Page 22 of Bound

“Smitty,” I groan, dropping my chin to my chest. “Really?”

He tugs a lock of my hair, tone still gentle. “It happens to the best of us.”

“Does it?” I ask dryly. “Does it really?”

A wince. “Okay, so maybe not.”

“Exactly.” I sigh, torn between buying another drink so I can start double-fisting or running the hell out of this bar.

“Claire Bear?”

I look up at the suddenly gentle question—not a hint of teasing in sight.

“Yeah?”

Smitty tucks me against his big, warm side. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jackson

“Be careful, honey bun.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes at the worry in her tone. “It’s hockey. It’s a contact sport.”

“I don’t like seeing you get checked.” A beat. “Or slashed. Or into fights that make you bleed.”

“We know.”

I grin when my dad chimes in over the speaker phone, his voice hard to hear because of the sound of running water in the background. It’s just after lunch time back home and I know he’s washing dishes.

My mom cooks. My dad does dishes. That’s the way it’s always been.

“But even your baby boy has to grow up some time,” my dad finishes.

“Never,” my mom protests. “And he doesn’t have to do it getting beat to hell and back.”

I shake my head, stifle a sigh at the familiar argument.

“You know he loves it,” my dad says.

My mom sighs.

Because she knows she’s lost. Because my dad is right.

I love playing hockey. It’s not just my job—it’s my heart and soul.

“Ugh,” she grumbles, but I don’t miss the sound of the water growing louder, know that she’s walking across their kitchen with the familiar blue cabinets, leaning close and rising on tiptoe to kiss my dad on his cheek. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I don’t,” my dad says cheerfully.

I grin as I turn into the parking lot. “I need to go,” I tell them. “I’m at the rink.”

Another sigh. “We’ll be watching,” she says on a mock grumble.

They always do—no matter the hour. “I love you guys.”

“Love you, bud.”

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