Page 32 of Win Big

“About seventy thousand.”

“That’s small.”

“Yeah.”

“When did you start playing hockey?”

“Jeez, I don’t even remember. Probably when I could walk. Everyone skated and played hockey in the winter. When I was sixteen, I moved to Rimouski, Quebec, to play there.”

I nod. “And that’s where you got drafted from.”

“Yep.”

“Did you learn to speak French living in Quebec?”

His grin is lopsided. “I learned some, but my French is terrible.”

“I loved visiting Quebec. It’s so... old ... and European. Matthew’s wife is French, and Théo and JP grew up there.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Are we done with the detour into my family life to distract from yours?”

My lips pucker up as I try not to smile. “You’re on to me.”

“I wish.” His eyes make contact with mine in a meaningful way and he leans forward a little. “Believe me.”

I can’t breathe. Once again, warmth curls through me. “You’re a shameless flirt. Okay, I’m worried about my dadbecause...” Crap. I’m actually afraid to say it out loud. But it’s been weighing on my mind for months now and I’ve never said a word about it to anyone. Not even Mom, or Asher, Harrison, and Noah. “He keeps forgetting things.”

Wyatt’s eyes shadow. “Yeah?”

I nod slowly, teeth sunk into my bottom lip. “It scares me.”

“He’s what . . . seventy-two?”

“Yes. But he’s still so physically fit. He even works out! What if... what if he has some kind of dementia?”

Wyatt shifts his chair, actually moving it closer to me. He reaches out to cover my hand, curving his fingers around it. His hand is warm and strong. Reassuring. “I don’t know much about dementia. Knowing you, you’ve probably googled it and studied everything about it.”

I make an exasperated little sound with my tongue. “You think you know me so well.”

He’s right, though. I have. And it terrifies me.

Also, Wyatt Bell knowing me that well terrifies me. Because there are things I don’t want anyone to know, let alone him.

“Am I right?”

“Yes.”

He picks up my hand and rubs his thumb over my skin. My arm feels heavy. So do my breasts.

“Have you talked to him about it?” he asks.

“God no!”

“Why not? I mean, I know he can be intimidating, but you’re his daughter.”

“That makes him even more scary,” I mutter. “I’m going to try to suss things out with my mom this afternoon.”

“I know there’s no cure for dementia. But I think there are some kinds of treatment that help slow it down. But you have to see a doctor for that.”

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