Sunday, May 1, 2022
April Book of the Month: Listen by RJ Scott
Single Dads #5
He only wanted to make the best home for his new daughter; he never meant to fall in love with the man who might steal her away.
Nick and his husband had always wanted a big family, but when cancer took Danny six years ago, Nick was left a single dad of three. He never considered his broken heart would heal enough to add to his family, but as soon as he meets Teegan he knows he wants to adopt the little girl. Born profoundly deaf, Teegan has been rejected twice already in the adoption process and hasn't found her forever home. Nick wants to be her hero—her dad—and create a world that is safe and happy for her. He knows he wants to make her life perfect—he doesn't know how to go about it or understand the best thing to do for his family, and he needs help. Enter Elliot, and Nick finds himself falling for the frustrating, sexy, inspiring, and caring teacher who can make things right.
Elliot is wary of helping the man who appears more interested in public opinion than the needs of his own family. But, learning that Nick, wealthy and entitled, is now adopting a deaf child, Elliot knows this is a step too far and strides into battle. As the child of deaf adults, Elliot knows he is the best person to advocate for little Teegan and, if needed, he is determined to intervene and halt the adoption. Nothing and no one will get in Elliot's way when it falls on him to protect Teegan.
This single dad story features a widower struggling to make things right, a teacher battling for a child's wellbeing, an adorable toddler, three loving siblings, a home with a view of the ocean, and families standing behind them both.
Another entry in the author's Single Dads series and it's another win win for this reader. I've said it before and I'll say it again(and no doubt again and again and again😉): nothing is sexier than a man who dotes on children, who cares for them, gives them a stable, loving, and secure home. I still remember the first time I found this connection driving up the beauty of the man's aura, it was my junior year in high school and a classmate was caring for his little brother during the homecoming pep rally(it was open to the families as well as us students which is why he was carrying his 2 year old little brother at school), I'll admit he was someone I never really gave a second glance to but at that moment, my interests were piqued and ever since I've found it to be incredibly sexy. So you can imagine when one of my favorite authors created a series surrounding single dads . . . well lets just say I was first in line for all of it.
RJ Scott has never let me down and Listen is no different.
I was definitely intrigued by Nick with his friendship to Cameron in Always(book 4) and by the third time his name was mentioned in that book I just knew he'd be getting a journey all on his own and boy did he! Nick and Elliot having an established "relationship" when we first meet them, they by no means fall under the "enemies to lovers" trope but certainly are no where near the "friends to lovers" umbrella either, I feel they are nearly "acquaintances to lovers" so perhaps a little of all three. Whichever trope you see them as, their journey is not to be missed.
I love the attention to details that the author gives to the deaf characters but also the hearing ones as well and the difficulties(I don't like that word but nothing else seems adequate or appropriate either so I guess I'll stick with "difficulties") in communication they face. I've not seen the movie CODA(truth is I hadn't heard of it until the Oscar nominations were announced earlier this year) and have no idea if it influenced the author's research or want in telling Nick and Elliot's story but I couldn't help but think of the clips I've seen over the past weeks and realize I've never given much thought to how access to(or lack thereof) communication some face. I've grown up around disabilities and health issues since the day I was born and difficulties(again not liking the use of that word) were just dealt with on a daily basis so one assumes when there is a need for ASL it's available. RJ Scott, through Nick and Elliot's story, has made me see that isn't always how it works and the need for it to work that way has to happen.
Now, having said all that, don't think Listen is a preachy school lesson on the right and wrongs of language barriers in the worlds' educational systems because it's far from it. Listen, above all else is a beautifully written love story filled with friendship, disagreements, laughter, wariness, family, love, heat, lust, and plenty of heart. I just felt the need to put voice to what her words stirred in me, maybe you won't see it, maybe you don't need to see it because it's a daily battle for you or a loved one. At the end of the day, the end of the book(which I never really wanted to happen because I hate to say goodbye to these characters), Listen entertains. Listen warms your heart. Listen makes you smile. Maybe Listen will make you think but simply put: Listen is a fantastical delight!
RATING:
Chapter One
Elliot
It sucks that I’m crushing hard on a parent of one of my pupils.
Nick Horner fueled more than one of my private fantasies and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. From his dark hair to his green-hazel eyes, he was my celebrity crush, broad, and strong, with an ass you could bounce a quarter off. And I could wax lyrical for days over his face— his perfect face— with his gorgeous smile, dimples, and cheekbones, and lips just this side of plump and so pink I could almost taste them. He was so sexy he stole my breath, and I wanted him under me, on top of me, in me, me in him, all ways… badly.
Unfortunately, his daughter, Hannah, was in my English class.
Not unfortunate because she was a bad student. Not at all. In fact, she was a shining light in a class full of entitled rich kids at St. Josephs, and I mostly had good things to say about her in among the worries. It was just unfortunate that he was the parent of a child at the school and was off-limits, despite being my idea of perfection.
My lust-filled thoughts had begun when we bonded over pineapple on pizza at the last Queer Straight Alliance fundraising event. Or rather, we hadn’t bonded, but ended up teasing each other. Nick took the stance that it was the worst thing in the world, and I’d told him it was the best kind of pizza. That had been a few months back, when Hannah had only just joined my class, and the pizza-bonding had been a fun way to pass ten minutes, but nothing more. I flirted. I think he kind of flirted back, but I wasn’t sure, and it was never going to go anywhere.
“Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza,” he’d said right by my ear when I wasn’t expecting it. I’d spun around so fast that a mushroom appetizer had flown off my plate and barely missed hitting him in his perfect face.
I think I held up my end of the conversation, but there’d been nothing more than a buzz in my head, until I realized he’d been staring at me with a frown.
Then, I’d lost the plot entirely, made some joke about how we should add a new QSA seminar on how to admit to your horrified family that you liked pineapple on pizza. He’d snorted a laugh then, and it was as if I had a superpower that only worked on him, because I didn’t make people laugh. I was too serious, too intense— I’d heard it all. He’d smiled with me, not at me, and for a second there, with half a shrimp special in my hands, I’d thought I’d seen the ever-present aloofness in him melt away as he stared into my eyes with an intensity I’d never experienced. Then, he’d exited stage left, and I got the feeling I’d done something wrong— that maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that pineapple on pizza was definitely a thing.
We’d met at a couple of other school events after that, and I swear there’d been something there— an indefinable thing that was part attraction, part wariness, and wholly awkward, although it never went past chatting, and always ended with us exchanging handshakes and going our separate ways.
But now, for the first time, I was meeting Nick in an official capacity as Hannah’s teacher at our very first parent-teacher conference of the year, and I was excited, and nervous, and a bit sad that I couldn’t get my flirt on. I had important things to say to him about Hannah, and I needed to stay one hundred percent professional and certainly not imagine Nick Horner naked.
I grabbed a cinnamon roll from my bag— I’d missed any kind of meal break to write reports from yesterday’s parent-teacher meetings but I always carried emergency rations just in case. I even managed to finish the roll because Nick Horner was currently running late, the clock ticking off the minutes as I added a few more notes to my list. I was so lost in the words, brushing cinnamon roll crumbs from the paper as I wrote, that the sharp knock on the door startled the hell out of me.
“Come in,” I called, and a very guilty Nick Horner poked his head around the corner.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured.
That was one of the things I liked about him— despite his money, and his celebrity, he wasn’t entitled and he’d even thought to apologize. This private school, the most expensive in San Diego, wasn’t used to parents who were humble enough to apologize for their tardiness.
“It’s fine, please come in.” I gestured to the selection of chairs.
He took the one opposite me, and I got my first look at the man who took up way too much real estate in my thoughts. He was nothing like I recalled, not bright and engaged, but instead exhausted— his eyes bracketed with lines, his normally bright hazel eyes dull. He wasn’t in a suit, but jeans and a T-shirt, with a ball cap pushing back his dark hair and even though he was a tall man, he was hunched in on himself.
Something wasn’t right.
“Is everything okay?” I know I sounded worried.
“Yeah, of course, and sorry again, I was stuck… just stuck,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat, and wriggled in the chair to sit more upright.
“No worries,” I reassured him.
“It’s been one of those days. Weeks.” He waved off his words, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “So uhm, I’m here for Hannah’s report?”
I opened the file and went through all the usual items, her academic achievements in my English class, which for the main part were exemplary. Nick smiled softly at most of it, but it seemed as if the smile was difficult to hold, and he kept staring at anything but me. He was distracted and I wondered if he was getting enough sleep— or any at all. Maybe, he was deep into a new documentary and working all hours? Who knew? He listened with a sudden burst of interest when I talked about Hannah’s schoolwork, even wanting to know how he could help her at home. Then, for long moments, he zoned out. Was tonight the best time to talk seriously to him?
“I do have some concerns,” I began.
He finally glanced at me. His body language screamed defensive and exhausted, and I hesitated a moment before telling him what I felt because he seemed so damn brittle. I didn’t know what was going on with him, but he wasn’t the Nick I’d met before.
“Concerns? About my Hannah?” He was confused, shocked even.
How did I explain that things weren’t quite right? I’d been teaching for three years at St. Joseph’s now, and with Hannah’s cohort for this semester, but I was still a new teacher and sometimes struggled to explain things I couldn’t back up with black and white test scores and statistics. Hannah shone in verbal reasoning, her intelligence put her at the top of my class, but she lost focus easily, and her homework assignments weren’t consistent. I’d tried talking to her other teachers, but they’d given me the look. The one that said I should understand Hannah’s father was a celebrity, and maybe, I should let sleeping dogs lie in case we lost his donations.
They clearly didn’t know me very well— I was the champion of the underdog, and Hannah was struggling.
“I wanted to ask if everything is okay at home?” I said.
His body language shifted, going from shocked to closed off to frustrated. Maybe that wasn’t the best first question, and I glanced down at my list. Seeing him here had thrown me off-balance, and watching his stress had made me think there was something bigger than just what was happening with Hannah.
“Everything is fine.” He was quick to defend, as if he’d almost expected me to say something and had rehearsed what to say.
My chest tightened at the sudden iciness in the room. “I’m asking because Hannah hasn’t managed to hand in an assignment on time this semester, and I’ve noticed a pattern in her not concentrating in class—”
“You literally just said Hannah is one of your best students,” he interrupted.
