Page 12 of Mistlefoe
My face probably glows like a red Christmas light as I walk back into the reception, and Gramps pauses whatever he was saying to motion at me.
“There he is, ladies, my former pro hockey player grandson—runner up to the Calder Memorial Trophy on his rookie season. Lost it to his best friend from college, funny enough.”
“Gramps,” I hiss as if that would get him to stop.
“I knew it.” One of the women snaps her fingers. “I recognized him from somewhere. Thought he might’ve been someone I dated in college.”
“You have good taste.” Gramps smirks. “And he’s single, too.”
“‘Kay, that’s the cue for me to wait in the car.” I swivel around and head back out. I must be the epitome of pathetic if I need my grandfather to find me dates.
I unlock the door and climb on the passenger’s seat of the Dodge Ram, purchased with my very first pro hockey paycheckas a gift for Gramps. I happen to be the one with the best vision in the family, so I’m the only one who drives it now. I turn it on and ramp up the heating because I have no desire to make myself even more uncomfortable than I already am.
A few minutes later, Gramps joins me by climbing onto the passenger’s seat with a hefty grunt. “That was rude, kid. There I was talking you up and you ran like a coward. Now I’ll never be able to show my face in this place again.”
I groan. “Gramps, you’re killing me.”
“What is it? Are you planning to never date again after what happened with Nikki?”
Hearing the name of my ex wasn’t in my bingo card for today.
“Let’s go, I’m late for work.” I put on my seatbelt, which prompts him to do the same.
Unfortunately, that distraction isn’t enough to make him change the conversation. “They were both nice, single,employedyoung women. Besides, they’re both hockey fans, to the point that they recognized you.”
“They probably saw the accident video on replay a million times, just like everyone else,” I mutter. That was one of the worst things about the whole shitshow. Every time I tuned into a sports channel, the clip was there. And every time I watched it, I could feel the blow that ended my career all over again.
“Although one of them said she likes you better when you’re shaved,” he parrots, ignoring me altogether. “And honestly, you deserve someone who likes you for your facial hair as well.”
I blow a raspberry. “Can we please drop this topic?”
“But it’s fun.”
“Not for me.” I prop my elbow on the door handle. “Gramps, whenever I’m ready to date, it’ll be someone I choose. Not you.”
“I have better taste, though. I did warn you there was something off about that ex of yours.”
I squeeze the steering wheel a bit tighter. This is the biggest reason why I haven’t dated anyone seriously since that whole mess. Nikki was a walking red flag from the beginning. A super hot blonde bombshell singling me out from a professional team with at least a handful other single guys—even though this ismewe’re talking about—should’ve given me pause from the beginning.
The more goals I scored the more she acted like the most doting G of the WAGs, but if I played badly she pulled away. It was no wonder she broke up with my ass the second I retired. It wasn’t me she was after. It was for the fame or status, I don’t know.
And yeah, she also didn’t have a job like Gramps reminded me a second ago. Maybe she was just looking for a ticket to a leisurely luxe life, and once it was clear I wouldn’t be able to provide that anymore, she bailed.
“Gramps, sorry to cut this riveting conversation short, but I actually have to do some brainstorming for work while we drive. Let’s talk about women later, preferably while I’m unconscious.”
He snorts but drops it. For now.
CHAPTER 6
SIERRA
One of the many reasons why I don’t vibe with Conor Mahoney is that his desk is right across from mine. No one can understand how annoying it is to constantly have to see the face of your nemesis, especially when said nemesis is one of the most attractive guys you’ve ever seen in person.
Right now, he’s giving one more pass to our presentation for Richard, due in like twenty minutes. The glare of the monitor light reflects off his glasses, so I can’t see his eyes. But he’s spent like five minutes tapping the clicker of his pen against his bottom lip without saying anything. Either he’s engrossed or bored and I need him to be neither so he can stop drawing my attention to his lips.
They’re surprisingly full. The upper one’s slightly thinner with a shapely bow, which is infuriating because my own lips aren’t that pretty.
Ya va, I tell myself. Where in the heck did that come from? Since when do I wax poetic about Conor freaking Mahoney’s lips?
