“How convenient.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Christensen all but roared as he rushed forward and blocked Petrov from leaving. “None of this has been convenient. While you were growing up with your rich-family reality, I was watching my mom work two jobs to pay for rent. You were the silver-spoon kid. You got vacations and family dinners and the old man showing you the hockey ropes. I didn’t even get a last name.”
It was too much to process; his circuits were overloaded. He was going to puke or explode or break down in fucking tears like he had when he was ten and his dad told him that hockey wasn’t for everyone and probably wasn’t for him. Petrov had to get out of here. Now.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“No.” Christensen didn’t budge. “We need to talk.”
“I said move.” He shoved Christensen. Hard.
The other man went stumbling away. By the time Christensen stopped his backward momentum, Ian was already charging forward and ready to take the other man out. His dad had betrayed his family. His best friend had betrayed him by knowing the truth and never telling. Someone had to pay, and Christensen was right in front of him, grinning like a loon and as ready for a fight as he was.
“Petrov. Christensen,” Coach yelled from the door, stopping them both in their tracks with just the timbre of his voice. “Cut this shit immediately. My office. Now.”
Without waiting for a response, the coach spun around and stalked out of the locker room.
Glaring at each other the entire way, Ian and Christensen followed him back to his office. Lucy was already there, pacing the small cramped room and tearing whoever was on the other end of the phone a new asshole.
“You said forty-eight hours, Maddie. Unless I fell into a time warp, it’s been twelve.” She paused, listening. “We’re talking basic human decency in letting me warn Petrov and Christensen this was coming. You said we’d have the opportunity to respond.” She waited again, grinding her teeth. “Oh yeah? Fuck you and the Post. You’re gonna regret this, Maddie Peters. Just you fucking wait.”
She hung up and looked like she was ready to fling her phone across the room. Then Ian’s gaze locked with hers and she let out a deep breath before shoving her phone into her purse. “Ian, Alex, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe they ran with it so fast after overhearing it. And to cite The Biscuit as a source? Such bullshit. I thought we had time. I was told we had time to prep you both for this coming out. I’ll figure out how to set this right.”
Right? Was that even fucking possible? No, it sure as hell wasn’t. They were so far beyond setting things right that it was’t even a flicker in his old man’s eyes.
Coach stood behind his desk, glaring at Christensen and Petrov. “And while she’s doing that, I need to know from both of you that what I witnessed in the locker room isn’t going to happen again.” He yanked his chair out and sat down in it, the lack of height not doing one little thing to make him less of an imposing presence. “I can sympathize about this being a shit show, but we can’t afford to have you act like it. You are professionals, and I expect you to act accordingly. Your team expects you to act accordingly, especially with the playoffs about to start.” He eyeballed them both. “Can you do that?”
There wasn’t a choice. He had to. His entire life he’d been in his dad’s shadow, the journeyman player who went late in the draft—and rumor was he only made it then because of his last name—who’d finally come into his own. This run for the cup was his chance to prove once and for all that he deserved to be here. He refused to let his dad fuck this up for him. He’d worked too hard for that shit.
“Yeah, I can do that,” he said, ignoring the man standing next to him.
Christensen nodded but kept his mouth closed.
“Good,” Coach said, picking up his mug of sugar and milk with a hint of coffee. “So figure out how to make this work because it has to. Team dinner tonight. Don’t be fucking late, either of you. And don’t fuck anything up.”
Yeah, it was a little too late for that. Everything was FUBARed into next week, and he had to win a championship despite all of it. They’d find a way to do just that, no matter what it took.
Chapter Three
Present Day…
Ian’s injured thumb, with its short line of stitches from the surgery to repair the ligaments, hurt like hell, which suited his mood just fine as he glared at the massive piles of snow outside the big bay window on the south side of the kitchen. The drifts were frickin’ huge. He strolled closer to the glass, warm bowl of strawberries-and-cream oatmeal in his good hand, and sat down so he could do the awkward-eating-with-his-nondominant-right-hand thing.
“You need some help?”
“I can eat breakfast by myself.” Of course he bobbled his spoon just enough for a glob of oatmeal to drop back into his bowl.
She nodded at the coffeepot, filled to the brim with sweet beautiful black gold, and lifted a sharp jet-black eyebrow. He shrugged a shoulder. Whatever. As long as she left him the hell alone, then he’d be golden.
Still, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she poured half a cup of coffee, then filled the mug the rest of the way up with lukewarm water from the tap. She was hard to peg. Skinny without any hint of hips or tits or an ass, she was what his grandma would have called “a slip of a girl.” But that face… He
