Interference (11 page)

Instead of letting this prick beat my ass in front of the crowd, I turned the tables. I grabbed the hem of his jersey and attempted to lift it over his head.

“Don't take my head off, you jackass!” he yelled at me. “Get over here, fucker!”

Orville's vulgar vocabulary had me wondering if it was one of the kids I coached hiding beneath the costume. He sounded like Damien Meadows after I'd benched him. Good thing Safina wasn't close enough to hear him.

From the cheers of the crowd, they thought we were putting on a show, but Orville truly wanted to beat the shit out of me. Though I had the advantage of not having a horrible costume on, I didn't want to drop him in front of children, so I threw a few fake uppercuts into his stomach, then lifted my hands and waved to the crowd.

Orville spun away and brushed his paws over his jersey. Then he bopped me over the head with a fuzzy fist, which sent me down. Total cheap shot.

I watched, still on my ass, as he skated around the rink with his hands clasped over his head and his hula-hoop stomach sticking out. Instead of letting him get the last laugh, I scrambled up and slid across the ice. My wet jeans clung to my thighs, sending chills through me, but Orville had to pay for that sucker punch.

I have a hard time letting things go.

That fat cat didn't know what hit him when I rammed into him with my shoulder and checked his gloating ass into the boards. When Orville's body banged against the glass, he collapsed to his knees and the entire crowd jumped to their feet as if the Pilots had scored. I stood above him, placed a foot on his chest and pumped my fist at the crowd.

Jessica and Mullet Boy had to drag me away so Orville could pick himself up.

When I reached the Zamboni entrance, Landon stood there, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You're an officer of the law.”

“He charged me!” I said, defensively.

My brother laughed and lifted his hand for a high five. “Nice clapper, though.”

I slapped his palm as I stepped off the ice and onto the arena floor. “Better get out of here before Orville gets back.”

Landon patted the back of my head as I skimmed past him. “You're the best big brother a boy could have.”

Sometimes the scent of a musty old basement and stale beer evokes more memories of home than one of Mom's freshly baked pumpkin pies.

That's how I felt walking into the Garage, the bar my uncle owned. I'd been coming here to play Pac-Man and Golden Tee since I was a kid.

“Why didn't Gaby come out after work?” I asked, nudging Landon's side with my elbow to get his attention.

“She had to study for—” he began.

“Jason!” Our uncle interrupted Landon's answer with his gregarious greeting. Brian walked around the bar with his arms extended. No handshakes in our family.

“Hey Bri,” I said, meeting him halfway. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight.

“I didn't know you were coming into town.” Brian wiped sweat off one of his crazy bushy eyebrows.

“Didn't Dad tell you? I brought my girl down for Landon's game.”

Brian glanced behind him, a quick check on the patrons at the bar. “Charlie hasn't been in here for a beer in over a week.”

“A week? A whole week?” Landon quipped.

But Dad not making his weekly visit to see Brian was a big deal.

Every Monday night for as far back as I can remember, Dad has sat at the bar, hanging out and shooting the shit. Brotherly bonding time. It's been a tradition since Brian bought this lump-of-crap building fifteen years ago.

Brotherly bonding time. Another reason I should have stayed in Detroit and kept trying to get a job with the department here. Though Bridgeland was less than two hours away, with my schedule and all the extra shifts I'd picked up, it was next to impossible to get home. And then I started dating Indie, and going home was barely on my radar.

Sometimes I feel like I left my brother in his time of need. Back when he still hadn't been called up to the NHL yet. And before he had Gaby to confide in.

“You were at this guy's game yesterday, right?” Brian threw an arm across Landon's shoulders and caught his neck in the crook of his elbow. Prime noogie-giving position. “So you saw that blocked shot? Thought he'd cracked his kneecap after that one.”

“Dude! Get off!” Landon laughed, twisting out of Brian's grasp.

“Don'tcha know his old Pilots boys are over there? He's a big-time NHL player now,” I teased. “Gotta act like a big man.”

Landon stood up straight and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

But it was there, the hint of embarrassment at being messed with in front of your friends by your uncle.

Luckily for Landon, Brian knew enough to let it go. As we grew up, our relationship with Uncle Brian had morphed from hanging out with our fun uncle to actual friendship. As Dad's youngest sibling, Brian was only thirteen years older than me, close enough to be our oldest brother. He spent a lot of time passed out on our couch in his college days, so it was almost as if he lived with us back then, anyway.

