Page 125 of Daring the Hockey Player
“I was shy when I was her age, too,” Clare says, her eyes entirely on Amelia. It’s as though I don’t exist. “What’s your friend’s name?” she asks, pointing at the unicorn.
Clare shuffles into her new row in front of us on the airplane. She doesn’t sit. She hovers, leaning on the headrest, trying to engage with Amelia.
Amelia doesn’t respond, but I do. And it’s more of a bite.
“That’s enough questions for today,” I say, my temper short. I gesture for her to turn around in her seat.
“You don’t have to be rude,” Clare says, and spins around, sitting in her seat.
Amelia’s nose scrunches, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She brings the unicorn to her face, and her mouth moves ever so quietly, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. It’s like a secret between her and her fluffy friend.
I don’t apologize to the girl seated in the row in front of us. Maybe I should since she is doing me a favor, switching seats.
“Have you ever been on an airplane?” I ask Amelia.
She doesn’t answer me. Her mother didn’t always live in Chicago. I met her in New York. We were a short romance that burned bright and hot early on.
At take-off, Amelia grips the chair handle. I rest my hand over hers. “It’s okay. Just a little bumpy. It’s supposed to be like this,” I assure her.
There’s no sign of her nodding or saying anything to indicate that she understands me. Her mother, Katelyn, didn’t speak any other languages, as far as I’m aware.
After we’ve reached cruising altitude, the stewardess asks us for our drink orders. I refrain from having any alcohol. I’d love a stiff drink right now, but it’s not going to help me forget why I was in Chicago.
I retrieve a few children’s menus and crayons from the backpack. One side has drawings to color along with the menu, and the opposite side is blank. Thankfully, the restaurant gave us extra for the flight. Pulling down the tray table in front of Amelia, I put the items down, letting her color.
She stares at them and then glances back at me.
“Go ahead. You can color,” I say.
I don’t know much about kids, let alone raising one. My younger brother, Connor, is a dipshit, and thank god he hasn’t procreated.
I’ve tried to look out for him. Hell, I gave him a job in management at the New York hotel. But he has a knack for either firing decent employees or making them want to quit. But I’m not going to just hand him a paycheck and not make him get his ass into work five days a week. Where else can I put him?
I may have inherited the company, but I also turned this place around. It was barely profitable when I took over after our father’s death. I had no choice but to shake things up and make it better, because otherwise, who would take care of Mom?
Dad left me the business, which meant taking care of my mother and handling my younger brother. I’m not a complete dick. I didn’t put either of them out on the street, though it was tempting with Connor.
The seatbelt fasten light is turned off, and the girl in the row in front of us turns around, watching Amelia.
“What are you drawing?” Clare asks.
Amelia scrunches her nose. The paper is completely blank.
“How about you draw a picture of your balding dad?” Clare grins.
“I’m not balding,” I snarl. Why can’t she turn around and mind her own business?
“Right,” Clare says, and snaps. “What’s that called again with the hair that’s spikey?” She gestures above her own head like her hair is sticking up two feet high.
Amelia chuckles and points at my head. “Troll hair,” Amelia says with a giggle.
I suppose it’s better than being called balding at my age. “Do you think I’ve got troll hair?” I force a smile, grateful to have heard little Amelia’s voice.
Amelia shrugs, the smile vanishing, and my heart aches.
I want to hear her laugh and be carefree. She’s five. She should be over the moon with curiosity and talkative. This quiet side is frustrating to deal with.
Clare stares at us, and before I have time to comprehend what she’s doing, her fingers are running through my hair. She’s making my hair spiky and stand on end.
