The Mistake(13)

Jeff’s features instantly harden.

“That could mean a decent signing bonus. And a contract. Money, Jeff.” Desperation tightens my throat. “We could hire someone else to run the garage, a full-time nurse for Dad. Maybe even pay off the house if the contract is big enough.”

My brother barks out a derisive laugh. “How big of a contract do you think you’ll actually land, John? Let’s be serious here.” He shakes his head. “Look, we talked about this. If you wanted to go pro, you should’ve gone the Major Junior route. But you wanted the college degree. You can’t have it both ways.”

Yeah, I did choose the degree. Because I knew damn well that if I picked the alternative, I’d never leave the league, and that would mean screwing over my brother. They would’ve had to pry that hockey stick out of my cold dead hands to stop me from playing.

But now that the time for Jeff and me to trade places is drawing near, I’m terrified.

“It could be a lot of money,” I mumble, but my feeble attempt to convince him doesn’t work—Jeff is already shaking his head.

“No way, Johnny. We had a deal. Even if you signed with a team, you wouldn’t get all that money up front, and it would take time to get everything here in order. I don’t have time, okay? The second they slap that diploma in your hand, I’m out of here.”

“Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you’re just going to skip town at the drop of a hat?”

“Kylie and I are leaving for Europe next May,” Jeff says quietly. “We’ll be gone the day after your graduation.”

Surprise slams into me. “Since when?”

“We’ve been planning this for a long time. I already told you—we want to travel for a couple of years before we get married. And then we want to spend some time in Boston before we look for a place in Hastings.”

My panic intensifies. “But that’s still your plan, right? Living in Hastings and working here?”

That was the deal we’d struck after I graduated high school. Jeff mans the fort while I’m in college, and then I take over for a few years before he and his fiancée settle down in this area, at which point he’ll run the shop again and I’ll be free.

Granted, I’ll also be twenty-five by then, and the odds of playing professional hockey won’t be as favorable. Yeah, I might land in the AHL somewhere, but I don’t know how many NHL teams would be interested in taking me on at that point.

“It’s still the plan,” he assures me. “Kylie wants to live in a small town and raise our kids here. And I like being a mechanic.”

Well, that makes one of us.

“I don’t mind taking care of Dad, either. I…” He breathes heavily. “I just need a break, okay?”

My throat has clamped shut, so I settle for a nod. Then I put out my smoke and force a smile, finally finding my voice. “I still need to change that headlight. Better get back to it.”

We walk inside, Jeff heading for the office while I wander back to the Buick.

Fifteen minutes later, I hang up my coveralls on one of the hooks on the wall, call out a hasty goodbye, and practically sprint to my pickup.

Hoping like hell my brother doesn’t realize I didn’t say hello to our father.





9




Logan


All I want to do tonight is sprawl on the couch and watch the first playoffs game of the season. I don’t even care that Boston isn’t playing—I’ll watch any game you put in front of me during the post-season. Nothing gets your blood going and heart racing more than playoffs hockey.

Dean, however, has other plans. He waits for me in the hall when I leave the bathroom after my shower, his green eyes narrowed in impatience. “Jesus Christ, bro, what the hell were you doing in there? Shaving your legs? Thirteen-year-old girls take shorter showers than that!”

“I was literally in there for five minutes.”

I brush past him and duck into my bedroom, but he follows me in. No sense of boundaries, this one.

“Hurry up and get dressed. We’re going to a movie and I don’t want to miss the previews.”

I stare at him. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

That gets me a middle finger. “You wish.”

“No, you wish¸ apparently.” I grab a pair of boxers from the top drawer and shoot him a pointed look. “Do you mind?”

“Seriously? I’ve seen your cock hundreds of times in the locker room. Get dressed already.” He folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot.

“Go away. I’m watching the Red Wings game tonight.”

“Aw, come on, you don’t even like Detroit. And it’s half-price ticket night at the theater—I’ve been waiting like a week to see this Statham movie just so we could go tonight.”

Now I’m gaping at him, because is he for real? “Hey, asshole, you’re filthy rich. If anyone should be paying full price for movie tickets, it’s you.”

“I was being nice, asshole. Waiting for the cheap day so you’d be able to afford it.” Then he flashes his trademark grin, the one that makes chicks drop their panties and dive onto his dick.

“Don’t give me your sex grin. It’s creeping me out.”

His mouth stays frozen in the sex-grin position. “I’ll stop smiling like this if you agree to be my date tonight.”

“You’re the most annoying pers—”

The grin widens, and he even throws a little wink in there.

Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.


The movie theater in Hastings only has three screens and carries one new release a week, which really limits the selection. Luckily for Dean, the Jason Statham movie he’s got a hard-on for is playing there. Dean’s a huge Statham fan. If someone told me he stands in front of his mirror speaking in a British accent and pretends to transport things around his bedroom? I’d buy it.

I’m still not in the mood to see a movie, but after Dean twisted my arm, I realized that getting out of the house might not be the worst idea. Hannah usually comes by after work on Wednesdays, so hopefully she and Garrett will already be asleep by the time Dean and I get home. And yes, I know her work schedule, sad pathetic loser that I am.

On the bright side, I haven’t been obsessing over her as much as usual. The person who monopolized my thoughts all weekend was not Hannah, but Grace. Christ, and don’t get me started on Monday’s oral spectacular. When I jerked off last night, it was to the memory of Grace’s firm, creamy thighs and hot, tight—

“Logan. Hey.”

I blink in confusion as Grace enters my line of vision. For a second, I wonder if my dirty mind somehow conjured up the image of her, but nope. She’s actually here, standing five feet from the box office.

“Hey,” I greet her.

She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s in a tight sweater, black yoga pants, and an unzipped blue windbreaker, looking like she stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. I kind of like the whole comfy-but-hot look she has going on.

I hear a soft ahem and notice there’s someone standing beside her. A curvy, raven-haired girl in a brown leather skirt and fuzzy red top. And she’s gaping at me. Like, jaw-scraping-the-floor gaping.

Someone pokes me from behind. “Dude,” Dean says irritably. “Stick to the plan. You, tickets. Me, popcorn.”

I thrust out the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. “Change of plans. I’ll grab the snacks.”

He rolls his eyes, then spares an admiring glance at Grace’s friend’s tits before ambling off to grab the tickets.

“What are you guys here to see?” I ask Grace.

She grins. “What do you think?” She holds up two tickets and I chuckle when I glimpse the title of the Statham movie.

Of course. I forgot what an action nut she is.

“That’s what we’re watching too. We should all sit together.”

Her friend makes another squeaky noise. Actually, it’s more of a gasp, with a bit of a wheeze thrown in there. There’s a lot going on in that one little sound.

Grace gestures to her friend. “This is Ramona. Ramona, this is Logan.”

The friend looks me up and down. “I know who he is.”

Aw, hell. I’ve seen that look before. Many, many times, on the faces of many, many women. As if she’s picturing me naked and inside her.

Too bad I’m not interested in fulfilling that fantasy. I’m wholly focused on Grace, and the parade of wicked images flashing through my mind. Like the way her eyes glazed over when my tongue first touched her clit. And the breathy noises she made when she came. And—

“It’s Grace’s birthday,” the friend announces.

Grace’s features crease in discomfort. “Ramona.”

“Shit, it is?” I grin at her. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”

I don’t miss the way her friend’s jaw slackens again, or how Grace shifts in visible embarrassment.

“Thanks.” Her bottom lip juts out glumly. “I’m nineteen today. Go me.”

I snicker. “I take it you’re not a birthday person?”

“Absolutely not. My mother scarred me for life.”

Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a birthday rap for you?”