It all made perfect sense, but he still didn’t want to believe it. There was no other explanation, though—after all, she’d been the loud mouth who leaked the story about his parentage in the first place.
“That is so much bullshit,” Shelby said, her voice shaking with anger.
All of that show was probably a mix of guilt and shame at getting caught. He had no time for it.
“You’d have the one story no one else could get and all you had to do to get it was worm your way into my life.” He white-knuckled his grip on his bag at the realization that hit. “Tell me, the cabin. Was it really an accident? Did you give the house marker a little extra kick to have it read six instead of nine? You were there before me. You easily could have done it for the hockey story of the year.”
She jerked back as if he’d slapped her. Then she straightened, her chin lifting as she looked at him as if he was the one who’d betrayed her.
“Are you ever not the victim in a situation?”
That was fucking laughable. As if he was just feeling sorry for himself. “Excuse me?”
She marched over to him, her steps eating up the distance at a sharp, quick clip. “I understand your life hasn’t been easy, but when are you going to stop assuming that the only reason anyone wants you or thinks about you is because you’re David Petrov’s kid?”
“That is the only reason people are interested.” He’d accepted it years ago. It was what it was. There was no point in fighting it.
“You are so full of shit.” Her hands were on her hips and her face was flush with emotion. “Hundreds of thousands of kids hit the ice thinking that maybe they can make it to the NHL one day. Only a few hundred actually wear the professional jersey each season. Do you really think you got your spot because of your last name?”
“It got me a look.” Coaches had told him exactly that straight to his face.
Shelby let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. You had an advantage for sure, but it’s not the only reason you’re here. There are a lot of hockey players’ kids out there who never made it to this level.”
“They weren’t David Petrov’s kid.” His dad was a legend. A hockey god. The kind who kids everywhere pretended to be.
“For someone who is so fucking concerned that everyone only sees him as his father’s kid, it sure looks to me like the only one who does is you.” She crossed her arms, challenging him with her straight-on glare. “It’s time for you to grow up and decide. Are you David Petrov’s kid or are you Ian Petrov, your own man?”
The punch landed harder than a check against the glass, laying him out right there for the world to see.
“I’m gone, that’s who I am.”
And he walked out the door, got into his car, and kept driving until Harbor City wasn’t even a glimmer in his rearview mirror.
Chapter Eighteen
Ian hadn’t meant to end up back at the cabin, but here he was. He didn’t have any bags. He’d driven up the snow-free mountain roads, the wildflowers starting to peek through the spring grass, and had pulled into the driveway just as the Morgans were adding an Airbnb rental sign to the brand-new address plaque.
He parked and walked over to Mrs. Morgan, who was supervising Mr. Morgan as he used the post hole digger. “Can I rent it today?”
Mrs. Morgan smiled in recognition. “You betcha, especially since you’re a big reason why we decided to list it.”
Ten minutes later—after he’d helped Mr. Morgan finish putting up the sign—he was touring the cabin with Mrs. Morgan as if he hadn’t been there before. He’d sat at that table eating his oatmeal when Shelby had told him about how the news that Alex was his brother had slipped out. He’d walked up those stairs to the bedroom the first night and had found Shelby armed with a Taser and ready to take on a burglar. That rug was the one she’d lay back on, gorgeous and naked.
What in the hell was he doing here?
Mrs. Morgan looked up at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to smile. Judging by the way she scrunched up her face and took a half step back, he didn’t quite make it happen. “Thanks for letting me rent the place.”
“And your friend?” Mrs. Morgan asked. “She’s not coming?”
He shook his head. Just the idea of her being in Harbor City while he was here should be a relief. It wasn’t. Instead, it hurt like a motherfucker.
“That’s too bad. I liked her.” Mrs. Morgan made a tsk-tsk sound. “Well, the electricity is back up and the cell people brought a new tower online, so service is a lot better. Oh, and we found that bottle of scotch of yours in the bedroom. I meant to send it to you but just kept forgetting. Looks like that worked out, though.” She started walking toward the door, still talking a mile a minute. “Our granddaughter is acting as the maid for the foreseeable future after what she pulled with using this as a party house, so if you need any messes cleaned up, you let me know.”
“I’ll be fine on my own.”
The words came out harsher than he meant, and Mrs. Morgan jerked to a stop, giving him an assessing look. “I’m sure you will be, but there’s no harm in changing your mind.”
He nodded as if those were some deep,