“Hannah is one of the most vocal in class, always backing up her comments with thoughtful clarification, but I feel as if her academic progress doesn’t align with my high expectations for her. In a publicly funded school, there are procedures to follow for supporting students, but I’m hitting nothing but brick walls here at St. Joseph’s, and so I’ve gone straight to you, her dad.”
He raised an eyebrow, and I got the feeling he had a low opinion of my expectations and my comment on how the exclusive St. Joseph’s worked. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey with his expression, so I forged ahead.
“I feel that, at times, she’s over-engaged in my classroom, almost obsessive, and then appears scattered, so maybe she would benefit from a private assessment for what I feel could be some level of attention deficit.”
“What? Like ADHD?”
“I don’t know exactly—”
“I don’t need people thinking they can tell me what’s best for my kids.”
“Mr. Horner—”
“I know she’s been scattered, but have you thought that maybe it’s your teaching?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a new teacher.”
“No. I’ve been here three years—”
“Which is nothing.”
“I agree, it could be my teaching methods,” I began diplomatically. I’d never said I was the best teacher in the world, but I knew my kids, and this wasn’t about the teaching, at least I didn’t think it was. I was thrown because he didn’t seem to be respecting my opinion, and I’d always had the impression he respected others.
Not that I knew where the impression came from— maybe because I’d seen the documentaries he’d made? Or because he hadn’t laughed me out of his space for liking pineapple on pizza?
“So why have none of her other teachers reached out?”
Great— he was going straight there. “I’m the only one who currently considers there to be an issue.”
“And there you go.” His tone was dead. “I don’t pay thousands to this damn place for one inexperienced teacher to jump to conclusions. She’s tired, having to take the slack for everything because of me— because I’m letting everyone down. Look, she’s working too hard, that’s all.” He left his seat and began to pace, agitation in every line of him. Gone was the smooth guy who didn’t have a hair out of place, in his place was a man who was on edge.
I was at a disadvantage staying in my chair, so I stood and held out a hand to stop him pacing. I didn’t mean to touch him, but he sure as hell walked into my hand and then flinched and stumbled back, only to catch himself and then straighten to his full height, which was a good six inches over mine.
I’m not intimidated. On the other hand, do I need to call security?
“Mr. Horner,” I began in an even tone. “I think we’re talking at cross purposes. I’m not jumping to conclusions, and I care deeply about the success or failure of my students.”
“My daughter is not a failure,” he snapped.
“I shouldn’t have used that word. I never said she was.” I raised a hand again. “Let’s start this again. I’ve been observing Hannah, and her usual group of friends seems to be pulling away, and she’s quiet, less engaged in my class, and in my observations, I wonder if you’ve considered having her evaluated for attention deficit. Girls are infinitely better at masking ADHD than boys, and it’s a wide spectrum that covers a multitude of—”
“We’ve been through a lot.” He was good at interrupting me. “You do know she lost her other dad, right?”
“I know, a few years ago.” I wish I hadn’t said that when I saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Are you implying there’s a time limit on grief?”
“No. What?” This conversation was seriously going off the tracks. “I didn’t say anything of the sort, losing a parent will never leave you. I understand that—”
“She’s fine.”
I wished he’d just let me talk. “I thought that—”
He didn’t even wait to hear what I was saying, exiting the room and slamming the door so hard the wall shook.
I stared at the space he’d been taking up as if it had all the answers. Five minutes, that was all that had passed in the aborted meeting, and I’d never witnessed such a range of emotions. I didn’t know how long I stared, but it was long enough to conclude that Nick Horner had lost his shit in a spectacular way. I picked up Hannah’s paperwork and shuffled it into a pile— lost in thought when the door flew open again— and Nick walked back in. He closed the door behind him and leaned there, his chin on his chest.
“Christ,” Nick muttered, then pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“Mr. Horner?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to spark anything weird. There were only maybe five steps between us, and I was close enough to see his wet eyes— it wasn’t fear I was feeling, but compassion. “Nick?”
He winced when I used his name. Had I overstepped? Or was there something else going on?
“Do you have a bathroom?” he asked.
I gestured to the end of the conference room, and he headed that way. I followed him a few steps, wondering if he needed something, confused as hell, and when he didn’t close the door but just splashed water on his face, I waited at the doorway for him to talk.
“Do you need me to get anyone?” I asked.
He turned toward me so fast I took a step back. “ No— I know there’s something going on with Hannah.” He pressed a wet hand to his chest and left a damp spot there. “I know in here that I’m letting her down because I can’t get my head straight, and she’s carrying a load I should be lifting.” He yanked paper towels from the supply and scrubbed his face, then threw them into the trash can. “I came back to apologize, but…” He pressed fingers to his temples and winced.
“Hannah is an exceptional student, and I just want what’s best for her.”
“I know that I’m failing at this, and if people find out how about her, how do you think this will look to them?” he asked tiredly, supporting his weight by gripping the vanity.
Wait? What? He was upset because he didn’t want people to know his daughter was struggling? “Sorry?” I was angry then. I couldn’t help it, and the irrational side of me spilled out all over him. “Are you saying you care more about your media profile than your daughter?”
“No. What?” He looked horrified. “That’s not what I meant. Of course, I don’t think that.”
“Really?”
“No! Yes. You don’t understand. There are people who think they know me and judge me for every goddamn move my family makes.”
