Page 89 of Butterfly Effect

Not wrong at all.

Nothing like seeing a loving relationship with her dad to serve as a painful reminder of the father who wanted nothing to do with me.

Gabe continues her rant. “You’re always Mr. Charming, Mr. Feel-Good, Mr. Center-of-Attention otherwise. You couldn’tkeep things light instead of the annual sobfest my dad tries to make it?”

I don’t reply.

“So much for decent conversation.” It’s her final jab before we spend the remainder of the drive in total silence.

She works through her phone. My jaw ticks every few minutes, holding back everything I want to say. How amazing it is that she has a dad who gives a shit. That I know better than anyone how deeply rooted her anger and grief are because I go through it, too. That I’m fucking trying my best to get through to her, but I’ve never done that for anyone, and I’m failing miserably.

“I’m flying Air Canada.” Her mindless statement comes without eye contact.

The line of cars backed up at every terminal due to holiday travel doesn’t stop the paparazzi. There are cameras already waiting for us at the curb.

I know we signed up for publicity, but if it didn’t give me all of these chances to get close to Gabe, it’d be so fucking annoying.

My tongue wets my lower lip as I turn to her. “Kiss me goodbye, Freckles.”

Her mouth hangs open, eyes pulling into a furious glare. “Excuseme?”

Insolent brat. My impatience gets the better of me.

I notch my hand around her throat, drawing her to my mouth. “They’re watching. Now kiss me.”

I might die if you don’t.

She responds by mirroring my position, her palm squeezing my neck more firmly than my grip. Our lips crush together, heated and hateful, groaning and moaning every emotion between us. It’s as if she’s simultaneously trying to drain the life out of me with her hand and bring me back with the ferocityof this kiss. We battle in tongues and teeth and Gabe wins, releasing me with a rough bite to the lip.

And I live on.

Three days. I’m out of fucking sorts after three days of no contact with Gabe.

She didn’t cover yesterday’s game here at home and only reacted with a thumbs-up when I asked her if she made it to Dallas.

Did I watch her coverage of that game alone at home later? Yes. Do I care if that’s pathetic? Hell no.

Thank God, Calgary played like shit, and our d-men handled anything that got past center ice because my head was not attached to my body. It was up in the clouds dreaming of Gabe Finch’s perfect body riding my cock until I tore the headboard off.

My focus is so poor that Landy got a puck past me at scrimmage.

He taps my helmet with the blade of his stick when we get to the lockers.

“What’s up with you, Boner?”

I huff while escaping the cage of my mask. “I’m in a mood.”

His eyebrows rise, and his eyes widen as he sputters. “I heard. The girls are best friends, they talk. What do you expect?”

Sweat-soaked strands stick to my forehead. I slough the hairs away by ruffling my hand through it. “Did you know Gabe’s mom died?”

“Don’t pull me into this, man. Indi already gavemeshit foryoubeing an ass to Terry. Like, how is this my fault?”

“I wasn’t an ass. I was trying not to get in the way.”

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause that’s not how it came off, apparently.”

“She’s lucky she has a dad.”

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