Page 126 of Over the Line

My dad gave him the same look he’d often given me as a kid. The flat, narrow-eyed look that asked if that really was my final answer and, if it was, was I ready for the inevitable grounding. It apparently didn’t work on Jack, though, because his smarmy bullshit face stayed firmly in place.

Dad kept his voice and expression even. “His mother and I would love to see him get married. We’d be thrilled. But only if and when he meets the right person.” He patted my arm and put on a smile that rivaled Coach Dahl’s media smile. “Beyond that, it’s no one’s business but his own.”

Jack’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly. “Okay, that makes sense, but⁠—”

“I don’t think your article really needs to get into that,” I said as diplomatically as I could, though with a note of warning. “You’re writing about the dads’ trip, right?” I inclined my head. “Not personal family issues?”

“Well, they’re bound to come up when⁠—”

“When people ask even though it’s not really their place,” I said evenly. “Is there anything you wanted to ask about the trip? Maybe the things we’ve done with our dads in our downtime? Or the games?”

The pouty expression on Jack’s face would’ve been comical if I hadn’t been so close to breaking my beer bottle and shanking him with it.

Luckily, I’d taken enough wind out of his sails that he wisely slunk away, probably in search of another Phantom to annoy.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I muttered into my beer, “God, I hate that guy.”

“You and me both,” Dad muttered. “What a dick.”

I grunted. I’d hated Jack for a long, long time. He was a problem that our club refused to solve. None of this was new for him. He liked to tug at threads even when they were completely benign. He was forever sniffing around anything that might be connected to something worthy of a clickbait article. It was like when he came looking for a reason for Temo’s dry spell—an undisclosed injury or something. Most of the time, it was a complete nothingburger, but once in a while he did strike gold.

Last year, he’d casually-but-pointedly hounded our former backup goalie, Benz, about his declining performance. It had been irritating, and we’d all done our best to interrupt their interviews so Jack would lose interest and leave him alone. Goalies had ups and downs just like any of us. Yes, Benz had been in a frustrating slump, and no, he hadn’t been playing like himself, but that happened. Harping on him wasn’t going to fix the problem.

Jack didn’t lose interest, though, and he kept digging like a goddamned truffle pig. Finally, three games before the playoffs, Benz had snapped that he was distracted as hell by his father’s terminal diagnosis and his marriage hitting the skids.

Benz had requested a trade the next day. He now played in Vancouver.

And Jack was still here because nepotism was alive and well in the Pittsburgh Phantoms organization.

When he came sniffing around about my relationship status right after I’d had a private—and admittedly risky—little interlude with Garrett… it made me nervous.

Except he hadn’t said anything about us. He hadn’t seen anything. No one had. I was just paranoid. Funny how that happened when I was actually hiding something.

I needed to keep a better poker face around him. Remind myself over and over that he only thought he knew something, but he likely had a giant bucket full of nothing. He was throwing things at the wall to see what stuck, and as long as I didn’t give him any signs that something was sticking, he’d move along.

He’d move along to a teammate. Harass them until they snapped and showed something personal like Benz did. Or until they flipped out at him like our now-retired defenseman Grandy did three years earlier, earning himself months of humiliation as that video made the rounds on the internet.

As long as Jack was interested in me and my perpetual bachelorhood, then maybe that could be a lightning rod for his attention and protect my teammates from him.

But that could also give him more opportunity to catch a real scent and dig up real evidence about my private life.

Goddammit. What the hell was I supposed to do?

“You good, Liam?” Dad asked.

“Yeah.” I sipped my beer, not that it helped. “Just… that guy always makes my skin crawl. I’m used to reporters.” I tilted the bottle in the direction Jack had gone. “Don’t think I’ll ever be used to that.”

Dad grunted. “Nobody should be used that bullshit.”

No kidding. And today, Jack had not only nosed around in my personal business with my dad, he’d also killed my buzz from that sweet moment with Garrett.

Yeah. He really needed to get kicked into next week by a moose.

CHAPTER 32

GARRETT

After my little interlude with Liam, I met up with Chris in the hotel restaurant for a drink before we planned call it a night. There, we chatted about this morning’s practice and tomorrow night’s game against Houston.