Page 3 of Dreams on the Ice

Indulged.

They have done no such thing. I took myself to practice. I tried out for teams. I did it all, and they didn’t even bother showing up for a single game. So, no, they have not indulged me in shit other than to write checks for fees and equipment.

“This is my life,Dad. I enjoy this, and I’m good at it. I am a professional player.”

He snorts, then clears his throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” His tone is sharp, and I’m pissing him off more and more by the minute.

I almost laugh. But instead, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m trying to keep my cool, but just like most parents, he knows exactly how to push my fucking buttons.

“I know who I am, Dad. And I am a professional hockey player. I won’t be quitting, and I won’t be going to work for you in the family business or any business.”

“Forrest,” he snaps, his cool completely gone now as he speaks. He’s getting good and pissed off, and if I gave a shit, I would probably hang up on him right now. But since I don’t, I continue to let him speak. “Your money comes with certain duties.”

My entire body jerks. “What?” I whisper

I have been spending my money like water, broke at the end of every damn month because I knew I was getting my inheritance deposits starting at twenty-five. I mean, sure, I own a portion of the house I live in and my car, but that’s all.

What I haven’t done is invest shit because I’ve been buying myself clothes, watches, shoes, and just spending my money on bullshit that I don’t need, thinking that I would have anything and everything I wanted in a few months. That money would never be an object.

Now he’s telling me it’s not going to happen.

Fuck that.

“There are terms to you getting that money, and one of the terms is that you must work for the business.”

The Westwood family business has never, and will repeat,neverin a million years interested me. Railroads, shipping, receiving, transporting—nothing about that world appeals to me in any way.

That world isn’t cold. It doesn’t smell like fresh-cut ice, sweat, and blood. There is no crowd to go absolutely fucking wild for me there. It’s not for me, and I want absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Since when?” I ask. “Enlighten me.” I try to be as cool as possible.

He laughs softly, but I can tell he doesn’t think any of this is funny. “Work for the company and get your monthly checks. Don’t work, and you won’t get anything until after your mother and I are dead… maybe. And since we get regular health checks, that could be a while.”

Shit.

Chapter

Two

BROOKLYNN

I’m drained.Not just because it’s ten o’clock and I’m finally leaving the salon, but because my last client of the day was someone who drains the absolute life out of me every single time I see her.

If she weren’t such an important person in the community, I would probably refuse her, and I have a feeling the only reason she sits in my chair is because other stylists have done just that.

Willow Creek isn’t very big, and our salon is still new, so I have to play nice, even if it completely exhausts me physically and mentally. I close down the salon, making sure to lock the front door before I make my way to my car in the dark, alone.

Thankfully, downtown stays well lit at night, and nothing ever happens in this town. So I feel safe at ten o’clock at night, walking down the sidewalk completely alone. Still, I rethink my schedule and wonder how I’m going to fix it so this habit stops as I touch the button on my fob to unlock the driver’s door.

Climbing into my driver’s seat, I start the engine and head home. My stomach growls before I even reach the first stoplight. I haven’t eaten since… the iced coffee I had when I got to work.

Shit.

Flicking my gaze to the clock on my dash, I let out a heavy sigh. I can’t go home and cook anything because my roommates are all settling down for the night and probably don’t want to hear or smell me cook, not that I can actually cook. I’m absolutely terrible in the kitchen.

Guiding my car toward the first fast-food place I can find, I do something that I’m seriously ashamed of. I pull into the drive-through and order a twenty-piece chicken nugget, a side of apples, french fries, and a chocolate shake.

With my food in my lap, I drive to the nearest dark parking lot and stuff my face. Closing my eyes, I lay my head back as I chew on a nugget. Even though this tastes amazing, I already regret the calories.

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