Page 7 of Over the Line

Or, as he’d also done a handful of times in the past, he’d just straight up fabricate bullshit, claim he got it from a “reputable inside source who doesn’t want to be named,” retract it after a tepid apology, and somehow, he’d still have press credentials the next day. SSDD. This guy had even leaked a player’s divorce before the couple had a chance to make a public statement, turning an already difficult time into something public and messy. Did that get his credentials yanked? Of course it fucking didn’t.

Whatever. I couldn’t get out of doing interviews with the guy, so I just didn’t make them easy for him. As much as I could, I gray-rocked the hell out of him. “Yep.” “Nope.” “Mmhmm.” “Haven’t heard about that.” “Must be quite the story.” “Guess we’ll see what happens.” I wasn’t rude to him—not nearly as rude as I desperately wanted to be—but I gave him absolutely nothing of substance.

Like Temo, I found Jack’s annoyance hilarious.

Except this time, he’d managed to prod a nerve, and I couldn’t quite shake off the discomfort he’d left behind. Even after we were done and I’d headed back to the locker room, a flurry of unpleasant feelings clashed in my chest.

Before I could really think about them or identify them, though, I was blessedly distracted.

Kanes’s dad was standing by the locker room door, watching me with those disarming dark eyes. His expression was one of curiosity and maybe a hint of concern, so I suspected he’d overheard some of my interaction with Jack.

“They really don’t let your private lives stay private, do they?” Garrett sounded irritated. “How do you put up with reporters like that?”

I laughed dryly, glancing back at Arlen and his cameraman, who were probably searching for their next victim. “Eh, they’re kind of like the smell of hockey gear—nobody likes it, but it’s the price of admission.”

He gave a quiet chuckle. “I guess that’s true.” Glancing in their direction, he shook his head. “I don’t know how any of you do it.”

I shrugged with my uninjured shoulder. “Worse comes to worse, I look at my bank account.”

That got a real laugh out of him, and I wasn’t ready for how pretty he was when he smiled like that. Oh my God.

Except in that same instant, I also understood where his son got his charming smile, and that thought was an effective bucket of cold water. I never got involved with teammates, and I sure as hell wasn’t getting involved with a teammate’s dad.

No matter how hot he is, and no matter how long it’s been since I⁠—

No, Liam. No.

I cleared my throat. “So, uh, you’re up in the owner’s box tonight?”

“That’s what Chris says. He, uh…” Garrett shifted his weight, and he was suddenly… shy? Bashful? “He said to go with you or Gil.”

“Right. Yeah.” I gestured toward the elevator. “Let’s go.” I started in that direction, and he fell into step without a word.

Maybe he was a little starstruck. He definitely had been earlier, though he’d clearly been trying not to let it show. Even after all this time, it still weirded me out that people had that reaction to me, but there it was.

I knew what that felt like. It had happened to me more times than I could count in my early years, especially when I’d been meeting and playing alongside legends like Barry Davis and Alexandre Beaupré. Even if I still couldn’t fathom people being starstruck by me, I did know that feeling.

And I couldn’t quite figure out why I felt something like it right now.

Standing in the elevator beside my teammate’s dad, watching the numbers as we rose to the suite level, I was jittery in that familiar way. My heart was doing things it hadn’t since the day I met Barry Davis and I’d almost lost my mind because he knew my name.

Why was I feeling like that now?

I glanced at the man standing beside me. He met my gaze and smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and…

Oh fuck.

I gulped and focused straight ahead again. Thank God, the elevator picked that moment to reach the suite level. We stepped out into the thinly crowded concourse, and I let the noise drown out the ridiculous thoughts banging around in my head.

At the owner’s suite, I swiped my badge and let us in.

As we entered, Garrett whistled. “Wow. This is nice.”

He wasn’t wrong. The suite, which sat just above the lower bowl seats, had five rows of leather chairs with an incredible view of the ice, as well as the Jumbotron and both benches. Behind the seats, we had a fully stocked bar and kitchen with several spreads of food laid out for us to help ourselves.

“They have quite a bit,” I said, gesturing at the food, “but if you want something else, just let the staff know. They’ll bring up anything from concessions.”

Garrett turned his wide eyes on me. “Seriously?”