Fuck. Way to get caught staring, Petrov.
He dropped his gaze and shoved the spoon into his mouth, the oatmeal burning the roof, of course. He just ground his teeth together and took it, the pain a useful reminder to keep his mouth shut and his eyes off her.
“You got something you want to say?” she asked, her tone a little too close to amusement for his taste.
“Nope.” He shoved in another hot bite, relishing the burn.
“Well, I do.”
Taking the risk, he glanced over her way again. She held the cheery red snowflake mug cupped between both hands, her gaze going past him to the snowy scene on the other side of the bay window. She looked completely out of place in the country winter wonderland kitchen with her ripped black jeans, oversize black sweater with its ragged edges on the sleeves, and detailed leaf tattoo climbing up her arm, visible beneath her pushed-up sleeves.
But that wasn’t what made his muscles tense all the way from his toes to his shoulders. It was that she had that little bit of a lost look in her eyes that he had to steel himself against. This wasn’t just a person in the kitchen—this was the woman who’d blasted his life apart.
“Haven’t you already said enough?” he asked. “I realize you’re just trying to build your reputation even more, maybe snag the opportunity to renegotiate your brand new contract for more money, but I’m not now nor am I ever going to open myself up in front of the world.”
She closed her eyes, her jaw flexing, and let out a huff of frustration.
“Counting to ten?” he asked. “Or twenty?”
“Neither.” She glared at him. “I’m reminding myself why I should bother to apologize to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He snorted. “You gonna butter me up and then pump me for how I’m feeling, so you can sell that bit of information off for fun and profit?”
Wouldn’t that just be the poisoned cherry on this shit sundae. Everyone wanted to know how he was feeling, how he was dealing with the news. Fucking angry and by getting drunk—hopefully soon—were the answers, but he sure as fuck wasn’t sharing that with the world.
“You’re a real jerk,” Shelby said, her voice quiet and a little bit trembly.
He shrugged. “What can I say, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For my dad’s wandering dick and my lying best friend? How sweet of you to share. Can we go back to absolute silence now?”
“No, I’m sorry that I was a giant chicken and took my mom’s call so I wouldn’t have to walk into that media room, that I didn’t better check to make sure no one else was in the bathroom because my mom is a very loud talker, that when Maddie overheard my mom, I didn’t have a Men in Black memory destroyer thing to zap her with, and, most of all, I’m sorry that this is how you found out.”
He froze. Mom. Overheard. Bathroom. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s how the news got out and I’m sorry, but I had no idea what my mom was about to say or that her friend was even telling the truth.”
“You didn’t tell the Post on purpose?”
“No. Who in the hell would do that?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at the ceiling and muttered something he didn’t catch. “Oh yeah, that would be me. Someone who doesn’t know you beyond your playing stats but who took a deep dive into your past to find the one secret you didn’t even know you had, just so I could expose it and make a name for myself.” She marched over to the doorway leading out onto the porch, her voice growing louder and tinnier with each step, and shoved her feet into snow boots—black, of course—and grabbed a dark puffer coat off the hook. “Of course, I’d probably end up getting fired from my brand-new job and become a hockey pariah in the process, but you know nothing is too high a price to pay to expose you. That sounds totally legit.” She shoved her arms into the coat, zipped it up, and snapped the bottom of the hood together until the only parts of her face visible were her eyes and pointy nose. “Not everyone in the world is here to screw you over, you big, mean jerk.”
And with that, she stormed out of the cabin. He watched as she slip-stomped down the snow-covered steps and swiped a shovel that was leaning against the railing, his mind trying to unravel what she’d just said.
How was it suddenly his fault Shelby was the loud mouth who’d leaked to the press just because it wasn’t on purpose? Who could blame him for being upset, what with the press being on his ass since he hit juniors? They loved to report about how he was good but not great like his dad—that he never would be. For years he’d fought against it. Then he’d sort of learned to accept it. The stories comparing him to his legend-on-the-ice of a father kept coming, though. Ian had come to his suspicion and loathing of the press and all media types, including places like The Biscuit and Shelby herself, honestly. These were people who lived to fuck other people over and knock them down. End of story.
This latest twist only served to prove his point. Fan comments that all the hockey talent in the family must have gone to the son who’d been picked in the first round, the one whose plus/minus average had been among the best in the league
