Page 23 of Tricky Puck

Boom. The bottom falls out of my glow, and the smile I caught from him fades away.

“She should’ve been. You would think she’d be a superstar, famous, and… I don’t know.” I turn away and shrink down into my pillows.

“But?” He touches my chin, bringing my face around to meet his eyes. The sheer intensity of his interest, almost to the point of caring, forces me to answer him.

“My father owns my mother’s soul and stole her dream to sing.”

His eyes widen, and the pirate in him disappears, leaving a vulnerable, caring man in its place. “Shit,” he whispers, caressing my cheek, telling me with his expression that he understands how devastating that is. “Dream-stealing is a serious accusation.”

I nod. “It wasn’t my father’s fault he devastated her. She fell hard and fast and gave up everything for him.”

“Shit.” His Adam's apple bobs, and his brows knit together like he doesn’t get it. But then, neither do I.

“When I was really little, my mother used to sing to me at bedtime. That was before she went to work at the pub eighty hours a week, and Granny took over the role of mothering. We’d make up songs and sing them together. I knew even then how beautiful her voice was, how special. I’ll never be as good a singer as my mother was.” I stop to fight off a wave of sadness.

“Was?”

“I haven’t heard her sing in years—and I can only guess why she stopped—but I remember her voice.” I try again to shake off the melancholy and aim a determined smile at him. “I also remember the songs and how wonderful it felt to make them up. I fell in love with words, songwriting, and poetry in a true pitiful Irish soul way.”

I yawn and then cough.

“You’ve been talking too much,” he says, teasing. But he’s not wrong. There’s a glow of orange on the horizon, signaling the arrival of morning soon.

Surprising me, he gets out of bed and brings me back a glass of water. I take it from him gratefully, fighting to keep my sleepy eyes open. I take a sip, and it revives me enough to understand him as he slips back into bed.

“We need to talk about what we’re going to do about the matchmaking scheme.”

I sit up. His words hit me as if he dumped that glass of water on my head. “Shit. Granny has her heart set on wedding bells.” I lick my lips as I watch his face, looking for alarm or panic, but all I see is his smile because he knows my game by now. He knows I’m not expecting wedding bells.

I sigh. “And as much as I love the woman—owe her everything—I’m not ready to marry a stranger to please her. Nothing personal.”

“I’m hurt that you still consider me a stranger.” He sits up and leans against the pillows, pulling me next to him.

“Fine. I’m not ready to marry anyone. In fact, true confession, I’m not planning to ever get married.”

His brows go up in mock surprise, and I swat him.

“I get it. No judgment from me. I’m not exactly the marrying type, either. You said it yourself—I’m a pirate, and that’s as far away from husband material as a guy can get.”

“You’re really going to hide behind your pirate mask?”

“It’s not a mask. It’s the real me underneath the unassuming, wealthy superstar hockey player.”

I laugh because it’s probably true. “Either way, you can’t be trusted. I get it.”

“Trust issues? Really? That’s so cliché. I expected something more interesting from you.”

I laugh again because he’s right. “Okay. The trust issue is minor and temporary, but my need for independence is not. Did you know I’m the only one who ever moved out of my Granny’s house before getting married? My family is wonderful—and smothering. The men—which outnumber me five to one—are particularly bothersome with their overprotectiveness to the point of controlling.”

“And that’s why you don’t want to get married?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t picture it. I can’t picture myself all dressed up in white, walking down the aisle to an organ playing that cliché death march—and then having children. There’s a big world out there, and I’ve barely seen it.”

He smirks, then nods as if he’s thinking about what I’ve said, contemplating me as if he cares.

“Never mind.” I wave a hand. “The bottom line is that neither of us wants to settle down and get married.” I swallow down a gulp of emotion. “Not even to please our beloved grandmothers.” I meet his eyes, letting my serious pain about disappointing Granny show through and looking for the same from him.

He clears his throat and nods, and I see the trouble in his eyes before he looks away. I take another sip of cold water to fortify me.