Forever Wild (Wildcat Hockey Book 5)

EVERLY

In all the wildest places I could have imagined Jack asking me to drive him, this shitty bar in some rundown town wouldn’t have even been in my top one thousand.

An old, faded sign hangs above the front door. Perry’s could be any dive bar in any small town, but the fact Jack is in there makes it feel even more rundown. Even with the beard that makes him look like a reclusive, wilderness man named Barnaby, there’s no way he doesn’t stick out.

I tap my thumb against the smooth leather steering wheel of his very expensive SUV. No one is around so it isn’t like I think I’m going to get jumped, but I do feel incredibly out of place.

What could he possibly be doing in there?

No matter how hard I stare at the door, he doesn’t appear. My patience and curiosity eventually get the best of me.

I get out of the vehicle, lock it behind me, and head inside. Once I step into the small bar, I have to stop and let my eyes adjust to the dark lighting. Every head in the place turns in my direction, but it’s Jack’s gaze that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.

He does not look happy to see me. I smile at the bartender and other patrons, then walk to the far side of the bar to him.

Jack steps toward me. His eyes are dark and his jaw is set tight. He’s always a little bit of an asshole, but right now he looks like a lethal and brutal star hockey player about to smash someone into the boards. That someone being me. My skin tingles, oblivious to the danger he radiates.

“I told you to stay in the car.” His voice is low, but the words are still harsh. “God, do you ever just listen?”

I suck in a sharp breath. The question stings more than I’d care to admit. It isn’t the first time I’ve been called insubordinate. Or stupid.

“Do you ever stop being an asshole?” I fire back. You know what? He can do whatever he wants in here. I’m going back outside, waiting five more minutes, and then calling an Uber. I don’t care if he has to drive himself home with one arm and one leg. That’s his problem.

I turn to go, but Jack’s hand reaches out, circling my wrist and keeping me from fleeing. His eyes close and when he opens them, the intensity there swirls with some other emotion, desperation, I think. “Will you help me get him out to the car?”

“Who?” I ask. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t notice the two men standing behind him.

Both are older, in their fifties or sixties maybe. One of them is looking at me. A surprised smile plays over his face, making his mustache pull up over thin lips. The grin he aims at me has me wondering if he just heard me call Jack an asshole.

I’d like to be sorry, but he was acting like an asshole.

The other man’s head hangs down. He’s on his feet, but not of his own accord. Drunk in the afternoon. I have been there.

Jack moves to the drunk guy’s other side.

“Let me,” I say when I realize what’s happening. Does he really think he’s in any shape to help anyone else walk? He couldn’t even drive here.

A waft of alcohol and body odor take my breath away as I wrap the drunk man’s limp, left arm around my shoulders. He lifts his head to look at me, and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Those dark eyes are so familiar. Not as harsh as the ones I know, but the same.

I smile wobbly at him.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Everly. Who are you?”

“Nice to meet you, pretty girl.” His eyes close and the words are slightly slurred. I don’t get his name, but then again, he might not know it right now.

Jack walks ahead of us through the bar, then holds the door open for us. I squint at the bright sun, reacclimating the way I had to do when I came in.

It’s only when I’m helping get this very drunk man into the back of Jack’s SUV that the full weight of the situation hits me.

We just picked up who I am quite confident is Jack’s dad from some random bar and are taking him…well, that part I don’t know.

I hurry around to the driver’s seat and get in. Jack and the other guy take their time, talking on the sidewalk. The older gentleman lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s such an endearing, supportive gesture. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone treat Jack that way. He’s always the one reassuring others.

Jack glances back at the vehicle and I avert my gaze. His dad is snoring in the back.

When he finally opens the passenger door, Jack climbs in and then says nothing.

We sit in a heavy silence until I can’t bear it any longer.

“Where to?”

He sighs, then rests his head against the headrest. He rubs absently at the top of his left knee. I wonder if he tweaked it or maybe it just hurts from sitting with his feet dangling down instead of elevated.

“Follow Coach.” Without opening his eyes, he points in front of us.

I hadn’t noticed the other man, but he’s pulled up beside me in a black truck with the windows down. I roll mine down so he can see me past the tinted windows and give him a thumbs-up.

I am not good at keeping my mouth shut, which often gets me into trouble. But I can’t just drive along and not ask some very basic questions. I open my mouth, but Jack cuts me off first.

“Later.” His tone is weary. He meets my stare, and his expression is so pleading that I find myself nodding.

When the black truck pulls to a stop in front of a big, brick house with pristine landscaping, I figure there can’t be any more surprises today. I know drunks don’t necessarily live in run-down shacks and all that, but this place is so nice.

“You’re home, Dad.” Jack’s voice is loud but curt.

I already knew it, but it still shocks me. His dad.

Coach is already parked and coming to help get the other man inside. Not just some other guy. Jack’s father. I didn’t even know Jack had a father. I mean, of course, he has a father, but he never talks about his family. I thought he was born in the arena with hockey skates on his feet.

The same way we got him out of the bar, we take him into the house. The TV in the living room is on, but otherwise the place is quiet and still.

Coach and I deposit Jack’s dad on the couch. I let out a long breath. His dad is thin, but he’s tall and limp, which makes him heavy.

Jack is taking in the place, the beer bottles and the dirty plates scattered on the coffee table.

“I got it from here,” Jack says, giving me a quick side-eye. Am I dismissed? Is that what’s happening?

I hate being ordered around and he hates people not listening to him. Every instinct in me wants to rebel. Not just with him, with everyone. However, I can see the way he’s fighting for control right now. I know this isn’t the first time this has happened. Probably not even the tenth. His dad is just another person that Jack takes care of. Meanwhile, he won’t let anyone take care of him.

