Page 23 of Pucking Knox
"Uh huh." She sits on my bed. "Tired from making out with Knox in your childhood bedroom?"
I throw a pillow at her. "Stop–"
"Please." She catches the pillow. "It’s all you two do."
"It wasn't..." I touch my lips unconsciously. "We were just keeping up appearances."
"Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "So all those little touches throughout the day? The way he watches you? The fact that you literally cannot take your eyes off him? It’s all for show?"
"Yes."
"Bullshit." She throws the pillow back. "You're in deep, Kenny. Like, drowning level deep."
"I'm not—" The denial sticks in my throat.
Because she's right. The way Knox looks at me isn't fake. The way my body responds to his touch isn't acting. The way he fits into my world, makes it better just by being in it – none of that was part of our deal.
"Oh god." I bury my face in the pillow. "I'm falling for him."
"Finally!" Sawyer flops beside me. "She admits it. Now what are you going to do about it?"
Good question. What am I going to do about the fact that my fake boyfriend makes me feel more real than anyone else ever has? That our arrangement has become something dangerous and honest? That every time he touches me, I want to beg him to never stop?
My phone buzzes.
Knox: Sweet dreams, Princess. Try not to think about what would've happened if Patricia hadn't interrupted.
Too late. I'm already thinking about it. About his hands and his mouth and the way he makes me forget everything except how much I want him.
How much I might be starting to need him.
"I'm so screwed," I tell Sawyer.
She just pats my head sympathetically. "Honey, you've been screwed since the moment you blackmailed him. You're just finally admitting it."
She's right.
I am beyond screwed.
Chapter 10
I smell the whiskey before I see him.
"There's my NHL star!" My father's voice carries across the room right before the entrance of the locker room, slurred and too loud. "Big game today, right?"
Every muscle in my body locks. He's not supposed to be here. Not supposed to know about this game. Not supposed to ruin this too. "Dad?"
One of the assistant coaches approaches cautiously, catching me calling this old drunk laddad. He glances at me as he says, "Mr. Thompson?" I nod at him that he’s correct. This drunk idiot is my father. He continues, "This area is players only—"
"That's my son!" Dad lurches forward, grabbing my jersey. "Got his mother's eyes but my right hook, don't you, Knoxy boy?"
The team goes silent. They know pieces of my story – grew up rough, alcoholic father, hockey as my only way out. But they've never seen it up close.
The last time I saw my father at a hockey game, I was sixteen. He showed up drunk to my championship match, picked a fight with another player's dad, and got escorted out by security. That night, I found mom crying over broken dishes and empty bottles. The next morning, she was gone – leaving nothing but a note saying she couldn't do it anymore.
I stayed until graduation, if you could call it staying. Dad would disappear for days, then weeks, surfacing only to raid my hockey equipment fund or pass out on our porch. I worked two jobs between practices, learned to dodge bill collectors, and kept my dreams of the NHL alive on protein bars and pure spite. The only reason I made it to university was Coach Evans seeing something worth saving during a showcase game.
Now Dad surfaces every few months like a bad luck penny – usually when he sees my name in hockey blogs or draft predictions. He'll show up sober, full of promises about getting clean, about being there for my big moment, about being the father he should have been. It never lasts. But this is the first time he's shown up before a game.
