End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Still Waiting – Sum 41

FOR A WOMAN who claims to hate hockey, how my eyes track Liam on the ice makes a mockery out of me.

I forgot.

That’s my only defense.

I just forgot.

But after I joined Liam at the rink last week, he managed to wrangle the promise out of me that I’d come to a practice—in my defense, I’m a sucker for his puppy-dog eyes.

Now that I’m here… God, it’s like coming home.

The swoosh of the blades, the tuk of the stick hitting the puck, the thud when it collides with the net…

I can see why Liam finds comfort in those sounds because I do too.

I’ve got a childhood mixed in with those noises. A lifetime of hockey games that I shoved to the side to get away from the massive egos in my family. But it’s a language I speak fluently and it draws me in like a warm hug.

Cones are dropped and as the forwards on the ice transition from shooting to skating drills, Liam’s father takes a seat beside me. I can’t say that I didn’t see him coming, more like I hoped he’d just continue on his way.

Taking my eyes off the sheer poetry in motion that is the Leprechaun on the ice, I greet, “Padraig.”

“Gracie.” Unlike me, he’s not interested in the game. Paddy never enjoyed hockey, one of the many disconnects between father and son. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Disappointed? The last time we met, hadn’t I turned your son green?”

His grin makes a lightning-swift appearance—man, that reminds me of Liam. “Nah. I’m not disappointed. You’re good for him. Always have been. Just came as a surprise. Thought you were still in Canada, to be honest.”

Something about that doesn’t ring true, but Coach Bradley barks, “How are you in the goddamn NHL, Kerrigan? TURN. LEFT. It’s the opposite of right,” and distracts me.

Watching the right winger’s shoulders hunch mid-drill, I say, “Haven’t been back in a long while. Moved here years ago. I’m working toward my MBA. School starts up again tomorrow actually.”

He scratches his chin. “Thought you were close to your family?”

“You really want to hear the answer to that?” I mock, eyes tracking Liam as he clocks up some impressive speeds.

Knowing him as well as I do, that concerns me.

The better he plays, the crazier his mind is.

And last night, he had another nightmare.

“Sure. You’ve always mattered to Liam so that means you matter to me.”

That has me frowning.

“What?” he demands.

“You weren’t exactly a helicopter parent, Padraig. Let’s face it, my dad did most of the heavy paternal lifting when he was a teenager.”

“A man can change,” he retorts, “when his son’s gone through what Liam has.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” he states, tone firm.

“Do you know it’s been years since I’ve been to a hockey rink?”

“Really? You were obsessed the last time we met—”

“I just stopped letting hockey be the center of my world. It’s strange coming back here,” I muse. “I missed it more than I realized.”

His grimace says he and I aren’t on the same wavelength—no shit.

“Are you sick?”

Confusion lacing the words, Padraig mutters, “No. Why would you think I am?”

I wave a hand at the rink where Bradley’s put them back on shooting drills. Liam’s having a real good time trying to hit Greco, the goalie, in the face with the puck. When he catches five in a row, I want to groan because he winks at Liam.

Freakin’ winks.

Liam’s shoulders jerk like he’s been struck by a lightning bolt and I know that’s game on now.

Men and their egos—sheesh.

“Seems like a big gesture to make,” I mumble, watching as Liam works extra hard to score. Every time he does, his smirk gets wider and wider. “Forcing Liam here.”

“Forcing?” He scoffs. “The Stars will be the best team in the NHL by the end of next season.”

“You get an inside scoop?” I rasp, pinning him with a glare, the Greco and Liam byplay forgotten for the moment.

“You could say that.”

“Liam was assured there’d be no funny business—”

“He told you that?”

His surprise is evident, enough that it leaves me feeling smug. “He told me that the Stars’ new owners are the Irish Mob.”

