He was three drinks in, still sitting in silence staring at the empty grate, when his cell rang. Like an asshole, he answered without checking the caller ID first.
“Where in the hell are you?”
“Hello to you, too, Dad.”
The other man grumbled something under his breath. “Where are you?”
“In Buffly County.” It was a big place and he had no intention of giving his dad any more specifics than that.
“What in the hell are you doing way up there? Are you with that woman?” He let out a long sigh. “Ian, you can find a woman anywhere. There is no reason to deal with one who doesn’t have your best options in mind.”
He set his half-empty glass of scotch down on the coffee table, unease taking away that soft fuzziness the alcohol had given him. “What are you talking about?”
“She wouldn’t let me in to that stupid event with the dumb kids. She wouldn’t guarantee a dinner. She just wants to interfere, to come between us. You’re better off without her.”
For as much as he wanted to believe his dad was lying, he knew deep in his gut that he was actually telling the truth—not about being better off without her but about her actions at the rink. She’d tried to tell him. He hadn’t listened. His brain had automatically gone to that place it had always gone. Years of his dad comparing Ian to him had left a mark so deep, he hadn’t even realized just how bad it was.
You’ll never skate like I did.
That kid only wants to hang out with you because of me.
That coach was doing me a favor when he called to see if you were interested in playing.
You’ll never be the player I was.
All of it had never been about Ian. It had only been about his dad and his ego. Without realizing, Ian had fallen into that habit, looking at every part of his life only in comparison to his dad’s.
The mental locks he’d built up over decades of having to deal with his dad were hanging useless and busted. He braced himself for that explosion of rage. It didn’t come. Oh, there was anger and annoyance and the kind of fuck-me-are-you-serious irritation that had him clamping his jaw shut tight enough to give him a headache, but no lights-out rage. Whatever was coming for his dad, none of it mattered anymore.
Oblivious to Ian’s silence, David kept talking, “No son of mine will…”
The rest of his words faded out, replaced by Shelby’s question. Who was Ian? He sure as hell wasn’t this man’s son. He didn’t have to live up to David Petrov’s scoring records or on-ice skills. He never had. He was Ian fucking Petrov and he had better shit to do than to listen to an egomaniac rant about how he was done wrong.
Nothing he could do or say would change his dad. The only thing he could do was kick him out of his life for good.
So he hung up without saying a word because it wouldn’t have made any difference, deleted the old man’s contact information, and blocked him.
That took care of one problem in his life but left a bigger one. How in the hell was he going to fix this with Shelby?
He had no fucking clue.
…
Shelby’s whole life was about to change. This morning she’d woken up, called Bill, and told him that if the offer was still open, she’d love to come to New Orleans.
Love.
If she’d been an idiot to fall in love with a man who not only didn’t feel the same but actually thought she was some kind of media double agent, then maybe she could transfer all of that to her work. Hockey had saved her before; it could save her again. It had to.
Now she had to give the hardest goodbye.
Dressed all in black, Shelby fit right in with the crowd at The Black Hearts art gallery for Roger’s latest show—well, except for the deep-pockets part. These people weren’t just suburban rich, they were straight-up own-a-good-chunk-of-the-city rich, like the Beckett cousins who were trying to outbid each other on Roger’s models, no doubt just to say they’d won if the tabloid stories about them were right.
Tonight was the first time she’d been out of her house except for work since the fight with Ian. It wasn’t like she was sitting at home with a pint of ice cream and sad songs cued up on Spotify. Okay, the melodramatic-ballad part was totally true. She was spending her time checking out restaurants in New Orleans. Bill hadn’t been lying. There were a ton of places she’d love to try out. In some ways that made her decision easier—at least that’s what she was telling herself.
She was standing in front of a gorgeous painting of a nude model in the back of the gallery when Roger found her. He handed her a glass of ginger ale with a slice of lime in it.
“How’s your motor running?” he asked.
She pursed her mouth to keep her emotions at bay. Damn. She was going to miss these little chats. “Not well.”
He took her arm and led her to a quiet corner near a Hudson painting and used his most Leave It to Beaver voice. “Tell Roger everything.”
It was just what she needed to make her chuckle. “You know it’s weird when you talk about yourself in the third person.”
“These rich people eat it up.” He looked over at the people walking around the gallery checking out his models. “They think it makes me sound more artistic and they pay higher prices for it.”
“I’m going to miss you so badly.” Understatement of the century.
He tilted his head to the side.