His anger slipped, and in its place was a vulnerability so raw that I took a step closer and raised a hand. I didn’t know what I would do, touch him in reassurance, pat him, thump him for shouting at me? God knows, but he was confusing the hell out of me.
“You don’t know what it’s like for everyone to be watching you all the time!” he said and then slumped.
I reached for him, compassion welling inside me, and for a second, he covered my hand with his. As if he recalled something terrible, his eyes widened, and I didn’t understand how we’d gone from him being angry to needing compassion.
“I can listen if you need me to.”
He stared at me in silence, and then placed a warm hand against my left cheek.
“Pineapple,” he murmured. “You threw a mushroom thing at me and made me smile. Your eyes make me think… You’re the only one since Danny that I’ve ever…”
“Huh?”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” The apology was raw.
I raised a hand to cover his. “It’s okay, Mr. Horner.”
“Nick. My name is Nick.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He sounded broken, and there was anger there as well, only it seemed directed at himself. “I’m fucking up, and I’m not ready. This is your fault. No, it’s not your fault. It’s on me, and I don’t think I should do this, but I wanted to.”
We stared at each other in silence, and we were so close that if he shifted an inch or two we’d be kissing. I should’ve moved back, but instead he cursed, and the curse came from a place deep inside him, and it dripped with pain. He hauled me into his arms, and we kissed. It was more than just a kiss, it was an all-consuming claiming of each other, and after a moment of panic over what we were doing, I gripped his shirt and gave as good as I got.
I forgot everything but the taste of Nick, and the way he tugged me forwards and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us and lifting me— lifting me— onto the counter, and insinuating himself between my legs. Both of us hard, the kiss was everything, and desperate to get my hands on him, I wrapped my arms around his neck, lacing my fingers together, and someone whimpered.
Me.
“Please tell me to stop,” he pleaded.
I tightened my grip. “More,” was all I could force out, and we went back at it like kids under the bleachers, all uncoordinated hands and lips.
“You taste of cinnamon,” he blurted as he drew breath.
“Rolls.” I was incoherent as I kissed him again, our tongues tangling, and his hold solid on my back.
Then as quickly as it started, it stopped.
He released me, and stumbled away, his back hitting the wall, and as he wiped his mouth, his eyes widened.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I’m sorry, this should be about Hannah!” He scrunched his hair as if he was going to pull it out from the roots.
“Let’s talk then.”
“It’s too late. It’s too much.” He looked destroyed, “I can’t even look at you.”
Ouch, that hurt, and I felt exposed and disrespected, with my lips still wet from his kisses.
I wanted to shout at him, but before I could say anything, he yanked at the door to leave. I followed him out into the room, but he was heading through the main door, and even though he didn’t slam it, the end of our meeting was final. So many lines had been crossed, and none of what had just happened made any real sense.
Was it worse that I was furious at his denial that anything was wrong with Hannah, or that I just wished he’d come back?
Please come back.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
Listen #5
Sunday's Sport Stats: Changing the Rules by Brigham Vaughn
Rule #1: Don’t fall in love with the coach
Gabriel Theriault’s been skating on thin ice for the past two seasons with Toronto but his arrest following an off-ice fight is the final straw.
His only shot at redemption is to start over in Evanston and prove that he still has what it takes to be a pro player.
No more fights. No more drinking. No more random hookups.
Rule #2: The team always comes first
Years ago, Lance Tate’s on-ice injury ended his career and marriage.
His long road to recovery led to a job he loves as assistant coach with the Evanston Otters, and he wouldn’t dream of giving that up.
Until he meets Gabriel.
The French-Canadian is nineteen years younger, burdened by too much responsibility, and the most intriguing man Lance has ever met.
He’s also the absolute last man Lance should get involved with.
The draw between them is impossible to resist—even if it could cost them the game they love.
Their only chance at winning it all is to change the rules.
For trigger warnings, please use the 'look inside' feature.
PROLOGUE
FOUR MONTHS PRIOR
“Ostie de tabarnak de sacrament, de câlisse de ciboire de crisse de marde!” Gabriel Theriault swore and kicked a trash can, sending it skittering down the dirty alley, leaving a trail of garbage in its wake. “Fuck!”
But it didn’t matter what language he swore in. It wasn’t going to make his father any easier to find.
Gabriel glanced at his phone, his stomach churning. No news on Alain’s whereabouts and if Gabriel delayed any longer, he’d be late for the game. He’d received more fines from Coach Casey than he could count this season, and his reputation and future career were already in tatters.
He jogged away from the filthy, reeking alley where he’d found his father last time and got in his car, anger bubbling up once again.
The stress of trying to deal with his father’s condition and the chaos it led to had taken its toll on Gabriel’s hockey career. And sometimes, on days like today, his father still managed to slip away from the caregiver and wander off.
Gabriel had checked all of Alain’s usual spots with no luck. The aide had been out searching too but she hadn’t found him either. Gabriel pulled out his phone, tempted to call 911. Should he initiate an official search for Alain? He’d be pissed if Gabriel did, but the risk of exposure or dehydration was high. It was late spring though. The weather was soft and mild, and he had only been gone an hour or so. What was the right call?
Gabriel twisted the key in the ignition and glanced at the clock, hope sinking into despair. Now he had no choice but to give up the search or miss a playoff game. Fuck, he’d be cutting it close to make it to the arena as it was.