“Jesus Christ, Gracie! Keep your mouth shut.” He looks left and right to make sure no one can hear him. “If there’s even a hint of corruption, we’ll—”

“What? Get the SEC in? The feds?” I snort. “Like the mafia hasn’t been fixing games for decades.”

Padraig scowls at me. “I don’t remember you being this ballsy.”

“Turning Liam and Kow green didn’t give the game away?”

He flushes. “Liam told me what happened.”

“That I stopped being a pick-me girl and got out from under my family’s thumb?”

“A pick-you what?”

“Never mind,” I say with a sigh, watching as Liam skates rings around Greco’s net. The goalie seems to be whispering to his goalposts in the wind up to Liam taking his shot. “He won’t stay if the games are fixed. You should know your son well enough to know that.”

“There ain’t no funny business in the Stars.”

“If you say—”

Coach blows his whistle when two of the players start fighting but both men ignore him.

Greco drops to his knees, spreads ‘em butterfly style, but no amount of sweet talk to his posts stops the puck from ricocheting off the left and settling in the back of the net.

I clap at the goal but shake my head when Liam weaves past and flips Greco the bird.

Padraig chuckles, making me grumble, “Don’t encourage him. Greco started a fight with Liam two seasons ago and bad blood has been flowing between them ever since.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Greco said Liam had fucked his girl.” I roll my eyes when Padraig preens.

Men.

“Did he?”

“I can’t say.” Doubtful—he’s been like a monk since the kidnapping according to Noah. “You’d have to have a conversation with your son’s penis to know for sure.”

When Padraig chokes on the coffee he’s sipping, I don’t slap him on the back. “You’ve learned to stop pulling your punches.”

“You can survive or thrive.”

“Heard you’re his new PA,” he rumbles as Liam starts bouncing around the ice like the Energizer Bunny.

“I am.”

“You’re probably why his energy is up.”

“You said that before but I don’t get it. I’m not going to shepherd him out of nightclubs he shouldn’t be in or get him out of trouble—”

“Chance’d be a fine thing. Maybe you can get him out of his damn apartment for more than just work. The trouble we’re talking about has nothing to do with shotgun weddings, Gracie.”

“This isn’t 1962.”

“Might not be, but he almost lost his fucking head—” Padraig sucks in a breath. “Apologies for swearing.”

“Heard worse with my brothers,” I dismiss.

He adjusts his tie. “Yeah, well, the lady in my life don’t like me swearing around her and I’m trying to break the habit.”

“What trouble?”

“Did you sign an NDA?”

“Now you ask?” I sniff. “But yeah, I did.”

Reassured, he nods. “He tell you he’s been having nightmares?”

“Heard him have them. Surprised you know about them.”

“After the kidnapping, I spent the summer with him.”

My brows lift. “You? And Liam? I didn’t know that.” He never said, just that Padraig moved to New York after that summer.

Padraig hitches a shoulder. “Wasn’t about to leave him alone.”

So, he stepped up when it counted.

For the first time since Liam came into my life, I can feel whispers of respect begin blossoming into being for his father. He’s never acted like a dad before. At least, not in my opinion, which left mine to do the aforementioned heavy lifting.

When you come from a big family, I think it’s safe to say that every kid feels like they flow under their parents’ radar. Too many kids, not enough time or energy to balance every plate.

In this case, me.

Especially when my brothers started playing bantam hockey.

The minute the oldest, Trent, reached that level, we began billeting kids from around Canada.

Four ultimately became eight.

Less time, less energy, more hockey, more travel to hockey games, more hockey-related bills, more, more, more…

Did I resent that growing up? When there was no money for piano classes but there was for skates? Yeah.

Do I still? In a sense because I don’t like how hockey makes me feel forgotten and isolated.

I guess it’s a sign of how much I’ve matured that I’m just glad Liam had Paddy as well as my family to fall back on after the kidnapping. That spiteful pick-me bitch of before would probably have been jealous.

“You’re living with him?”

I’m jerked back to the conversation, but before I can answer, my cell buzzes.