Page 28 of Dangle

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this pining you’re doing has something to do with Aiden’s buddies.”

I groaned, then cursed when beer spewed from the bottle in my hand because I knocked the bottom against my fucking knee. Which only made Alex shake his head and laugh at my antics in trying to keep Hawk and me from being covered in beer. Giving up, I stood, dropping the bottle into the recycling bin before returning to my seat.

“You’re a fucking mess,” Alex said. “And since I coached those boys for a while, I have an idea which of them has you twisted in knots.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, that was my response whenever Trey Malachek popped into my head.”

Before I could stop myself, or remember how wrapped he was around his boy, my eyes flew to his, and if I opened my mouth, I felt like I would breathe fire on the man until there was nothing left of him but ash.

“Holy shit. You do have it bad,” he said with a chuckle, his arms raised as if saying his hands were off.

“Fuck off,” I growled, which made Hawk growl at me before he moved to Alex’s side. “Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous. I’ve barely even spoken to the boy.”

“If you think that’s ridiculous, try falling for one of your players. The one who happens to be the son of your best friend.”

“At least you met Aiden at EDGE. He at least knew something about you when you met.”

“Sure, I’ll give you that, but he knew nothing else,” Alex said. “And as ridiculous as you think it is, I personally think you’d be good for the kid. He needs a steadying influence.”

“What—”

Alex shook his head. “Nope. I won’t go any further, but don’t discount the kid because of the age gap or any of the other bullshit reasons you have in your head. Because that’s what they are. They’re bullshit you’ve fabricated in your skull to tell you not to take the risk. But, and I’m no mental health professional. As someone who has lived with huge life-changing shit happening to them and then battled the depression and anxiety and negative speak that takes over your head when your carefully constructed, hard-earned life goes to shit, sometimes, taking a risk is the only thing that’ll bump your ass out of the rut.”

I rubbed my hand over my mouth as I nodded at the way his words landed in my gut. I was on the backside of thirty-five.

“I thank Mikal every day—in my head, because that asshole’s ego is big enough without my help—for pushing me to take the coaching position at MU. I’ve never been so fucking happy. Not even when I was still playing and raking in millions. So, consider this your bump. If the boy’s interested, go for it. What do you have to lose?”

My mouth dropped open to say my self-respect, but I swallowed it back down when I looked over at him. Fucker wore a knowing smirk with a smugly lifted brow. “Something you wanna say?”

I laughed at the asshole and shook my head. “Not a fucking thing.”

“Good. Now, let’s go finish eating. We’re gonna need all the energy we can muster. We’ll be chasing after nine collegiate hockey players all night, and I’ll have my hands full dealing with the one who shares my bed.”

“They’re adults…”

“You’re too old to remember what you were like as a twenty-one-year-old Marine painting the town with your buddies?”

I groaned, “Fuuuuck. We’re so screwed.”

“If we’re lucky,” Alex said.

EIGHT

TREY

After the tour, we spent the afternoon with Aiden and his teammates hanging around the arena. We ate lunch with the team, hit some pucks, not on the ice, of course; they had a game later, but the shooting lanes in the team’s locker room were open, so we goofed off there. Not the first time I’d done this in an NHL arena. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time if I stepped out on the ice and took some shots on the goal.

But it was the first time my teammates stood next to me as I practiced in an NHL shooting lane, and it was also the first time I’d done it as just…me? I don’t know, but Coach Storm’s words to me before that last game in Manchester lived rent-free in my mind. They were just up there, swimming around as if they didn’t have a care in the world that they’d created a crisis in my mind.

When Aiden left us, we wandered along Broadway—eating Nashville hot chicken and drinking a few more beers as we bar-crawled. When it was time to head for the game, we were all unsteady, giggling, and very fucking tipsy.

I’d grown up watching professional hockey. I’d watched from owner’s boxes and private VIP suites. I’d watched from behind the glass more times than I could count, but all those games, they were a show. A performance. A Malachek showing up tocelebrate a Malachek. It was an obligation and a responsibility. Even the games I attended after my dad retired felt that way.

That was nothing like this. Yes, it was showing up. But it wasn’t obligation or responsibility. We’d shown up here to support a friend, a teammate. I—we—showed up for Mercy. This had nothing to do with my dad or the Malachek name.

Aiden texted us our tickets before he left us earlier so he could nap and do all the things a hockey player did before the game. So, as soon as the doors of the Bridgestone opened and security scanned our phones, we headed inside to look for our seats. Only we were met at the door by none other than Asher and Bauer Holt.