Page 4 of Hooked On Them

Miles grabbed my arm and yanked me back down on the bench. The muscle in my jaw ticked as I fought back the urge to throw something at Jensen’s smug face. It probably wouldn’t look good on my record to deck our starting goalie, though.

“We’re enjoying watching you get schooled by the hot coach. Guess she’s got higher standards than whatever macho bullshit you’re trying to pull.” Marty, our third-line center, leaned against his stall with a shit-eating grin that I wanted to wipe off his face.

These jackasses could laugh it up all they wanted. They weren’t the ones with their father’s legacy hanging over their heads like a guillotine. They didn’t understand what it meant to have every move scrutinized and every mistake amplified not only by commentators but by their own father.

“You think she’s hot?”Shit.The words were out before I could stop them, and judging by the way Jensen’s grin widened, I’d handed them enough material to last until playoffs.

“Everyone thinks she’s hot.” Miles shrugged, like he was stating that water was wet. “But more importantly, she knows her stuff.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge in my gut. Yes, Hastings was attractive in that stern, take-no-prisoners way. And sure, there was something magnetically infuriating about the way she stood her ground, brown eyes flashing with challenge when I pushed back.

But that wasn’t the point.

“My dad would rather take a puck to the head than see me taking direction from Brett Hastings’s daughter.”

“You mean from a woman?” Miles’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what this is about?”

“She’s never played a day of NHL hockey in her life.” The part I left unsaid was that my father still, to this day, absolutely hated Nora’s father, who had cost him his only chance at the Stanley Cup.

Miles studied me for a long moment, seeing through me in the way only someone who’s known you for a long time could. “You’re twenty-eight years old. Your father has no say in your career.”

I scowled, hating that he wasn’t wrong. It was no secret that my dad was... difficult. He was an NHL legend and king of emotional terrorism disguised as tough love. He had spent my entire life criticizing every aspect of my game. Nothing was ever good enough, especially not me.

The last time I’d purposely asked him for feedback, I was fifteen. Stuck in a defensive drill I couldn’t nail no matter how hard I tried. After the fourth mistake, he hadn’t even yelled. Just shook his head and said,“If this is your best, you’ll never be more than average.”

I remembered standing there, hot-faced and sweating, feeling like I’d had the air knocked out of me.

Now, he just gave me unsolicited feedback.

“Look.” Miles’s voice dropped into a gentle, infuriatingly reasonable tone he only used when he was about to make a point I didn’t want to hear. “Whatever this is between you and Hastings, figure it out. Because right now, you’re the only one who doesn’t see how good she is.”

I stiffened. “There’s nothing between me and Hastings.” The denial shot out of me like a reflex, loaded with the kind of defensiveness that practically screamed guilty.

Miles held up his hands in surrender, but his expression said he wasn’t buying my bullshit for a second. “All I’m saying is to try her way. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst that could happen was that she was right, and I’d spent my entire career doing something wrong. The worst that could happen was admitting that I wasn’t as perfect as I pretended to be.

Or worse, that my father had been right all along.You’ll never be more than average,his voice sneered in my head, sharp and cold as blades cutting into ice.

“We’ve got twenty minutes until scrimmage.” I stood, grabbing my phone and a protein bar from my locker, desperate to escape this conversation before Miles could make any more sense.

“Think about it. For the team’s sake, if not your own.”

“I’ll think about it.” I paused at the door, looking back over my shoulder. “But I’m not making any promises.”

* * *

The last thing I wanted to do after dragging my aching muscles through a full day of training camp was play dress-up for some charity dinner my brother, Garrett, had roped me into. On a yacht, no less. Who the hell hosts a fundraiser for underprivileged kids on a floating palace? The irony was thick enough to skate on.

I had plenty of money, but my wallet still ached from the ten grand it had cost to be here. That was the minimum contribution for the St. James Foundation. Garrett had promised the connections would be worth it, but my brother had always been better at the schmoozing.

As I took a calculated sip of my one and only glass of champagne—since tomorrow afternoon was our first preseason game—I listened in as some hedge fund manager’s trophy wife discussed kids in need, dramatically dabbing at non-existent tears with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Right. Like she’d ever set foot in the community center this fundraiser was supporting once it was finished being built.

“Wilson! My favorite hockey player.” Carter’s enthusiasm hit me like a wall of pure charisma as he bounded over, camera hanging around his neck like some kind of fashion accessory rather than the professional equipment it clearly was.

I’d crossed paths with Carter a few times over the years. My brother, Garrett, was best friends with Luca, whose younger brother, Leo, was friends with Carter. By default, Carter had been hovering around the edges of my world for years.

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