“You don’t want your Barney pil ow?”
He loved his Barney pil ow.
“Nope.”
Autumn gasped and grabbed the T-shirt above her heart. This was Sam’s doing. She couldn’t prove it without quizzing Conner, but she was sure Sam was responsible for Conner’s sudden Barney defection.
Vince rose and turned to face her. “The kid’s got a point,” he said, total y going to the dark side with Conner. “Barney sucks hairy dinosaur bal s.”
“Language!”
Conner laughed, but Autumn was not amused.
Sam moved away from the rail and sat in a padded patio chair. He reached for the Beck’s sitting on the table next to him. He’d always assuaged his guilt by tel ing himself that when Conner was older, he’d make it up to him. He’d spend more time with him. Doing father-and-son stuff. Not that he knew anything about father-and-son
He raised the beer to his lips and tipped his head back. He was an even worse dad than his own. He would never have thought that was even possible, but he’d outshittied Samuel LeClaire Sr. in the father department. Because he knew better. He knew he never wanted to be the guy who treated strangers better than his own family. He never wanted to be the guy whom everyone else in town thought was great. One hel of a guy. A hero, but a hero who had nothing left for his family by the time he got home and took off his uniform.
Sam knew al too wel how that felt. Sam was thirty-five. His old man had been dead for twenty years, but he could stil remember waiting for his dad to come home and fal ing asleep before he arrived. He remembered throwing himself into hockey. Excel ing. Standing out. Being a star, thinking that maybe, just maybe if he was good enough, his dad would come and see him play.
He ran his thumb up the cool bottle, col ecting dewy droplets that slid to the crease and dripped over his knuckle. It was true that his work schedule was tough. During the season, he spent half his time on the road, but it was equal y true that he’d left the responsibility of raising his son to Autumn. Breezing into town, spending some quality time with Conner before breezing back out. Autumn was more responsible than he was. So much so that it was sometimes hard to square her with the girl he’d met in Vegas.
A cool damp breeze brushed his face and the side of his hot neck. He’d always told himself that quality was more important than quantity. Wasn’t that true? He was pretty sure he’d heard some child psychologist say that on a news program once, and this past summer, he’d had more obligations than usual. Because of the Cup win, he’d been expected at more fan and press events.
He raised the beer to his mouth and took a long drink. The weekends in Vegas and the blowout parties with his buddies hadn’t been obligations. And yeah, a few times he’d canceled on Conner to party with his friends. And maybe it was more than a few times, but he’d never thought Conner was affected by his absence. Never dreamed his son cried himself to sleep.
He lowered the bottle and balanced it on the arm of the chair. Out of al the men on the planet, he should have known better. Out of al the men on the planet, he did know better. He also knew that sometimes shit happened, and, when it did, it was too late. He remembered the night two Mounties knocked on the front door and told his mother that her husband had been kil ed during a raid on a farm in Moose Jaw. Constable LeClaire had been the first through the door and the first out of four others to die. He remembered looking at his dad’s casket, one in the line of three others. He remembered seeing him in the red uniform he loved and had chosen over his family. He remembered hearing the cries of al the other kids who’d lost their fathers. He remembered holding his sister, El a’s hand while she cried and listening to his mother’s quiet sobs. He remembered feeling ashamed. Ashamed because he felt very little for the man everyone else loved and thought was a hero. He’d been fourteen when he’d had to step into his father’s shoes. Just a month shy of his fifteenth birthday when he’d assumed the responsibility of man of the house. When it came to his ten-year-old sister, he’d taken the job seriously. He’d always looked out for her, and she’d fol owed him like a shadow. A shadow with a bouncy blond ponytail. In El a’s big blue eyes, he’d replaced their father. He was a damn hero. Sam grabbed the neck of the bottle and turned it slowly on the wooden arm of the chair. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s hero. God knew what a piss-poor job he’d done for El a, but he did want his kid to sleep at night knowing his daddy loved him. Which brought his thoughts around to Conner’s mama. So, maybe he should have cal ed Autumn and told her they were going to be late. Honestly, he hadn’t given it a thought, and it hadn’t occurred to him until he’d seen how many times she’d cal ed his cel . By then he figured the damage was done. He hadn’t needed to see her flying down those steps toward him to know he was in trouble. Hel , he’d known it before he’d turned onto her street. What he hadn’t counted on was her looking so wild and hot. Al that red-and-gold hair flying about her head and her green eyes on fire. If she hadn’t opened her mouth and started bitching, he might have found himself in the uncomfortable situation of remembering the last time she’d looked like that. Al crazy and wanting to do damage. Only that time she hadn’t been angry. She’d torn at his clothes until he was naked, and her mouth was al over him, doing her worst, leaving him gasping, spent, and wanting more.
The first time he’d seen her, she’d been dancing by herself, one hand over her head, the other on her stomach, and moving her hips slow and seductive. He’d been on his feet walking toward her before he’d had a coherent thought in his head. He’d moved up behind her and put his hands on her waist. The second he’d touched her, he’d felt something. A spark of some little something hit him in the bel y. She’d thrown a sharp little elbow into his stomach, right about where he’d felt that little spark of something, then she turned to face him. Her eyes had rounded with fear, and she looked like she was thinking about running. He hadn’t blamed her, but he hadn’t been about to let that happen either. Autumn hadn’t fal en into bed with him that first night, but once he got her there, they hadn’t left. Seeing her fly at him today, brought back memories of her naked against him. Of her white skin and firm white breasts in his hands and mouth. Autumn might not have his perfect body type, but her body was perfect. And for those few days in Vegas, when nothing had been real, she’d seemed perfect, too. Sam raised the bottle and took a long drink. Then he’d woken up, hungover and wrung out and wondering what the fuck he’d done. He’d married a girl he had just met and didn’t know. Hel , he hadn’t even known where she lived.
The month before that disaster in Vegas, he’d signed a five-mil ion-dol ar, three-year, contract with the Chinooks. With one reckless act, he’d put it at al risk. With one reckless act, he’d changed his life forever. Autumn’s, too.
He had never been sure what had pissed Autumn off more—him leaving her alone in Caesars without so much as a good-bye, the way he’d handled the divorce, or his insistence on a paternity test. Out of those three things, the only one he would change if he could was the way he’d left. He’d man up and say good-bye. It would have been the hard thing, but it would have been the right thing to do. Sam placed the heels of his palms on the arms of the chair and rose. He wasn’t as bad a dad as Autumn portrayed him, but he wasn’t as good as he needed to be either. Al that had to change. He had to do the right thing. He had to go as hard at seeing his son as he did at playing hockey. He looked at his watch and took one last pul from his beer. Some of the guys were getting together at Daniel’s for poker night. Sam was down three thousand and would love the opportunity to win it back.
Getting more serious about his personal life didn’t mean he had to give up everything else. Didn’t mean he had