“Go hang out with your friends. I've got customers to serve.” Brian slapped my shoulder and retreated toward the bar. He stopped next to a guy resting his forehead on the bar and used his thumb and middle finger to flick the guy's skull. “Wake up, Donnie! I'm calling you a cab.”

Landon and I wandered over to the three Pilots players who had pushed two small tables together to make one large enough for all of them to fit around. As we approached, the cologne worn by three freshly showered hockey players replaced the homey scent of mildew and stale beer. I almost preferred the mildew.

“Small-town cop graces us with his presence!” Luke Daniels, captain of the Pilots, called out.

“Did you ride down here on your horse, cowboy?” Blake added.

I shook my head but chuckled at the greetings. “Fuck you, city thugs.”

Landon had made Brian's dive bar the hot spot for Pilots players to hang out after games. Only a few fans, and even fewer puck bunnies, had caught on. And the fans that had were always respectful of the players' privacy.

“We are thugs now? This is not what your mother call me last night,” Pavel Gribov, King Dick of the Pilots, quipped.

The entire table turned to him and gave him the same pissed-off glare, even though we were all used to him being the one who took everything too far.

“Mention my mom again and I will cut off your dick, Gribov,” Landon warned, sliding into the open seat next to Luke.

Gribov pointed finger guns at his crotch. “You need chain saw for this monster.”

“Fuck that! We've showered with you, man!” Blake, Gribov's best friend on the team, joked.

Which caused a roar of laughter from each one of us.

Every head in the bar turned toward our table. Granted, there were only a few other people at the bar—the guy Brian flicked, another old dude, and two cougars playing pool. Lines like that could be taken out of context by anyone who didn't know it was a group of athletes, which made it even funnier.

Blake's joke eased my initial annoyance with Gribov, who I normally don't have much tolerance for, since he screwed with my sister's relationship. When he set up Aleksandr to make it look like he'd been cheating on Auden, it threw all my patience out the window. I don't have time for petty, high school–drama bullshit.

But Aleksandr seems to have forgiven him, or let him slide, or something, so I deal with him, since he's not going away anytime soon.

Plus, as much as Gribov could be a complete dick to others, he did say some funny shit. Most of which came back to bite his stupid ass.

I dragged a chair over from the next table and took a seat.

“I forget you have same mother,” Gribov said. “I apologize.”

The thrum of laughter halted. All you could hear was the static crackle from the ten-year-old box TV hanging in the corner above our heads.

Blake broke the silence with a whisper. “Did he just apologize?”

Gribov pushed his chair back and stood. “And now I take a piss. In case you writing this down.”

“He's going soft on us,” Blake said as Gribov walked away.

“That's what she said,” Landon and I said in unison.

“The Taylor brothers are back.” Luke laughed and downed his beer. Then he stood. “I'm going up. Anyone need another?”

The three of us raised our beer bottles, but no one got up to help Luke.

“Dicks,” he muttered on his way to the bar.

I turned to Blake, lowering my voice when I asked, “How're you doing, man?” I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable, but I wanted to express my concern.

“All right.” He set his empty beer bottle at the end of the table. “Horrible.”

“I'm so sorry.” What do you say to a guy who found his wife in bed with a neighbor after coming home from morning skate? Poor Blake.

“I just don't know how I didn't see it.” Blake hunched over, rested his forearms on the table, and began picking at the skin around his thumbnail. “How did I not know?”

“How could you?” Landon sympathized. “She did it when you weren't home.”

“I know.” Blake looked up quickly. “I just—ugh! Seven fucking years!”

Wasn't that the time of the itch?

“You are only man she ever fuck,” Gribov piped in, plopping down in his seat. “What you expect?”

Gribov had a point. A reasonable, though tastelessly stated, point.

Blake and Caroline got married a month after she graduated from high school while he was still playing Juniors. They had one of those been-together-since-elementary-school relationships. Caroline moved to Detroit from Toronto, their hometown, after the Charlotte Aviators drafted him. She seemed too sweet and down-to-earth.

Which is probably why she chose to screw their neighbor and not one of his teammates.

“What do I expect?” Blake asked as Luke arrived carrying fresh beers between his fingers. He leaned back to allow Luke room to set the drinks down. “Not to be cheated on. I never fucking cheated on her. Not once. You know how much pussy I could've had? But I didn't.”

“It's part of our life, man,” Luke said. “It's hard to have a relationship in general, let alone a wife.”

