Page 3 of Tell Me Lies

“Wow! How much do you think the NHL pays your old man anyway?” I hang my mouth open. “Geesh, you’re trying to take all my money.” I bop her nose with my finger. “Now, let’s go pick out our ice cream.”

She slides down from the couch, her little feet padding along the floor. When she gets to the freezer, I cringe when she yanks the door open. For a teeny three-year-old, the kid is strong.

“Easy, girl.” I laugh. “I don’t want to have to buy a new freezer. With the amount of ice cream you made me buy and that dang swear jar, it’s been a costly week.”

Grabbing the cones from the pantry, I open the utensil drawer and get a scoop. “What flavor tonight, Princess A?”

“The ones with the fishies in it, Daddy.” She grabs her step stool, pushing it toward the sideboard. “A big scoop. Not a baby scoop because I am not a baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I smile, grabbing the pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, which is her favorite. Though lately, it’s been a tie between that and Marshmallow Sky.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that Maddie is leaving because Maddie is like family to her. The kid has never had a mom. She has no grandmother, seeing as my mom passed away years ago from cancer, and her mother’s family has chosen not to ever be in her life. I’ve never so much as brought any other woman around her. I’ve had a few one-night stands when my brother Link and his wife were in town and demanded Amelia come with them for a sleepover. But I don’t want to bring anyone around her who isn’t going to be in her life forever. It would be too confusing. She’s already asked so many times why she doesn’t have a mom like the other kids she sees at the park, and though I explain it as delicately as I can, a three-year-old doesn’t understand death.

Besides, having another female in my life isn’t a priority. Ensuring my daughter is taken care of and that I make my team proud? That’s what matters to me.

Scooping out some ice cream, I plop it onto the cone and pass it to her. Right away, she investigates it, narrowing her eyes. I wait patiently to see if she’s going to say it’s too small, but finally, she grins.

“Thanks, Daddy!” She climbs down from her step stool and beelines it for the couch. “Hurry, Daddy! Mine is going to melt.”

Quickly, I scoop my own out and chuckle. “Babe, you do know you can start eating yours, right? You don’t have to wait for me.”

At that, she shoots me a harsh stare. “We always wait for each other, Daddy.”

I polish off the ice cream container, packing it all on my cone before heading toward the couch, where she sits. “Of course,” I say, nodding. “What was I thinking?”

She giggles, scooching toward me when I sit down, and I grin. I don’t need anyone or anything else in my life. Why would I when I have her as my daughter?

Besides, anything else would just be a distraction from the only things that matter—raising Amelia and hockey.

As Clyde snores at my feet, I stare at the open Word document on my computer. Grimacing at the pathetic number of words I’ve typed since sitting down.

It’s been two hours, and I’ve written fifty words. All of which are meaningless. They aren’t spicy. They aren’t swoony. And they sure as hell aren’t going to make my readers cry.

Which means … they are shit. Worthless, unworthy shit.

Clyde’s legs move, and it’s clear he’s having a dream as he whimpers. I glance down at my giant bullmastiff, watching as his eyes flutter open the tiniest bit before, finally, I reach down and pat his head.

“It’s a dream, big guy. Just relax.”

He wakes up just long enough to stop flailing around, but moments later, he’s back to snoring again.

Positioning myself straighter in my computer chair, I blow out a breath.

Eight months. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve released a book. Before that, I only released two in the three years prior.

That’s one book a year. One. Book.

I went from publishing four to possibly five a year to one measly book. Now, if I don’t get my ass writing, I won’t even have the ability to say that.

Over three years ago, my whole life was turned upside down. And I’m still trying to cope with the aftereffects of it all.

“Write something,” I whisper angrily. “Anything.”

Even if it was straight smut, I’d call it a win. But not even two characters banging each other into next week is coming to me easily. Those scenes used to be some of my favorite words to write. Now? Forget it.

My characters are getting as much action as I have been lately.

Zero.

---