And what was that smell? Ugh. He must have gotten something on the soles of his leather shoes. He just hoped it wasn’t splattered on the hems of his suit or there would be one more thing for Coach Casey to ream him out about.
Gabriel called the caregiver.
“I have to get to the game,” he said. “If you haven’t found him in two more hours, call the police. His photo and medical info are in the binder if the authorities need it.”
“Yes, Mr. Theriault. I’ll do my best to find him. I called a few friends to help. I hope that was all right.” Her voice was tentative. “They’re medical professionals and will respect confidentiality, I swear.”
Gabriel swallowed back the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “Oui. Merci. I … I thank you. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to play while he’s missing but I have obligations and—”
“I understand. We’ll keep looking.”
“Thank you,” he said roughly. “Thank you. I mean that.”
He hung up, pressing the accelerator as hard as he dared. Despite the speed, the drive across Toronto to the Fisher Cats’ arena took forever and Gabriel skidded into the dressing room with little time to spare, earning him a glare from Coach.
“Nice of you to join us today, Theriault. You’re on the top line tonight. Don’t make me regret it.”
Gabriel muttered an apology, promised Coach he’d make him proud, then dressed for the game on autopilot, wrapped his sticks just the way he liked them, and dodged the team’s starting goaltender, Noah Boucher, when he looked like he might come over to talk.
Gabriel skated onto the ice for warmups, taking his frustration out on the puck, whacking it into the net with sharp, angry slapshots. Matt Carlson, his defensive partner, gave him a raised eyebrow when he skated past. “You okay there, Theriault?”
“Fine,” he grunted, taking a whack at another puck. It pinged off the post on Noah’s net with far more force than necessary and his roommate held up his blocker in a “what the fuck?” motion.
“Whatever’s going on, you better get your shit together,” Matty said under his breath fifteen minutes later as they skated off the ice and tromped through the tunnel. “This isn’t just any game.”
“Merde! You think I don’t fucking know that?” Gabriel snarled, anxiety making it impossible to keep a lid on his temper. “It’s the final game against Boston in the third round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I know what’s at stake.”
“Do you?” Matty whirled on him. “Because your head has barely been in the games lately. Our defense has sucked and if we didn’t have Boucher saving our asses, we’d be toast!”
“Guys!” Coach Casey barked. “Cool it. Both of you. Save the aggression for out on the ice.”
Gabriel nodded tightly, his jaw aching as he clenched his teeth. Then again, when didn’t it ache? He woke up every morning with pain radiating through his jaw and neck and into his head. Tension, the trainer had said.
No shit.
“Ostie de colon,” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you call me?” Matty asked, bristling. He might not be fluent in Quebecois profanity, but he’d spent enough time with Gabriel over the years to pick up some of it.
“I called myself an idiot, not you.” He dropped into his stall in the dressing room and closed his eyes, the hot press of helpless fear making his lungs tight.
Gabriel knew he was in bad shape when he’d pissed off a coach often described as the most mellow guy in the NHL and a teammate who was generally a big, loud teddy bear, but God, the terror he felt at not knowing what was going on with his father warred with his duty to his team.
Please keep him safe, he whispered in a silent prayer, pressing his hand to the ornate fleur de lis cross tattooed on his chest. Let me win this game and keep my father safe.
Twenty minutes later Gabriel got in position for the puck drop, gripping his stick, trying to wipe all thoughts except hockey out of his head. He’d been with the Fisher Cats for years. He knew this team, knew Coach Casey’s plays, knew this ice, and knew their opponents.
When the puck dropped, the Boston Harriers struck with swift, deadly accuracy like the hawks they were named after. They were a damn good team and there was no room for sloppiness from Gabriel tonight. He tangled with one of Boston’s wingers immediately, getting in his space, giving him no room to pass or score.
Gabriel reveled in the chance to release the pent-up aggression inside him. The hard clack of sticks as they fought for the puck was music to his ears, as was the player’s frustrated grunt when Gabriel finally swiped the rubber away from him and threaded the needle between his teammate’s legs to pass it to his Captain, Dustin Fowler.
Gabriel got a sharp jab of an elbow to the side in retaliation from his opponent, but he was gone, skating after Fowler. Blood sang in his veins, his body thrumming with anticipation when Boston snagged the puck back.
Back and forth, up and down the ice, his legs burning, his stick fast, his mind sharp as he and Matty worked together to keep the puck away from Noah’s goal. However fucked Gabriel’s head was, however pissed at him Matty was, they were clicking tonight. He needed this win to prove that he wasn’t washed up. He still had what it took to belong on a winning NHL team. He needed this for himself and for the team.
“Nice one, boys,” Coach Casey praised when they dropped onto the bench after the line change and, for a few fleeting moments, Gabriel felt a sliver of hope that he could get his head back in the game, regain a fraction of the skill he’d once had, and help his team win the damn Cup.
But the moment he was out on the ice for the third period, it all went wrong.
Luke Crawford delivered a shoulder check right to Fowler that knocked Fowler to the ice. Gabriel’s brain flooded with memories of the dirty hit Crawford had dealt to Noah last season. The one that had fucked up their chances for a Cup win and taken Noah out of the game for nearly ten months. The one that Gabriel should have been there to prevent.