“Okay,” I relent. “I’ll be outside.”

As I close the door behind me, I decide I don’t want to get back in the SUV, so I sit on the front step. It’s a nice neighborhood. A mix of houses, new and old, but all maintained well.

Minutes pass by before the front door opens again. Coach steps out and takes a seat next to me.

“Everything okay in there?” I ask. I don’t know this man, but I feel like we’re trauma buddies or something.

“Yeah. He’ll be okay. Thanks for your help.” He holds a big hand out to me. “I’m John.”

I guess I should have known his name wasn’t really Coach, but this whole situation has my brain not firing on all cylinders. John must read my confusion because he says, “I was Jackie’s hockey coach when he was a kid.”

“Ah. Makes sense,” I say. “Everly. I’m a friend.”

I’m not sure Jack would call me his friend but explaining the intricacies of how we know each other and how I’m the only one that was nearby and available at the exact time he needed me feels like overkill.

“Well, Everly, it’s nice to meet you. Jackie boy won’t be long. He’s just taking a few moments alone with his dad, probably scolding him. Not like it’ll do any good.” The last part is a quiet mutter more to himself than me.

“Does this kind of thing happen a lot?” I ask.

“Too often.” He nods his head, looking out toward the street.

We sit in silence until Jack finally emerges. He pauses, looking between us. John places both hands on his thighs and stands.

“I best be getting back to the bar.”

“Thank you,” Jack says to him.

“Don’t owe me any thanks. Sorry you had to drive all the way down here.” His gaze cuts to me. “Though I’m glad I got to meet this one. He never brings anyone around for me to meet.”

“I wonder why.” Jack runs a hand through his hair, but a small smile creeps into his expression. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Coach.”

“Looking forward to it. Take care of that knee.”

Coach gives us his back as he heads off to his truck. I slowly get to my feet.

“All good?” I ask, then wince inwardly. Of course he isn’t all good. “I mean, are you ready?”

“You can take my SUV back. I’m going to stay the night, and I’ll grab a ride home tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“I just need to grab my phone.” I’m still processing when he starts for his SUV. His limping is more pronounced, and his brow is creased with pain or frustration, probably both. He opens the passenger door, retrieves his phone, and heads back.

“Look, I know you’re going to hate this idea, but I think I should stay too. I can help.”

He opens his mouth with what is sure to be a protest, but I’ve had enough of his bullshit.

“Let me fucking help you.”

His brows rise in surprise. “Thank you for today, Ev, but this isn’t your mess to clean up.”

“And it’s yours?”

His clenched jaw is my answer.

“I’m not going back without you.”

He mutters something. The only word I catch is stubborn. Like he’s one to talk.

I march past him into the house, but because I’m not a jerk, I hold the door open for him. Now that I’ve made the decision to stay, I’m second-guessing myself. I don’t know what to do in this scenario. I’ve dealt with plenty of drunk girlfriends, getting them home and putting them to bed with a glass of water and Advil. I doubt that’s the play here.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“He’s sleeping it off. He’ll be fine.” Jack walks into the living room and I follow.

He blows out a breath that puffs out his cheeks as he looks around the mess. He reaches for a couple of empty bottles.

“I got this,” I say, falling in beside him and taking the bottles from him. “You should sit and elevate your leg.”

He must be in a lot of pain because he listens. Gingerly dropping down in a chair opposite the couch where his dad is snoring, he says, “You don’t need to clean up. I can do it later.”

“I don’t mind.” I’m holding as many bottles as I can in both hands. I turn to the opening of the living room. “Which way is the kitchen?”

“Take a right, end of the hall.”

When I find it, I set the bottles on the counter and then sigh as I look around. The kitchen is also a mess. I get to work cleaning. It’s nice to turn off my brain and accomplish something. I don’t love to clean under normal circumstances, but a good stress clean always makes me feel better.

It actually isn’t as bad as I thought originally. The bottles and cans go in the recycling. I put a few empty cups and dishes into the dishwasher and start it and then wipe down the counters.

As I’m finishing up, I go to the fridge. There’s a newspaper clipping hanging from a magnet. The paper is yellowed and curls at the edges around a young Jack. He’s wearing a Wildcat jersey and hat. The headline reads: Number 1 Draft Pick, Jack Wyld, Signs with Wildcats.

I smile at the angsty teen version of Jack staring back at me. I mean honestly, he hasn’t changed that much. His baby face is now chiseled and currently covered by a lot of unruly facial hair, but he has those same intense eyes and serious expression.

Movement catches my eye and I turn as Jack steps into the kitchen. He walks toward me, opening the freezer and grabbing a bag of frozen peas.

“Are you okay?” I glance at his knee indicating I mean physically. I know better than to touch on his emotional state. I wouldn’t be okay either.

“It hurts.”

My brows rise in shock. “Wow. I can’t believe you just admitted that.”

He glares but there’s no real malice behind it.

“So…”

“Thank you for today. I’m sorry I was an asshole. My dad…” He trails off and that muscle in his cheek jumps again. “Thank you, Ev.”

“You’re welcome.”

We stare at each other. The strain on his face reminds me that he’s in pain.

“You should probably elevate your knee.”

“Yeah.” He lifts the peas.

“Is there a shower in this giant house?” I ask. I smell like chlorine and sunscreen and am still in my suit underneath the dress.

His gaze travels over me from head to feet and back again slowly. “Yeah. Upstairs. Second door on the left.”

Still neither of us moves. I have so many questions that I don’t know where to start. It strikes me that I’ve known Jack for four years, have spent a lot of time with or around him, and yet I don’t really know him. I wonder if anyone does.