Page 39 of Forbidden Hockey
“You’re giving me a curfew?” I can’t hide the audacity.
“Not a curfew. Need you back here for close.”
I glare—potato, patawtoe. “Why?”
He shrugs, which means he doesn’t have a reason. Not a good one anyway. “You’re the one who wants to be my husband, this is what it would be like for you.”
“I see. You think this’ll get rid of me, do you?”
“Worth a shot.”
“I’ll see you at ten, asshole.”
“Can’t wait, pretty boy.”
Thefuck did he just call me? I’m choosing to ignore that. And for maybe the first time in history, I’m cool as a fucking cucumber, heading out to a family dinner.
Hunter made all of my favorites—chicken parmesan, cranberry-walnut summer salad, and butternut squash ravioli from scratch. I brought along an expensive bottle of wine I stole from the restaurant. My fucking fake asshole husband can pay for it. I smile at the thought of how pissed he’ll be when he finds the three-hundred-dollar bottle is gone forever.
What’s mine is yours, baby.
Fuck him and his schedule-changing bullshit.
My brother wore his good jeans and his nicer plaid shirt, but we’re sitting in the middle of a construction zone. He bought this place last year, and he’s remodeling it himself. It was supposed to be for him and his last partner, but the guy got tired of my brother’s obsessive work schedule. The work he’s doing is fucking amazing. He’s building a mantled archway out of mahogany over the entryway to the dining room.
That he paused his project to have me over speaks volumes about his love for me.
“So, your sixth season’s coming up, eh?” he says around a sip of wine. It’s so Hunter to already be onto the next thing when we haven’t even celebrated last season. We won a damn Calder Cup. That’s fucking huge! I don’t bother getting into it.
“Yeah.”
“You still love it?”
“Yep, still love hockey,” I clarify.
“And you don’t have any interest in school? At all?”
“Hunter,” I complain.
He sighs. “Yeah, I know, but I have to try. I’m your only parent.”
Technically, he’s not, but Mom doesn’t give two fucks about us. He’s the only one who gives a shit, is what he means. But the problem is, I can read the disappointment in his tone without him saying what he’s holding on his tongue.
“I’m a single guy who works as much as his workaholic older brother. I’ll be okay, Hunter.” Living with the guys has been good for my pocketbook. I contribute to the finances of the house, and we all get a cut, which has led to me saving quite a bit over the years. We make decent money at the restaurant as well. I’m certainly not gonna have the kind of money Case and Stace’ll have when they move on to the NHL next season, but I’ve got everything I need.
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
“What?”
“Aren’t your friends gonna move on at some point? They’re gonna wanna move out, and then what? You won’t be able to afford to live in the city on your own.”
My gut sinks. Wasn’t thinking about that, but now I fucking am. I know he’s just being his worry-wart self, doing the job of making me plan for the future—as a good guardian should—but I so don’t want to think about all that shit tonight. The money I have saved won’t buy me a house in Vancouver. I guess a small bachelor condo is a possibility, but I’m still a few years off in savings. I might have to move back in with Hunter, which would be a nightmare. He’d be on my ass day and night.
“My friends won’t leave me high and dry, Hunt.”
And even if they do, my fucking husband’ll house me. I’ll make him.I almost laugh. Us being husbands is yet another inside joke—that’s not really a joke—I have with Trav. Too bad he’s not here to enjoy it.
“I’m a real grown-up. I promise. I’ve got everything under control.” Well, not everything. The Trav and me thing is kinda turning disastrous, but no way am I breathing a word about this to Hunter until we figure our shit out. Hell, I might not even tell him then.
