Page 47 of Sweet Thing

Natalie had said something while I tried to wrangle my thoughts. Problem was that lately whenever Adeline was in my orbit, those thoughts became mushy. Scattered. Incomprehensible.

“Say ’gain.”

“Let’s start with the family wants privacy at this time.”

“Sounds like a winner.”

Natalie had the bit between the teeth. “And maybe we could send a photographer, do a photo shoot with the baby?—”

“I don’t want to use the kid like that.”

“Think about it.”

“Sure,” I said to end the conversation.

I looked up and met Adeline’s gaze.

“You okay?”

After what had happened yesterday, she was asking ifIwas okay?

“Fine,” I clipped back.

“What was all that about your father?”

“Apparently there’s concern in Rebels circles that this recent drama is a little too reminiscent of good ole Sven’s rabble-rousing back in the day. The guy’s dead but his hellraiser spirit lives on in me, that kind of thing.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Not going to deny it, her outrage gave me a little thrill. “You’re nothing like him.”

“You don’t know that. To be honest, given his reckless tendencies, I’m surprised I don’t have more half-siblings beating down my door.”

Her lips tightened. “What about your mom?”

“She died when I was a kid. Dad wasn’t too happy to have to take over, so he decided the way to make it worth his while was to mold me into the best darn hockey player he could. And yeah, he was kind of a dick about it. Took a while for me to measure up to his standard for greatness.”

I had obviously surprised her with my backstory vomit. Sometimes I surprised myself.

“I don’t know much about him except for …” She trailed off.

“The fact he was banned from the league for illegal betting?”

The first person since the fifties. Of all the professional leagues, hockey was the most easygoing when it came to gambling. They only asked that players and franchise staff not wager on pro hockey games. NCAA? Place your bets. Fantasy football? Have at it. Other sports were complete hard asses about it: no wagering on anything ever. All my dad had to do was obey that one simple rule and bet on any other fucking thing.

The guy had always been a self-saboteur of the highest order. He chose his own sport. Worse, his own games. Decades had passed without an acknowledged infraction by a player until Sven Nyquist called the police because a bookie wouldn’t pay out on a win. The guy was as dumb as they come.

That was the first time. A ten-game ban was his punishment. Six years later, he got caught again, only that time he almost dragged me down with him.

I rubbed my beard, resolved to be more conciliatory. None of this was Adeline’s problem. I needed her, which meant sharing less and keeping what we had on a professional footing.

“Well, the poor kid seems to be doing okay despite being landed with me as a dad.”

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Making a self-deprecating comment about your fitness to be a father. Not even self-deprecating. More like … self-loathing.”

My hackles rose. “We didn’t all grow up in theLittle House on the Prairie.”

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