Loud Mouth Page 9

  Her cell was in the charger next to the roll of paper towels and her apartment-size fridge covered in Ice Knights magnets. Needing to touch base with the most important man in her life before hitting the road, she pressed one of the four numbers in her phone contacts and poured her coffee while it rang.

  “If it isn’t my favorite Mustang,” Roger said, his smile evident in his voice.

  If there was one thing Roger Jones had always loved even more than Jim Beam, it was cars. However, he’d learned the hard way that the two didn’t mix. One stint behind bars a few decades ago for his fifth DUI and his third trip to rehab finally changed that. He gave up the bourbon and kept the hot rods. When she’d told him her name was Shelby, yes like the classic muscle car, Roger had grinned up at her from his wheelchair and said they were a sponsor/sponsoree match made in automobile heaven.

  “How’s the V-8 running lately?” he asked.

  “A little clunky.”

  “Meeting?”

  There was no reason to specify what kind; she’d been going to AA meetings regularly since rehab. “Yeah, I’m going this morning at the church down the street before I have to pack and go on a road trip.”

  “Wait, aren’t you on a trip now? Cabin? Middle of nowhere? Peace and quiet?”

  More like anticipation and orgasms, frustration and satisfaction, annoyance and oh-my-God-fuck-yes. “That didn’t work out quite like I’d expected.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all about it. I gotta fresh cup of joe and the Charger for that Beckett billionaire can wait for a while.”

  That probably wasn’t the case. The waiting list for the model hot rods Roger created in his studio seemed never-ending thanks to an outsider art exhibit he’d been featured in at the Black Hearts Art Gallery. It was very Roger to make it sound like dropping everything to listen to her was no big deal, but still, she didn’t want to take advantage.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Shelby,” he said in that tone that made it impossible for her not to see the lines in his craggy face deepening as he frowned at her through the phone. “Don’t act like I’m a pint of oil short. If I wasn’t sure of it, I wouldn’t have said it.”

  Since arguing with Roger was pointless, she told him everything. By the time she was done, her shoulders were a bit more relaxed, her coffee mug was empty, and that sharp poke of want that only a stiff drink could get rid of had been ground down to a nub.

  “Girl,” he said with a chuckle. “When you move, you really do go zero to sixty with things.”

  “And now I have to spend the entire road trip with him and his brother—whom he now hates.”

  It was going to be awful and amazing and uncomfortable and fun and a million other things that were a lot to take in all at once. Hell’s bells. How in the world was she going to make it through this trip without losing her mind or her panties or both at the same damn time?

  “Do you need to talk to that Lucy lady about backing out of the assignment?” Roger asked.

  She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered it. Last night, while she’d stared at her ceiling and worry turned into an all-you-can’t-sleep buffet of anxiety, she’d definitely given it a lot of thought. But there was too much on the line. She’d worked her ass off for this opportunity. There was no way she’d fuck this up—no matter what.

  “No. I can do this,” she said, the affirmation coming out accompanied by that nervous-laughter thing she could never shake. Taking a deep breath, she centered herself. “I have to do this. This partnership with the Ice Knights is my dream outcome for The Biscuit. I can’t let it get ruined because I was an idiot who slept with Ian Petrov.”

  She left the “and who wants to do it again and again and again” unsaid, but the truth of it had her fanning herself. Really, she was still sore in a few places she hadn’t known existed.

  “Lucky for you, I am available for the extremely low price of free, twenty-four hours a day, and I’ll check out the Ice Knights road trip schedule and find a list of meetings you can go to on the road. I’ll text it to ya later.”

  The offer made Shelby’s throat clog with emotion. Screwing up her mouth and focusing on the ugly water stain on her ceiling to avoid tearing up, she took in a deep breath. Besides KiKi across the hall, Roger was one of the few people she could call a friend. That was something made all the more important, considering she was still trying to rebuild her relationship with her mom that she’d practically trampled into dust when she’d been drinking. The steps were well outlined in all the AA literature, but no one ever told a person how long they would take to complete them. Addiction gave no easy outs; it just felt like it did when she had been in the middle of a binge.

  Now she knew different and, because of all she’d lost, every kindness in her life became a little sweeter. However, that didn’t make it any easier to accept help.

  “I can do that part,” she said when she could finally get words out. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” Roger said. “Anyway, I gotta admit I’m getting a real kick out of making that Richy Rich Beckett fella wait on me. Is that wrong?”

  “Probably, considering he’s your customer, but I’m not going to rat you out.”

  Roger laughed. “All right, girl, keep that engine of yours purring and reach out when you need me.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Feeling more settled than she had when she’d woken up, Shelby ended the call and put her coffee mug in the dishwasher. She walked across her tiny studio to the fish tank set up in front of the window looking across the harbor to the city and bent down to betta-fish level.

  “Heya, Marvin. How you doin’?”

  As was his custom, he ignored her and stayed turned toward the city. Yeah, her Waterbury apartment was small and overpriced, but the view was amazing. Seeing the sparkling city high-rises across the harbor’s blue waters stole her breath every time. Some early mornings in the summer, she took her coffee and climbed out that very window to sit on the fire escape to watch all the commuter traffic crawl across the harbor bridge. Beyond her Hulu subscription, it was pretty much her only entertainment that didn’t have to do with hockey.

