Page 38 of College Hockey Bully

I spend the next half an hour soaking my foot in the ice water like Scarlett suggested. Having already done it once last night, I can tell the strain is already easing. Scarlett knows what she’s doing. Can’t say I’m surprised.

Getting downstairs after a shower, I’m surprised to see Mom still sitting in the living room, one leg bouncing impatiently on her knee. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“Oh, he took a quick trip downtown to clear up some things,” she says casually, her tense shoulders a stark contradiction. “He’ll be back in half an hour.”

I glance at my watch again. Scarlett should be here any minute now.

“Expecting someone?” Mom asks.

I nod, glancing through the front window. “My physical therapist.”

Concern is stamped on her face when I look back at her. “Why do you need a physical therapist?”

“Just a slight ankle sprain,” I explain simply.

She huffs. “I told you to take it easy after that surgery, but did you listen? No. Heaven knows why you keep going so hard with that goddamn hockey. You should give it up; let the experts play.”

I’d love to tell her that Iama pro. I’m great at this. This time next year, I should be signing a contract with a prestigious team, preferably New York. But after that stunt she pulled with my trust fund, I know it will backfire on me.

“In fact, you should be spending more time at Hunter Energy, learning the ropes,” she goes on. “Dropping in during the holidays is not enough, not anymore.”

Yeah, pigs are going to fly before you see me in a stuffy suit, trapped in an office. I don’t care how nice the view is.

The sound of an approaching car takes my attention back to the window. Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers through my hair, arranging it a little before I catch Mom frowning at me.

“What?” I mutter.

“A physical therapist or a booty call?” she queries as our butler Ramon goes to get the front door.

“Mom, please. Don’t start.”

“Don’t start what? Your cheeks are red and you’re doing that thing with your hair when you get anxious.” She juts her finger toward the front door. “Whoever she is, I hope she knows you’re not single anymore.”

“You’re being ridiculous. This is strictly business. I’m not even attracted to her.”

I move to stand by the window, watching Scarlett tentatively climbing the stairs, her mouth half-opened as she looks around. She disappears from my sight under the patio, soon emerging into the foyer. I take one look at what she’s wearing and realize I’ll have a hard time convincing Mom of what I just said.

I can’t decide which is sexier; the black dress Scarlett wore at Cameron’s party or these leggings that emphasize how gorgeous her body truly is. She’s also wearing a tank top and sneakers. Besides the party, I’ve never seen her wearing anything so fitted.

Mom stands accessing her, too, an elbow resting on one hand, an index finger tapping her temple. Wanting to whisk Scarlett away before the twenty-one questions begin, I hurry to her side.

“Mom, this is Scarlett Pierce, my PT. Scarlett, meet my mom.”

Scarlett smiles and gives my mom a shy wave. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hunter.”

My mother scoffs. “I wish the feeling was mutual, my dear. My son knows the help is not allowed through the front door—”

“Mom, that is highly inappropriate,” I scold as Scarlett gasps.

“What?” she has the nerve to look innocent. “You know the front is only used by family and esteemed guests.”

“I’m really sorry about her,” I say remorsefully to Scarlett, whose face is beet-red. With my hand pressing against her lower back, I inch her toward the side door. “Not cool, Mom.”

Asking her to apologize would be like asking America’s Most Wanted to turn himself in.

“Don’t mess things up, Aiden. You hear me? You know what your obligations are. I won’t have you consorting with anyone beneath us.” She calls after me.

Ignoring her cringy comment, I keep guiding Scarlett out the door.

---