Page 8 of Puck, Marry, Kill

I arch a brow, certain I already know what it’s going to be. Something like,Do you have to get home to him right this minute, or do you have time for a quickie in the parking lot?

“Does he like hockey?”

A laugh bursts out at the unexpected question, and I feel a wide smile grow across my face. “He does actually. He plays Squirt this year.”

“Good times,” he replies, a wistful look taking over his face. “My Squirt team was the Otters. We were 15, 8, and 10, which were pretty good stats for our area. Didn’t matter then about championships, just the game. So if you ever want a little extra coaching time, hit me up. I’d be glad to do drills with Harley.”

Being able to pull stats out of his head like that doesn’t surprise me. Dad can do that, too, about dozens of players and decades of play. What does shock me is Dominic’s offer. He doesn’t know me and definitely doesn’t know Harley. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Why not? I don’t know anyone here, and the few people I have met seem like assholes. Other than you, obviously.”

Not giving up so easily, I pry, “What’s in it for you?”

He cocks his head, his dark eyes peering at me from beneath furrowed brows. “Damn, he fucked you up good, didn’t he?”

Does he mean Tyler or my dad? Either way, the answer is an unequivocal yes. I lift my chin haughtily, unimpressed with his too-astute assessment, and silently refuse to answer.

“I love hockey,” he finally explains. “Love kids. Love kids who play hockey. Loved the camp we did back home. That’s it, no ulterior motive.”

So he says, but something else caught my attention. “Isn’t this home?”

He huffs a dry laugh, no humor to be found in the sound. “Fuck no. I’m going to sleep in a place that I rented for three months to give me time to figure shit out. I’m on a contract year, and my roots are somewhere else. Hell, my stuff is still packed, the suitcase just sitting on top of the dresser. Not exactly what I’d call home.”

He glances over his shoulder at the Blizzard, who are celebrating as per usual, which is to say, loudly, obnoxiously, and full of entitlement, like O’Neal’s is their bar. Dominic’s loneliness is palpable, surrounding him like a heavy cloak.

I do something even I don’t expect. “Maybe we could do a trial run and see how it goes? Harley would be over the moon,” I admit. “Want my number so we can arrange it?”

“No.”

I deflate instantly. He offered to help and I thought he actually meant it. I should’ve known better. Idoknow better. All those red flags I waved must’ve done their job and warned Dominic off, but instead of feeling victorious, I feel disappointed. There was a tiny sliver of me that hoped he might be different.

Stupid. All men are the same.

“Take mine instead,” he says, sensing my mood shift. Holding his phone out with his number displayed, I type it into my phone, making his contact nameHockey Coachwith a stick and puck emoji.

While I type, he tells me, “Think it over, check your gut when there’s no rum in it. Be sure that you trust me to be a nice guy, not justnice in comparison to those assholes over there, especially when there’s twangy music setting the tone for this to be some sort of meet-cute. If you want me to help your son then, call or text me. No pressure, though. I get it.”

A loud chorus of “whoaaaaa” sounds out behind us, something obviously happening that’s excited the team. Dominic closes his eyes as his chest expands with a deep breath. I wonder if he knows that there’s an obvious look of distaste and disapproval on his face, like the team is working his last nerve and he’s annoyed at their very existence.

Suddenly, he stands. “I’m gonna go.”

Shocked at the declaration, I stammer, “Aren’t you supposed to stay for the whole thing?” The team will be here for another couple of hours at least, drinking and eating and talking. And taking over the bar.

“My mission left twenty minutes ago, sober and alone. I’m calling that a job well done for the night.” He makes a checkmark in the air, marking it for his mental to-do list.

“Mission?” I echo in confusion.

“Yeah, Mission: Don’t Let Kipson Fuck Himself Up Too Badly,” he says wryly. “It’s why I was traded here in the first place. Your dad, or the owners, clearly expect me to fix their star player’s shit.” He pats his chest, right over his heart.

About a hundred puzzle pieces click into place, namely why Dominic is so grumpy about being here. Nobody would appreciate being called in to babysit another grown adult. But it sounds like Mike might need it. I know enough about him to understand why too. “He’s not handling his divorce well.”

“So I hear.”

“It’s hard—divorce, I mean,” I reply softly. “Even when it’s the right thing to do.”

“Speaking from experience?”

I hold my chin high, unashamed. “Absolutely. I knew I had to leave Tyler for a while before I managed to actually do it. Some of that was me needing to save money and make an escape plan, but also, I had to steelmy spine and build some walls around my heart. That took longer than it should’ve. Even so, it was painful for a while after. Kipson is hurting.”