Rage filled him, fueled by the guilt and anger and helplessness that had been building in him since then. He went after Crawford, shoving him with his stick and headbutting him.
Crawford grunted, taken by surprise. Gabriel dropped his stick and tore off his gloves, grappling with him, hanging on to his jersey with one hand while he slugged him with the other. Too fast for Fowler to block completely but he managed to dodge enough that it only glanced off his jaw.
Crawford snarled, “That the best you can do? When are you going to admit you’re a washed-up has-been like your old man?”
The world went red, Gabriel letting out a bellow as he tried to shove Crawford back against the boards.
“Crisse! J’vais t’en câlisser une tabarnaque. Tu vas t’en souvenir crissement longtemps!”
He yelled it in English too, calling him a bastard and threatening to punch him so hard he’d remember it for years. Shouting that he wasn’t a has-been, and neither was his father.
But linesmen were there before Gabriel could follow through, yanking them apart, his teammates helping when Gabriel lunged for Crawford again.
“You, penalty box!” the ref barked, pointing at Crawford. He turned his attention to Gabriel. “And you, dressing room. You’re out for the rest of the game.”
Fowler, his ever-loyal Captain, argued with the ref but he wouldn’t be swayed. With the clock winding down, the multiple penalties he’d undoubtedly earned were more than enough to knock him out for the remainder of the game.
The ref announced his ruling. “Boston, number fifty-four, five-minute major for fighting. Toronto, number eighteen, two-minute minor for high sticking, five-minute major fighting, and ten-minute misconduct for instigating.”
Seventeen goddamn minutes. Coach would crucify him. Just a few more seconds and Gabriel would have managed a solid hit too. God, he needed that, needed the rush of adrenaline, was desperate for the way it made his mind go clear and sharp. Needed anything but the aching worry about his father and the guilt over not doing enough to protect Noah last season. That desperation flooded over him now, returning in a rush of stomach-churning emotion when he skated past Crawford on his way to the tunnel, who only gave him an arrogant nod, baring his teeth in a snarl at Gabriel through the glass.
They won that night, but after the post-game reaming Coach Casey gave him about his penalty allowing Boston to score on the power play and nearly costing them the game, Gabriel wasn’t in a celebratory mood.
Before he hit the showers or did anything else, he checked his phone and found a message from the caregiver. Found Alain. He’s a little banged up but nothing too critical and he’s home resting now.
Relief hit first, then worry about what she meant by banged up. God. They couldn’t keep doing this. He had to come up with a better solution. Something to keep his father out of harm’s way.
Gabriel pushed his sweaty hair off his face, helpless and sick. The fight had made him feel purposeful, full of energy, but it wasn’t enough. He could do little to help his father, but he needed something. The fight hadn’t been enough to purge the roiling emotions in him.
Maybe a fuck …
Gabriel tore through his post-game routine and was out of the dressing room in record time, hair still dripping onto his suit collar. He stared at his phone while he walked down the hall of the arena, debating if it was a Tinder or a Grindr night. Fuck it, maybe both.
He got in the elevator, distractedly jabbing at the button for the parking garage as he scanned the threesome app searching the profiles of couples looking for a third. Maybe two people would be enough to pull him out of his head.
Gabriel felt like a shitty son, not going to see for himself that his father was okay, but he couldn’t be the cool, calming presence his father needed right now. No, better to fuck it out of his system and go to his father’s house with a clear head tomorrow. The night caregiver would look out for Alain in the meantime. He was home and safe. Gabriel could take a few hours to not think about what a mess his life was. He deserved that at least.
Mmm, maybe that couple … He eyed the explicit photos appreciatively as he flicked through them. Yes, they’d do. They were exceptionally attractive, and he liked what their profile had to say, their energy coming through in their words and promising him a fun time. That energy was what attracted him to a person the most. Noah had burned bright. Gabriel had never fooled himself into thinking it was love between them, but his roommate had always been a joyous distraction in bed.
But his injury last season had ended their casual hookups, Noah turning single-minded about returning to play. And then he’d met Simon.
Ahh well, there were plenty of other willing and eager people out there for the taking. Gabriel hadn’t fucked everyone in Toronto.
Yet.
The elevator doors opened, and Gabriel blindly stepped forward, typing out a message to the couple. He ran smack dab into something immovable and rocked back on his heels. He glanced up to see Luke Crawford glaring at him, a wall of human blocking his path.
“Come back for more, Theriault?” His voice was a low, menacing rumble.
Gabriel glanced around, confused as to what Crawford was doing in the players’ parking area but he realized he’d gotten out on the visitors’ level. Boston’s charter bus idled across the lot, ready to take the team to the airport.
“No.” He rubbed his head. “I just got off on the wrong floor.”
“You really are a chip off the old block. When we all played up there in Calgary, everyone knew he had a screw loose. Especially there at the end.”
And like that, the exhaustion was gone, replaced by a white-hot fury that sent searing rage through Gabriel. He threw himself at Crawford, not caring that the guy stood six inches taller, his only goal shoving his fist through the back of his skull. He nearly took Crawford down, but he righted himself, letting out a grunt of annoyance when his own shove couldn’t knock Gabriel off his feet. Gabriel braced himself and threw one punch, then another, pain shooting through his knuckles when he made contact with Crawford’s mouth.
