Page 20 of Never Pucking Ending

“How did you—”

She snorts at me, almost offended I’d even have to ask. “Oh, please. The second I said my contact knew your sister I saw it in your eyes.”

“Stepsister,” I correct almost on instant.

Amber gives me a pointed look. “Exactly.”

She slides her sunglasses on even though the sun is barely breaking through the clouds and walks away. “Let me know what you two decide,” she calls out, before getting into her brand-new Mercedes with a smirk that tells me she knows a little too much.

When I get into my car, I pull out my phone and search Isaac’s name online. When it takes me to his Instagram and I see the photos of him and his fiancée, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. But just like Amber, I know I’m lying to myself.

*

Dennis Slater is one of the most decorated players in the National Hockey League, and I always had a deep-rooted respect for the man. He’d offer pointers to anyone who asked, and it was an advantage that he’s been my father’s best friend since childhood. His support got me an extra nudge toward the success I dreamed about since trying on my first pair of skates.

“There’s the man of the hour,” the retired athlete greets, standing from the table he and my father secured in the back of the restaurant to extend his hand out.

His grip is as firm as I remember, not nearly matching the easygoing smile warming his face. The first time Belle had met him at our parents wedding, she’d admitted he intimated her with his size and hard exterior. But Dennis is the type of athlete I strive to be. Graceful. Dedicated. Humble.

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologize, giving my dad’s shoulder a squeeze after greeting his best friend.

I pull the chair out from across the men and drop down, taking the cold water at my spot and chugging over half of it.

“Rough day?” Dad asks, eyebrows arching as I wipe the back of my mouth off.

I scoff. “Had a photoshoot.”

He knows how much I hate the PR work that comes with this career. If they’re not putting makeup on you, they’re giving you the most ridiculous outfit to wear that you’d never buy yourself in a million years. I told Amber that I wouldn’t do any deals unless I’d actually purchase the product. I’m not about to get fans to buy something I’d never truly endorse.

Dennis chuckles. “I remember those days well. Part of the long game, but not the fun game. I signed a deal with Gillette to promote their razors during my years with Tampa Bay.”

I quirk a brow. “Really?”

Back then, he’d been known for his beard. He played for Toronto in his early years, saying facial hair kept him warm when he lived in Canada. It’d become as much as his signature as my scar is for me.

He leans back, grinning. He’s got a dusting of hair on his jaw now, and I haven’t seen him with a beard in a long ass time. “Oh yeah. Carla was pregnant with baby number four, so we needed the extra money to get a new house with more space. So, I signed the deal and trimmed my beard on camera. Got me a down payment on the land we still have today.”

No shit. I find myself scrubbing my clean-shaven jaw. “They wanted to cover up my scar today,” I admit, thumb brushing the edge of it. “I pretty much told them to fuck off.”

Dennis laughs and Dad asks, “Did they go through with the shoot?”

I lift a shoulder and nod. “They did when Amber had something to say about it.”

He makes a thoughtful noise. “Smart of them.”

Dad won’t admit it, but I think Amber terrifies him a little.

We fall into easy conversation about practice, game day schedules, and everything to do with the sport. It’s not often we dive into the personal stuff because Dad isn’t pushy on the topic. Dennis, however, is.

“Have you thought about what comes after?” he asks casually, sipping his beer. “I know you just started with this new team, but we’ve all got to think about life after our bodies start failing us. I was your age when I realized I was on borrowed time, but there were people older than me who kept playing until well into their forties.”

This isn’t the first time somebody has brought up the conversation. It’s always in the back of my mind, especially during seasons where I take a little more of a beating. I’ve been lucky so far, but I can feel it in my muscles, ligaments, and bones. The end is near, whether I want it to be or not.

Dad clears his throat. “We don’t need to talk about that,” he says dismissively, probably assuming the worst of my silence.

The truth is, I don’t know what comes after. I’ve got money invested in a few rental properties, some stocks, and plenty in savings. My accountant has ensured I’d financially set for life. It’s everything else I don’t have a solid grasp on.

“I’m not sure,” I tell Dennis honestly. “I’d like to settle down. Maybe have a kid. But you know better than anyone how time-consuming hockey is. It’s hard to focus on much else.”