“Especially when you're all she had. I mean, not to bring Gaby into it—” Landon began.

Luke, Blake, and Gribov collectively groaned, and I knew my lovesick little brother hadn't stopped talking about Gaby since they finally got together.

“Shut up!” Landon said and continued with his original thought. “I just meant that Caroline had nothing else. She didn't work. She didn't have any friends here. She left her family and everything she knew to be with you. And you're gone all the time. Even when you're home, you're gone. It's not a slam. It's like Luke said, it's our life.”

“And sometimes your girl won't follow you. And that sucks, too,” I chimed in, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. Because I barely even thought about Heather, my ex-girlfriend from college, anymore. The conversation brought back the sting of her refusing to move to Bridgeland with me when I took a job there.

Gribov raised his bottle in the air toward the middle of the table. “Fucked if we do. Fucked if we do not.”

I reached up to clink bottles with the boys before taking a long slug. He actually made sense for once, and for a brief moment, I wondered what kind of brutal memories he'd dragged to Detroit with him.

“This conversation sucks,” Blake said. “Can we talk about the big-titted girl Luke took home last night?”

“No,” Luke responded. A sharp, definitive no.

“You motorboatin' son of a bitch,” Blake joked, quoting the famous funny line from Wedding Crashers.

Which switched the conversation to movie lines. Luke seemed happy to be off the hook, and Blake seemed happy not to be talking about his ruined marriage.

And though I was happy to be in the comfortable company of my boys again, I couldn't wait to get back to Indie.

Tim had soured me on relationships so much that I totally forgot all the crazy feelings that hijack your consciousness during those initial weeks of dating. The swirly stomach every time Jason called or texted, or breaking into a happy dance while vacuuming the house.

Jason was different. He had his life together. He had a wonderful family. He was mature, smart, complimentary, respectful.

When Jason pulled into the parking lot in front of the steak house at the casino, I bit my usually snarky tongue, to keep from telling him it was one of my least favorite restaurants in town. But only because I ate there so often I could taste the steak in my sleep. Mom works at the casino and brought home dinner from there a few times a week. Damien loves it, and I did at first, but like anything, it gets old.

I'd never say anything to him, because I didn't want to seem ungrateful. And I knew Jason took me there because, technically, it's the fanciest restaurant in town. I'd prefer Hank's Drive-In any night of the week, but I knew he'd put thought into it and I refused to ruin the moment.

“I'm starving!” Jason complained after we'd been seated.

“They'll bring bread,” I assured him.

“I know. I just wish I had something now. Like peanuts.”

“Ugh! Peanuts,” I moaned.

Jason reached out and put his hand on my arm. “What? Are you allergic?”

“No. Back when Peak City opened, there used to be a bowl of peanuts on each table. Pat loved those restaurants where people could crack the shells and throw them on the floor.”

“I imagine that must have been slippery,” Jason said, lifting his hand from my arm and picking up his menu. “I don't understand how places get away with that, from a liability standpoint.”

“Right,” I agreed. “So messy and annoying. I'd be balls deep in nut dust within the first hour of my shift.” I shook my head and opened my menu. “I'm so glad he got rid of the peanut thing.”

Jason's silence made me lift my eyes from the menu. He was sitting back in his chair, smiling like a kid at Disneyland.

“You just used ‘balls deep' in a conversation,” he said. Then he broke into a grin. “That's fuckin' awesome.”

“Um, okay.” I raised the menu. Behind it, I bit my lip to hide my smile and force down the little flutter he'd caused by complimenting me on my sense of humor.

Thankfully, the waiter interrupted our conversation by setting a basket of assorted types of bread in the middle of the table. Then he took our order.

“Can you text me your parents' address?” I asked when we'd finished. “I want to send them a thank-you card.”

“Yeah.” Jason handed our menus to the waiter. Then he reached into the front pocket of his pants and pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I do it now, so I don't forget?”

How did I find someone so thoughtful?

“Yeah, go for it. Thank you.” I continued talking while he scrolled and tapped on the screen. “I had so much fun. They're so cute together. How long have they been married?”

“Oh, geez.” Jason leaned back, shoving his phone into his pocket. “More than twenty-five years now.”

A pang of jealousy hit my chest and I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Wow. That's awesome.”

And it was. Having parents who were still in love. Still together. Still crazy for each other.

“They've always been the touchy-feely type. It was uncomfortable when we were kids, but Landon and I are used to it now.” Jason grabbed a piece of bread from the basket. “Do you ever see your dad?”