“You don’t talk about him that way,” Gabriel shouted, but the words were muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. Crawford got a punch in to his ribs that forced the air out of him with a gasp and he staggered back a moment before he threw himself into it again. He dimly heard the sound of yelling and feet pounding on pavement.
“Hey! Hey! Break it up, guys!” a security guard hollered, yanking Gabriel away from Crawford. Gabriel fought him off, snarling, but several more people arrived, hauling them apart and Gabriel’s arms were pinned behind his back in a grip he couldn’t shake. The guard was easily twice his size.
“Fuck, they’re players,” someone muttered. “Shit, what do we do?”
“Police are on the way!” someone shouted.
Gabriel groaned, the anger leaching out of him as reality settled over him. He was in deep, deep shit.
“Câlisse,” he whispered.
Crawford spat on the ground, leaving a froth of red on the stained pavement. He bared his teeth and through the tinge of blood, Gabriel saw the black square of a missing tooth.
Gabriel was screwed.
“Hey, punkin’,” Lance Tate said cheerfully as he answered his daughter’s call.
Hailey laughed. “Geeze, I’m twenty-seven and engaged to be married, Dad. Not sure I’m much of a punkin’ anymore.”
“You’ll always be my punkin’,” he protested. “Unless you don’t want to be.”
“Nah, of course I do.” Her tone softened. “You know that.”
“Just making sure.”
Sometimes Lance wasn’t sure. Because the truth was, he’d been a terrible father. Hailey might say otherwise now, but he’d been estranged from his children for far too long. It hadn’t all been his fault. He hadn’t meant to abandon them. Wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it intentionally, but the head injury he’d had when Hailey was seven had ended his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his kids.
He could hardly blame his ex-wife, Cammie, for protecting Hailey and Scott from his erratic behavior. But by the time Lance had recovered and been ready to be a father again, the kids hardly knew him. The job offer in Buffalo had been too good to pass up, but it had taken him farther from them. Cammie had been the one to raise them. The one who’d been there for every parent-teacher conference and scraped knee. She’d been the one who slipped money under their pillows for the tooth fairy and taught the kids to ride bikes. She’d been their sole parent for far too long.
Scott still resented him. Lance understood why, but it stung that they weren’t close. Lance had tried. God had he tried. But though they texted periodically, and Scott always replied eventually, he was never the one to initiate sending messages. Half the time Hailey was the one who let big news about her brother slip.
Lance had found out about Scott’s college acceptance that way, and about his new job several months ago.
The three of them, plus Hailey’s fiancé, Jay, had met for dinner a few days later to celebrate but Hailey had done all of the planning and Lance had wondered if his son would have bothered otherwise.
The painful truth was, he probably didn’t care to.
“Dad?” Hailey’s voice pulled Lance from his thoughts, and he let out a little laugh.
“Sorry, I was off on another planet, I guess,” he said ruefully. “What were you saying?”
“Just asking if you were planning to bring a date to the wedding. Jay and I are trying to get a rough idea of the headcount.”
“Oh geez.” Lance ran a hand across his short hair. “I don’t know. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
Nor was he likely to. He could hardly remember the last time he went out on a date. It was late May now. Was he likely to have a date before the wedding in December? No, probably not. Not with the Evanston Otters heading to the Cup finals. He’d have a little time off in the summer but then it would be the pre-season, followed by the regular season. As an assistant coach, he traveled with the team, so it wasn’t like he’d have the opportunity to meet someone.
“Oh, hmm, I wonder if I can set you up with anyone,” Hailey said. “Oh! I have this great co-worker, Sue. She’s a little younger than you but not by much and she’s absolutely fantastic.”
“Ahh, thanks, kiddo, but no. I don’t need you to set me up on a date,” Lance said with an awkward laugh.
The truth was, he’d sort of lost interest in dating women. And he’d had even less luck with men. But his family knew nothing about that side of him and he didn’t think that would change any time soon.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind!” Hailey said brightly.
“I will. And if I meet someone before December, I’ll let you know. But for now, no plus one for me.”
“We’ll put you down as a maybe.”
Lance smiled. Ever the optimist, his daughter.
They talked for a while longer but eventually he had to let her go so she could make dinner. He needed to do the same, but he leaned his elbows on the counter and stared out the window of his apartment at the darkening skies beyond, acutely and painfully conscious of just how lonely he was.
And then his phone buzzed with a message from Ken Daniels.
Lance let out a rueful chuckle as he read the urgent text. He might be lonely but there was always hockey.
Forty minutes later, he took a seat across the desk from Ken, the head coach for the Evanston River Otters. He stared blankly at him. “You want us to do what?”
“We were approached by a player for the Toronto Fisher Cats about a trade.”
“That’s … not how this is usually done,” Lance said, baffled.
“I’m well aware.” Ken’s tone was dry.
“Sorry. Of course you are. This is just … bizarre.”
“No, I hear you.” Ken huffed. “If it was anyone but Boucher, I might tell them to fuck off, but he’s …”
Daniel’s didn’t finish his thought, but Noah Boucher’s name carried a great deal of weight. He was a top goaltender in the NHL. Well-respected and well-liked by players and coaches both. He was also the first out man in the league. He’d changed the game of hockey forever.
Boucher wouldn’t do this lightly.
