Page 22 of The Au Pair Affair

Once the pressure of bodies released from all sides, Burgess’s burst of adrenaline capsized, and he became all too aware of the obnoxious throb in his lower back. Coupled with the fact that Gauthier had outskated him, irritation welled in Burgess like black oil out of the ground, his gloved fist bashing into the glass before he could stop himself.

As soon as Burgess performed the action, he regretted it. Losing his temper was endlessly amusing to the rookies, Corrigan and Mailer, and he’d been providing them with way too much entertainment lately.

“Oh shit,” Corrigan shouted. “Dad is touchy today.”

Mailer chewed on the end of his mouthpiece. “He’s going to turn this car back right around if we’re not careful. No Disneyland for us.”

“If I was your dad,” Burgess drawled. “I’d have abandoned you in the parking lot a long time ago.”

They laughed in unison and clinked their sticks together, thrilled to have gotten a response out of him beyond his usual death glare. As far as Burgess knew, Corrigan and Mailer had met post-draft, but somehow, they’d morphed into virtual twins already. That afternoon, they’d walked into the locker room with matching Orgasm Donor sweatshirts talking about their romantic escapades the night before when nobody asked.

Burgess might be old for hockey, but he wasn’told. Still, he couldn’t remember being as young and ridiculous as these two.

“You want to get back to practice, clowns?” Burgess asked, tightening his right glove. “Or is it getting in the way of outfit planning?”

Corrigan belted a laugh. “Don’t feel left out, Dad. We can get you a sweatshirt, too.”

“But only if you’ve donated at least one orgasm in the last month,” Mailer was quick to interject, bashing his shoulder into Corrigan and getting one in return. “Do you qualify?”

Had he donated any orgasms recently?

Only to himself.

“Since I’m your dad, Corrigan, why don’t you just ask your mom if I qualify?”

Mailer doubled over laughing while Corrigan’s smile slowly melted off his face. Gauthier skated behind Burgess and they traded a fist bump without looking at each other. Really, that jab had been way too easy—and he liked to think he was above mom jokes at this point—but shit talking was a vital part of the hockey lifestyle that wasn’t going away anytime soon. And when it came to insults, offense was the best defense. Honestly, didn’t the kid deserve it for buying such a ridiculous sweatshirt?

Coach McCarren blew the whistle again and they resumedthe scrimmage, but Burgess struggled to keep his mind on the game. Which royally pissed him off. Because now he was thinking about the fact that hehadn’tdonated an orgasm in over a year. Had it been a one-night stand on the road in Anaheim, maybe? The memory had been archived almost as soon as it happened, so trying to recall the woman’s face only produced a blurry profile. Might as well admit it, his love life sucked. He loved sex. Who didn’t love sex? Hookups were great while they were happening, but as soon as they were over and he had a while to reflect, they just seemed to serve as a reminder that his marriage had failed. He’d failed.

There was no reason he couldn’t enter into a new relationship. Hell, his ex was already engaged to a new dude—congrats to them. He even sort oflikedthe dentist she called her fiancé now, which was saying something, because he didn’t like many people. But a relationship with a new woman meant eventually introducing her to Lissa. That’s what held him back. He wasn’t even solid with his daughter. What made him think bringing a new face into the mix was a good idea? Nah, Burgess stayed in on his nights off. Didn’t date. Refused offers from the players’ wives to fix him up with friends and sisters and cousins. Too much work.

He’d rather lust after his beautiful new au pair, who already found his aggression on the ice alarming and had serious and well-founded trust issues with men. Jesus, after her revelation on the roof after dinner, he’d stayed awake all night replaying her ordeal in his head, unable to control his rapid-fire pulse, his only solace being that Brett could never hurt Tallulah again. If her tormentor was still alive, he didn’t think he’d be able to function. This woman was so much braver than he gave her credit for. Not only was he outrageously attracted to her, he admired her like hell, this vivacious grad student who would now live with him.

So much easier than casual dating, right?

Wrong. The complications were mounting—yet he only seemed to welcome them.

Great. Let’s get complicated.

Corrigan received a pass from Gauthier and blew toward him on the ice, not a hint of restraint or caution in his stance. Not protecting the puck. Was he just that cocky, or did he have so little fear of Burgess handing him his ass?

He could either learn a lesson today or in a future game when it could cost them a win.

Burgess sighed, knowing it had to be now.

Digging his teeth hard into the molded rubber in his mouth, Burgess shoved off the ice and put his shoulder down, colliding with the rookie, slapping the puck out of Corrigan’s possession at the same time, Corrigan going down in a screech of metal on ice in the process. The fall was far from enough to hurt him, just to rattle him into keeping his guard up and respecting the defense next time.

Briefly, when the action continued toward the opposite end of the ice, Burgess thought of verbalizing the lesson out loud, but decided against it. If the rookie couldn’t figure it out on his own, he didn’t belong in the league.

A while later, when practice had ended, Burgess sat on a bench in the locker room with a white bath sheet wrapped around his waist, hair wet from the shower and dripping onto his bare shoulders. He grimaced at the painkillers in his hand, lamenting the fact that he’d been forced to add another one, bringing the total to four. How many more would he add to his repertoire before he told the Bearcats trainer he had a problem?

Thing was, it wouldn’t end there. The trainer would tell the coach, the coach would speak to the franchise owner, and he’d be traded or benched or forced into retirement, despite leadingthe team to three Stanley Cup titles. Already, he was beginning to lose speed. Throw in an injury and he was royally fucked. What the hell else was he supposed to do at thirty-seven? What elsewasthere besides hockey?

Nothing. Not anymore.

As a younger man, he’d made his fair share of trouble. He’d been born with a constant flow of adrenaline. Drive. A thirst for sport that never seemed to wane. What he couldn’t get out of his system on the ice, he put into women and drag racing on abandoned roads. Swimming contests against his teammates in ice-cold lakes that were half frozen over. He was the biggest dude, so he kicked in the door of the school gymnasium after dark and gave his fellow small-towners a place to party. It was a good—or hell, maybe a bad thing his hockey abilities caused his coaches and teachers to look the other way when he got out of line or he could have ended up down the wrong path.

He didn’t, though. Once he got to college and realized he couldn’t get by on natural ability alone, he straightened himself out, focused on school and being an enforcer on the ice. He’d worked harder than anyone. Graduated. Got drafted. Looked for stability and learned to ignore the burn of extra adrenaline in his veins.

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