I watched him smooth butter onto one side. “I used to, but now we barely even hear from him.”

“That sucks, Indie. I'm sorry.” He set his knife on a small plate next to his water glass.

“It's okay. He's not a bad dude. I think he got caught up in his own life, and people who aren't right there in front of him are kind of an afterthought.”

“That's harsh. I don't think family should ever be an afterthought.”

I'd justified my dad's lack of communication in my head on multiple occasions, but saying it out loud made him sound like a complete jackwagon. Especially compared to Jason's family.

I shrugged. “Mom's happy with Dale Kelso right now. She's dated on and off throughout my life, but he seems to be a keeper.”

“The car salesman?” Jason asked.

“That's the one.” I took a piece of bread for myself. “But honestly, he treats her really well and she seems to love being around him. And she deserves that.”

Jason nodded. “What does your mom do?”

“She works here.” I ripped off a piece of my bread and popped it in my mouth.

“The steak house?”

“No, the casino,” I explained. “But she did work here when it first opened. She's a career server. She likes being on the casino floor the most. She makes more in tips from the gamblers than she does on steak dinners, if you can believe that.”

“If she's even half as charismatic as you, I can totally believe that.” Jason smiled.

His compliments shot arrows straight to my heart, making me feel all girly and giddy. “Yes, I'm fairly certain I got my charm and bartending skills from her.”

“Too bad Damien didn't inherit that trait,” Jason muttered.

“Oh, he makes a kick-ass gin and tonic,” I joked, though I knew Jason was referring to the charm part. If I inherited our father's wanderlust, Damien inherited Dad's bad moods.

“He's been pretty pissed since Halloween.”

“Really?” I asked. “He hasn't said anything to me.” Technically, he hadn't said anything at all to me. I should take that as a sign of how pissed he is.

“Well, that's probably because he's taking it out on me in practice. But don't worry. He hit me with enough slap shots last practice that I made him skate for an hour and a half.”

I cocked my head at him. “The entire time?”

“Yep.” Jason sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Then his brow furrowed and he uncrossed his arms. “Slap shots hurt!” he said defensively.

“I'm not gonna give you any trouble!” I laughed. “I know slap shots hurt.”

Between Damien and his friends being little jerkweeds around our house, and the countless hockey games and practices I've attended to support my brother, I'd been hit by my share of flying hockey pucks.

“All my troubles started when I met the Meadows family,” Jason said, teasing.

“All my troubles started when I met my ex.” Never had I uttered a more truthful statement.

“Want to tell me about it?” Jason asked.

It was so comfortable being with him, I forgot that he wasn't from Bridgeland. He knew only what I'd told him about my past.

“Well, I mean, you know about how he and his parents acted once I told them I was pregnant.” Jason nodded, his full attention on me. “But Tim sucked from the minute I met him. I just didn't have the self-confidence to break up with him. I was more concerned with being popular than happy back then.”

Where was the waiter with the beer I'd ordered? I needed something heavier than water to discuss Tim.

“A common problem. I call it the 90210 syndrome.”

“The 90210 syndrome, eh? Please explain, Dr. Taylor.”

Jason's lips quirked up, but he leaned forward and continued. “I know most TV shows about high school are basically the same—exaggerated versions of real life. But my mom made me watch reruns of that stupid Beverly Hills, 90210 show my entire childhood, and I just couldn't understand what she saw in it. An overly dramatic depiction of sad people with no souls.”

“You couldn't decide between Brenda and Kelly,” I teased him. “Just admit it.”

“Hell, no! They were the most stuck-up, revolting people. The trash TV of our parents' generation.”

“At least Brenda and Kelly were fictional characters in a scripted show. Unlike TV today, which glorifies revolting ‘real' families.” I shuddered.

“Right? But those people are the ones the media shoves down our throats as role models. I don't want my kids acting like any of them.” Jason's eyes met mine, but he looked away quickly. “That's why I like it here in Bridgeland. None of that superficial drama.”

“Yeah, right.” I choked back a laugh.

“What?”

Instead of answering, I lifted my eyes to our waiter, standing next to our table with a tray of drinks. He set a full glass of golden ale in front of each of us. “Your meals will be out soon.”

“Why did you laugh?” Jason asked after the waiter walked away.

