its way down my throat.

“Get your jacket. I’ll drive.”

Rhett’s phone buzzes more than three times on the way to wherever we’re going. Each time he checks it with a growing smile. “Logan,” he says, answering my unasked question.

“That’s a lot of texts. It’s giving Baby Reindeer.”

Rhett laughs. “He’s dying to know ‘the tea’ about you.”

That word has to have come from Logan. Rhett doesn’t use words like “tea” in that context.

“Then you might as well turn this car around. I’m not telling you shit if it’s just gonna get back to … people.” People is one people. Alderchuck. Alderchuck can fall off a cliff into a pit of vipers after the shit he pulled. It’s just like him to pull something like that. Backing me into a corner. Breaking our agreement before the flavor wore off. He’s a Goddamn liar.

“Logan’s trustworthy.”

“Don’t care.”

“Everyone knows anyway, Mitch. I swear to fucking God, that family works like a hive mind. If one person knows, they all know, and Casey’s been telling Jack and Logan everything.”

I scrub a hand over my face. It’s a damn soap opera. I hate fucking soap operas.

“What’s Alderchuck sayin’ about me?” No. That’s not me getting involved in the soap opera. I have a right to know what’s being said about me, so I can plan my attack.

Rhett keeps his eyes on the road. “Nothing good. What did you do to him?”

“What did I do to him? The question is ‘what did he do to me’? He gave me an ultimatum, which was shit. I don’t cater to the whims of brats. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Lock his ass down. Or do you like hearing about him fucking other men?”

I punch the dash of his expensive car. Mother fuckingow. Man, what’s this thing made of? The only thing damaged is my hand. I shake it off.

“I don’t make stupid decisions, Rhett. Casey and I dating would be about as stupid a decision as I could make.” It would be what I call a dick decision—making a decision with my dick. Fucking him is fun. Dating him would be my worst nightmare.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I know so. We only mesh in bed. We don’t get along in any conceivable way outside of bed.” Learned that on my first night with him. The best thing he did was turn down the coffee I tried to give him. All we do is fight. “He has a tattoo of a heart with poutine in the center. We’re not from the same species of human.”

Rhett’s golden luck strikes again, and he snags a parking spot on the street in front of The Coffee Shoppe, the place in town where everyone seems to want to get coffee, even though there are a gazillion other coffee joints in this city.

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