Roger: You back tonight?
Shelby: Yep.
Roger: Let’s meet up for diner milkshakes later on in the week.
Shelby: So you can make faces when I dip my fries into my chocolate shake?
Roger: It’s our tradition. Text when you get back to the city.
After sending a goodbye text, she did not take one more sniff of the pillow that smelled like Ian—okay, an extra-deep inhale, but that didn’t count—and got in the shower. Then she headed out of her room for the rink and the afternoon face-off. It wasn’t until her alerts dinged on her cell phone that she checked the latest hockey news again. When she did, her belly dropped faster than an elevator with its ropes cut.
Daddy Petrov In Vancouver to Watch His Boys?
There wasn’t much of a story to go with the headline beyond a short clip of David Petrov standing outside the Vancouver arena signing autographs and giving the reporter a curt “no comment” when asked about his sons. Her gut sank anyway. David the Great was in Vancouver. This was not going to end well. Not even a little.
…
It was the first question a reporter asked Ian about in the post-game interviews. Not about Stuckey’s massive hit on Eggleton. Not about Christensen’s breakaway goal. Not about Blackburn’s call to arms in the locker room before they came out in the third period and came back from a three-to-one deficit to win in a shootout. No. The first thing everyone wanted to know about was what the great David Petrov had said about the game.
Ian exhaled a deep breath and the locks went down one by one. Click. Click. Click. “I haven’t talked to him.”
“Your dad rarely comes to games. Do you know why he is here tonight?” One of the reporters shoved an iPhone in Ian’s face. “Have you guys cleared the air? Seems like you and your brother have mended fences.”
“I’ll talk about the game.” Ian looked around at the locker room. Players were mostly dressed, packing up their stuff, and the vibe was good. Winning did that for a team. “Any questions there?”
“Oh, come on,” another reporter called out. “You gotta give us something.”
He could practically hear the metal whine as those mental locks were tested. The cool was his thing. He’d always done it. Cold. Unemotional. Robotic. But a man could only take that for so long. Eventually, the screws holding the locks in place would get stripped and break free. Then all hell was going to break lose.
That couldn’t happen, but the urge was there, dark and growing.
But before it could explode, Christensen appeared by his side out of nowhere, dressed but still dripping from the shower. He slung his arm around Ian’s shoulders as the cameras zoomed in on the first public showing of brotherly love.
“He gave you one helluva game,” Christensen said, his tone friendly and open. “If it hadn’t been for his perfect pass, I wouldn’t have been able to make it down the ice for that breakaway.”
One of the TV reporters asked, “Have you talked to your dad?”
Ian tensed, unease swirling in his gut like radioactive battery acid.
Christensen snorted. “Not since I took some very bad advice from him.” He jerked his chin over to where Lucy stood shooting electric dirty looks toward the scrum of reporters surrounding them. “Now, it looks like Lucy is calling you guys over. Trust me, she is not a woman you ever want to ignore.”
The reporters let out a collective groan and turned like a group of fourth graders headed to the principal’s office.
The farther they moved away, the more the muscles in his shoulder loosened. “Thanks, man,” he said to Christensen.
His brother grinned. “Let’s go get on the bus before we’re stuck with the shitty seats.”
They walked out of the locker room and down the hall leading to the parking garage. They made it a third of the way through before a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
“My boys together,” David Petrov said, looking at the two of them as if they’d welcome him with open arms. “This is quite the sight.”
“Why are you here?” Ian asked, not bothering to pretend to make it sound pleasant.
Dave gave them an easy grin. It was like seeing Christensen’s smile out of an older version of Ian’s own face. “Fucking creepy” didn’t even begin to cover it. Nor how he never noticed it before.
“I wanted to talk,” he said.
Of course.
Ian cut a glance at Christensen, who rolled his eyes. At least they were on the same play. This wasn’t about anything other than what David Petrov wanted at the moment. How fucking typical.
Christensen crossed his arms. “So say what you need to say.”
“How about if we go grab some food or something? I can get you to the airport instead of you having to take the team bus.” He took a few steps away, as if they were going to follow him. “I was always starving after a game.”
Neither Ian nor Christensen moved.
“I’m fine,” Ian said.
His brother nodded. “Me too.”
David’s steps stilled and he turned, the dear-old-dad easiness gone from his stance, and he pointed at the two of them. “Look, I know you’re upset, but we’re a team. You two have to move past what happened before.”
Ian and Christensen looked at each other.
Christensen raised an eyebrow: The fuck?
Ian tilted his head to the left: Fuck if I know.
Christensen rolled his eyes: What a dick.
Ian snorted: Agreed.
Conversation complete, Ian dead-eye stared at their dad. “How are we a team?”
“You’re my boys.”
As if that made a difference.
“So you donated DNA,” Christensen said. “What’s the point?”
The man everyone thought they knew, the beloved scoring machine disappeared completely. “I was there for you from the beginning,” he said, his top lip curling. “I provided for both of you. Neither of you