“Because there's superficial drama wherever you go. I bet you'll run into it more here than if you had stayed in Detroit.” A stream of beer spilled over the top of the glass when I picked it up. “Crap,” I grumbled.

Jason grabbed a tiny, white cocktail napkin from the table and patted my fingers.

“Thank you.”

Jason's quick action and the touch of his hand on mine made my pulse race. It's amazing how the simplest act, something I do for my son multiple times a day, could make my heart thump so hard. Helping me seemed as natural for Jason as it was for me with Holden. Without sounding like a damsel in distress, which I am not, it felt good to have someone take care of me.

“How so?” Jason asked.

I paused for a moment to bring my thoughts back to our conversation. “Small towns have big drama.”

Understatement of the century.

“Tell me more.” Jason scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned in. He looked like a teenager waiting for gossip. Little did he know, I'd be sharing an episode from my own life.

“I'm pretty sure my life could fill a season of Bridgeland 48858,” I joked, using the town's zip code.

“Really?” He leaned back but kept his eyes on me.

“I've got it all. The divorced parents, the younger brother that I was a second mother to because our dad left and my mom worked so much. High school football-player boyfriend. Sex in a hotel room after his senior prom. My life is a series of TV tropes strung together.”

“Sex in a hotel room after senior prom? That's so overdone.” Jason laughed.

“Right? So you know what came next, then?”

“Pregnancy scare?” Jason's lips bent into a slight smile before he took a sip of his drink.

“Actual pregnancy.” I lifted my eyes to assess his reaction. “I was sixteen when I got pregnant with Holden.”

I prided myself on being up-front about how stupid and irresponsible I'd been in my junior year of high school. But it didn't stop the shame I felt when I told people.

Jason's eyes widened and he tilted his head slightly. He already knew about my son, but he didn't know the exact circumstances.

“How old are you, Indie?” he asked.

Not the question I expected. I stole a quick glance around the restaurant, then leaned toward him and whispered, “Twenty.”

The lids over his beautiful, blue eyes lifted even more—if that were possible. “Twenty?”

“Keep your voice down, copper!”

The irony in my words hit me like a baseball bat to the kneecaps. I just admitted to the cop that I was underage while holding a frickin' beer in my hand.

Jason rubbed his face with his hands. Tension overtook me as my shoulders creeped toward my ears.

Fuck. My. Life.

“I'll be twenty-one soon,” I offered, as if that made up for me breaking the law on a date with a cop.

He shifted in his seat and took a sip of his beer. “I'm not going to cuff you and take you to the station.”

Relieved, I let out a breath and my shoulders relaxed.

“Might take you to my place, though.” He winked.

“Once you have—” I'd begun my defense without letting his comment sink in. “Excuse me?”

“I'd rather throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here caveman-style.”

“Jesus, copper.” A breath escaped me like a hiss. “You're killing me.”

“Now you know how I feel every freaking time I'm around you.”

Before Jason, no one had ever made me feel that giddy mix of embarrassment and excitement. The teasing banter. The thrill of every touch. The way he spoke in that low, firm voice that sent shivers through me. With Holden and work and school, I never had a chance to feel this way. I'd moved straight from awkward teenager to ill-equipped mother.

The words fun and flirty hadn't been on my radar until now.

“As I was saying…” I began again, which made Jason laugh.

Ignoring his innuendo wasn't easy, because when he talked about throwing me over his shoulder and bringing me to his place, it sounded sexy and exciting. If the waiter hadn't shown up with our dinners, I may have thrown some money on the table and hightailed it out the door.

This new-and-improved, fun-and-flirty Indie sounded like a sex-crazed teenage boy.

Jason and I both thanked the waiter after he'd placed our plates in front of us. The food smelled delicious. The mouthwatering scent of nutmeg brought my attention straight to the creamed spinach.

Ignoring my steak, I dug into the steaming vegetable, reveling in the burn when it hit my tongue. Freshly prepared food from the steak house tasted a million times better than when Mom came home with lukewarm to-go boxes.

“How do you get away with drinking here?” Jason asked.

His casual tone put me on alert. I asked my next question with caution. “Are you gonna bust the steak house?”

He shook his head, unable to answer with his mouth full. “No,” he said when he'd finished swallowing.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

He held up one hand as if he were taking an oath. “If I busted the steak house, I'd have to bust every single place I've taken you on a date.”

I mulled that over in my head. I could single-handedly cause multiple establishments in Bridgeland to get major fines for serving minors. Whose great idea was it to date a cop, again?