Page 54 of Bagging the Blueliner
Dropping my purse on the entryway table, I ventured further into the house. Finding my dad in the den—most likely hiding from the chaos—I plopped down next to him to watch the football game just kicking off.
Patting my knee, Dad remarked, “Looks like that ankle’s all healed up.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. After the rough coupling with Cal in my hotel room, I’d played off my limp as an injury sustained falling in the shower. That was harder than it sounded when you were traveling with medical personnel. Dad had begged me to let one of them check me out, but I refused, saying it wasn’t that bad.
Damn Cal and his giant dick.
It didn’t help matters that I couldn’t stop thinking about it—and him. Things got busy when we got home from the road, and even though I could use a good railing, I hadn’t bothered to hit him up for a booty call.
“Yep. All better.”
We lapsed into a comfortable silence, content to watch the game together. That lasted all of fifteen minutes before my oldest sister, Allison, popped her head into the den.
“Hannah! Let Dad watch the game in peace. Come help in the kitchen.”
I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a cold spoon.
Plastering a fake smile on my face, I stood and followed her into the kitchen.
I loved helping out in Natalie’s kitchen. It was full of love and laughter, making me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.
My parents’ kitchen with my sisters was full of criticism and unsolicited advice. It stressed me out, and I had to fight the urge to beat my head against a wall.
Mom was nowhere to be seen upon entry. Knowing her, she was off with the boys, soaking up as much time with them as she could before they went home.
Allison set me to work on the twice-baked potatoes and waited a full two minutes before laying into me. “Hannah, it must be so nice getting your own place finally.”
Translation: it was about damn time you moved out of Mom and Dad’s house.
Forcing a smile, I kept my head down, focused on the potatoes. “Yeah, it’s nice being close to the rink.”
The second part of the tag team, Chrissy, chimed in. “Have you met any single guys living in your building?”
I bit my lip. They would be horrified if they knew I’d gone up to Cal’s penthouse wearing only his jersey.
Keeping my tone neutral, I replied, “You know, I’m traveling so much right now that it doesn’t seem fair to begin a relationship.”
Allison scoffed. “Please tell me you’re not still going to the club with the players.”
Warning: lecture incoming.
“There’s nothing wrong with letting off a little steam at the end of the day,” I countered.
“You’re not twenty-one anymore. You’re not going to meet a nice guy there. It’s crawling with women looking to hook up with the hockey players.” Allison’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t know why. The smell alone would be enough to deter me from looking at one of them twice. That’s why my boys don’t play. I refuse to allow that scent to infiltrate my home and car.”
“That, and you are never really certain which of their teeth are real.” Chrissy shuddered.
Sometimes, I wondered how we had the same parents. I lived and breathed hockey, and my sisters seemed to hate it.
“I’m keeping my options open.” I kept my answer simple and vague, hoping they’d switch to a new topic.
“You know what? That’s good. You never know when someone will fall into your lap,” Chrissy chirped.
Allison clearly disagreed, countering, “You can’t just wait around. You’re not getting any younger, Hannah. It’s time to stop being so picky. No guy is perfect.”
I practically snorted. My sisters might think they hit the jackpot with their husbands, but I would rather die an old maid than consider a guy like the ones they’d settled for.
Allison was married to Roger, and they lived in Chicago. They had four boys—Austin, Blake, Colin, and Dax. Roger was in banking and forever offering financial advice. On top of that, he was sinfully dull.