Lance rubbed his forehead. “What happened again?”
“Gabriel Theriault got into a nasty on-ice fight with Luke Crawford during the conference finals. They took it off-ice after the game. Crawford is raging about what a loose cannon Theriault is, but the league talked him out of pressing charges, so it won’t be a police matter. They will handle it internally. Both players have been fined and suspended but because of prior issues and the fact Theriault was the instigator in the initial fight, they’re coming down hard on him. He’ll be suspended through the end of the season and Toronto is done with him. They want him gone next season.”
“And they want us to pick him up?”
“Boucher does, anyway.”
“I mean, I don’t know Theriault’s reputation that well,” Lance said thoughtfully. “I know at one point he was burning up the league in assists and he’s fast as hell but …”
“Was being the operative word,” Daniel countered.
“Not anymore?”
He shrugged. “He’s … erratic. Some games he’s the best D-man on the ice, some games he’s a wreck. No one knows what’s going on with him. Toronto’s tested him for drug use but so far everything’s consistently come up clean.”
“You’re considering him though?”
Daniels sighed. “With Underhill’s ankle issue, we’re down a solid D-man.”
“Yeah, but is Theriault a solid D-man?”
“Only time will tell. Boucher assures me Theriault’s problem is a private, family issue that he’d prefer to keep under wraps but that could be improved by getting away from Toronto.”
“Hmm.” Lance was still skeptical. “It’s a gamble.”
“It is. But we either gamble on a man who has a history as a high performer in the league or a guy from the AHL who might not hack it at this level.”
“True.” Lance brought up the database, scanning through Theriault’s stats. “Well, he’s not getting much ice time but if you compare that TOI in relation to his Corsi rating, it’s better than I’d have expected.”
“His blocked shots are pretty good relative to the league average as well,” Daniels said with a shrug. “On paper, he’s not a bad choice.”
Lance nodded. He wasn’t a huge proponent of using advanced stats solely to evaluate a guy. To Lance, personality and the way a player meshed with a team often told him more, but those stats did help shape the overall picture.
“Franklin is on board with this?”
“His only comment was that he wanted guys who could win us games and Hines has given his approval.”
Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn’t fond of the franchise owner, though he’d never say it aloud. Along with their GM, Cliff Hines, they let one of their current defensive players, Jack Malone, get away with murder, all in the name of winning.
Lance frowned at Ken. “That’s a lot of hot tempers on our defensive line,” he said doubtfully. “I mean, Underhill will be away from the team for a while, which will be good. But Malone’s a dick and we both know it.”
Daniels nodded, not denying it.
“O’Shea could be a good kid, but Malone and Underhill were a terrible influence on him last season. I just don’t want to set us up to spend half of each game with our defense cooling their heels in the penalty box.” Lance grimaced. “Not that I have much say in that. Sam is the defensive coach so ultimately, it’s up to the two of you.”
Daniels leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, but Sam’s leaving at the end of the season and while I’m pleased Horton will be taking his place, he doesn’t know our team yet so I’m hesitant to weigh either of their opinions heavily.”
“Yeah. Fair enough,” Lance agreed.
“You may not be in charge of our defensive lineup but there’s no one’s opinion I respect more.”
“That means a lot to me. Should we talk to Murphy too? See what our Captain says?”
That could change too but Zane Murphy had been captain for years and the guys liked and respected him. He couldn’t imagine they’d vote in someone different next season.
Daniels shrugged. “He’s the one who cooked this up with Boucher. He’s on board if we are.”
“Ahh, hell.” Lance snuck a peek at the official player photo of Gabriel Theriault, struck by the sadness in his dark eyes.
Hmm. If a trade to the Otters could help the guy get on his feet again and he had the skills to help the team, why not give him a shot? They’d see how he did at training camp and go from there.
“Okay, let’s go for it,” Lance said with a sigh, wondering if he’d regret this. “Every guy deserves a second chance, right?”
Rumors Swirl Around Theriault’s Departure from Toronto Fisher CatsDefenseman Gabriel Theriault was conspicuously absent from the post-playoff celebrations after the Toronto Fisher Cats’ highly anticipated Cup win. The city was out in force to celebrate but one member of the Fisher Cats was nowhere to be found.Theriault’s off-ice brawl with Boston’s Luke Crawford led to his arrest by the local police department. Although no charges were filed, he was suspended for the remainder of the season and missed the finals in the Stanley Cup playoffs.Amidst the announcement about his recent acquisition by the Evanston River Otters, speculation has varied from a possible stay in a private rehab facility for drug abuse treatment to a rift between him and the newly retired Fishers’ goaltender, Noah ‘La Bouche’ Boucher.If rumors are to be believed, long-time teammates Theriault and Boucher shared more than an apartment.With La Bouche’s move to Michigan to live with new boyfriend, gallery owner Simon Lawrence, our money is on a nasty breakup.
RULES OF THE GAME READING ORDER
Curious about the reading order for Rules of the Game? There are two series within the Rules of the Game universe, following two hockey teams. This is the chronological reading order:
Road Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Coming March 31, 2023
Bending the Rules (Toronto Fisher Cats) - Available Now
Changing the Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Unwritten Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Rules of Engagement (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Breaking the Rules (Evanston River Otters) - Available Now
Author Bio:
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
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