  Obsessed? Her? Hey, it could be worse. She could still be infatuated with bad bar pickups who never stayed the night and definitely never remembered her name.

  She sprinkled some fish food into the tank, and that got Marvin’s attention. He swam up and gobbled the flakes.

  “Gird your loins, Marv. You’re headed over to KiKi’s later, where if you misbehave, she’ll add you to whatever fancy event she’s catering.”

  A flip of his fin and Marv moved to the other side of the tank, totally unbothered about becoming an hors d’oeuvres at a Harbor City society wedding. Smart fish. Bad attitude. He kinda reminded her of someone else who was surly as hell but pretty to look at. Well, she’d be seeing more than enough of him in the next few weeks.

  Lucky me.

  Letting out a groan, she headed for the shower to wash thoughts of that man right out of her head—as if that was possible.

  …

  Sweaty and breathing hard, Ian lay back on the yoga mat and cursed the online instructor who talked about practice and not perfection to a man who’d worked his whole life to get as close to perfect as possible—at least on the ice. That’s where it mattered. That’s where the world watched and judged.

  Not that anyone was watching him. He wasn’t allowed in the team gym until Doc had cleared him. All for a stupid thumb.

  So here he was, getting his ass kicked by some dude named Sven who talked about the universe and releasing control and accepting yourself where you are. Well, Ian was in his living room, feeling like a moron for spending all of last night thinking about either Shelby or Christensen—but not at the same time, thank God. Those were two very opposite thought paths.

  What he needed was that damn bot
tle of scotch he’d left at the cabin.

  Sure it’s not to fuck her again?

  Shut up, brain.

  They’d agreed. No repeats. No overtime. No more sex with Shelby.

  Not your brain talking, Buck-O.

  Obviously.

  Great. Now he was talking to himself while using some of PopPop’s favorite old-man words. Maybe it was a good thing he was getting out of the house for a while. Since the news about Christensen and him had broken, he’d pretty much gone into social isolation, and now he was having mental conversations with his dirty PopPop side. Isn’t that what every grown man wanted to happen?

  Fuck no. Time to stop feeling all boo-hoo for yourself.

  Ian let out a long, deep breath before he responded to…himself…and for the first time in weeks was excited that his phone was ringing. He got up and grabbed it off the couch.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “So what’s this I hear about you getting caught in the nasty late-season snow in some cabin and getting arrested?” Yep, that was Suzanne Petrov—straight, no chaser.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Really?” He could practically see her eyebrow go up in tandem with her voice. “That’s the kind of nothing a mother wants to know about her children.”

  “I am grown,” he said as he walked down the hall to the oversize kitchen he pretty much never used.

  She scoffed. “Did you grow so much, you stopped being my son?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She paused just long enough to take half a breath. “So tell me everything, especially about this woman you were with. Is she someone special? Should I expect to meet her soon?”

  Like that was going to happen. She wanted nothing to do with him. He was a trapped-in-a-cabin lay and that was it. Not that he cared what she thought. She was just some annoying kinda-reporter who stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and then told the world—accidentally or on purpose.

  “That is never going to happen.” He grabbed an electrolyte-balanced water from the fridge and sucked a third of it down in one gulp while standing in front of the open fridge and letting the cool air hit him.

  His mom tsk-tsked. “Such a sourpuss all of a sudden.”

  The ache in the back of his head, the one that throbbed and sizzled at the same time, went into overdrive at the reminder that his former good nature had died a sudden and painful death that hurt enough, it could have been written by George R. R. Martin. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Ian Elliot Petrov,” his mom said, her tone sharp but with an edge of hurt. “I love you, but I’ve had just about enough of this attitude. I know you’re hurt. I am, too. I’m also angry, confused, and a million other things. However, I’m not taking that out on you, and I expect you not to take it out on me.”

  She was right, but the person he wanted to take it out on, he couldn’t even look at right now.

  “Speaking of Dad, is he still calling you?”

  “He is.” She let out a soft sigh. “Not that you should be concerned about it. I’m taking care of it.”

  Ignoring the sharp edge of her tone, he dove right in to it like it was a bench-clearing brawl. “Of course I’m worried. You’re my mom, and I don’t want him to hurt you any more. I hate that he’s done this to you.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. It happened a long time ago. His cheating was definitely a reason for our split, but it wasn’t the only one. Believe me, Ian, he’s changed since then.”

  “People don’t change.” He crossed into his bedroom, passing by one of the many bookshelves in his apartment and the framed family photo that was not surprisingly missing dear old Dad. “Once someone picks their path, that’s it.”

  He was proof of that. His path had been to prove the naysayers—especially his dad—wrong about his ability to make it to the NHL. And he’d done it. Next, he’d do what his dad couldn’t and make his post-playing career mark in coaching. After that, there was just a big old blank spot, but who cared. He’d figure it out. Eventually.

  “We all have more layers than that—even you,” his mom said with a chuckle. “So what are you doing now?”

  He stared down at the empty suitcase lying open in the middle of his bed, dread crawling up the back of his neck like a parade of ants wearing ice picks for shoes. “Packing for the team road trip.”

  “I thought you weren’t going until after the doctor cleared you?”

  “Change of plans.” Yeah, that was one way to put it. As for him, he just called it Grade-A Bullshit. “The team wants to do a whole ‘brothers bonding on the road’ thing, and I’m stuck doing it.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” his mom said without an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. “I think this is a great opportunity for you and Alex.”

  “Mom!” he exclaimed, almost dropping his phone. “How can you say that after what happened?”

  “Because it wasn’t his choice to be in this situation any more than it was yours.”

  The calm understanding in her voice was enough to push him right over the line. Heat blasted up through his body, setting every nerve ending on fire until he swore he could practically smell smoke.

  “But. He. Lied,” he said, slowly over-enunciating each word.

  His mom made a huh sound. “Did he or did he not get lost in trying to figure out how to tell someone he cared about something that he knew would hurt him—sort of like how your father confessed to that affair and others when he thought coming clean could save our marriage but not to having another son.”

  How could his mother, the strongest woman he knew, come at him with questions like that? It made no sense.

  “He lied.” God, he hated how his voice broke on that last word. “They both did.”

  “Ian, you are so stubborn sometimes that you remind me of your father.”

  “God forbid.” There wasn’t a damn thing of his father’s that he wanted. Even if the hockey gods came down and offered to give him every one of his dad’s on-ice skills, he’d turn them down flat.

  Fuck David Petrov.

  “I know you’re mad,” his mom said. “I was, too—for a very long time—but you know what I learned? It’s not worth it. We are each the determiners of our own destiny, and I refuse to cede that power to someone who hurt me. That is my power. It’s yours, too.”

  “I hate him.” From the cowlick on the back of his head in the exact same spot as his dad’s all the way down to the scar on Ian’s ankle from the dog who bit him when he was five because his dad goaded him into petting the snarly poodle.

  She let out one of those deep, soul-weary Mom sighs that seemed to go on forever. “Well, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Take a deep breath and give Alex a chance. We’re all trying to do our best in this world and making the best decisions we can at the time with the information we have.”

  If he was 10 percent as good of a person as his mom was, he’d take her advice. But he really was too much his father’s son. The truth of it made him sick to his stomach, but there it was.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  He hung up and tossed his phone down on the bed. It landed with a soft thump next to his empty suitcase. How in the hell was he going to make it two weeks with Shelby? Alex he could ignore—or at least seem to. There was no pretending he could not notice Shelby.

  “You are so fucked, Petrov.”

  Chapter Ten

  In the past, Ian looked for one thing when it came to finding a seat on the team charter jet—Christensen’s big head. If he didn’t see him, he’d definitely hear him because the guy never shut up. It was one of the things they had in common—big mouths always running at full speed.

  This time, however, Ian climbed the jetway stairs and kept his gaze aimed at armrest level, hoping to spot an empty row that he could park in and snarl at anyone wh
o tried to sit next to him. He made it three steps down the aisle before Lucy got up from her seat and blocked his path forward. She had dark bags under her eyes and her ten-month-old on one hip.

  “Here, take Freya,” she said as she held the baby out to him.

  Ian didn’t mean to take the baby. It just sort of happened. It was like seeing a flash of a defender’s jersey in his peripheral and bracing for a hit; he just let instinct take over. Of course that didn’t mean he had any idea what he was doing. As he held the kid out at arm’s length, she eyed him warily.

  Back at you, Small Fry.

  Lucy picked up her purse from the seat she’d gotten out of. “You and Alex have plane duty. Frankie was on shift yesterday, so that meant it was all me getting up four billion times last night. I swear whoever came up with the idea of twenty-four-hour shifts for firefighters should be made to march to the edge of a cliff and shoved off. I’d do it myself, but I’m too damn tired.”

  Ian looked back at the kid. Freya had a mop of red hair, freckles scattered all across the chubby cheeks that grandmothers liked to pinch, and a glint in her eyes that reminded him way too much of her formidable mom. She didn’t look like a non-sleeping demon, but what in the hell did he know about kids?

  “Why did you give me your baby?” he asked.

  Lucy let out a weary sigh. “Because I’m exhausted and need a nap. Don’t worry, this little fluff muffin has been fed and should sack out after takeoff.” She lifted up the pacifier attached to Freya by a length of ribbon decorated with hockey pucks. “Here’s a binky in case her ears bother her. You and Alex can swap off holding her.”

  “Why would I—”

  And that’s when he finally looked over at the set of seats next to Lucy’s. It was one of the two sets of four seats that sat facing each other, two on two, that were usually reserved for the team captain. Christensen sat in one chair closest to the window, his body tense as he looked out of the jet. Across from him sat Shelby, dressed all in black with an aggressive electric-blue line sailing across her top eyelids and ending in a little swoop shape that reminded him of wings. She took one look at him, straightened her shoulders, and let out a deep breath as if she’d spent the past sixty years prepping for this moment with absolute dread.