Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Peggy’s brow furrows. “She has guardianship of her half-sisters. Her parents died last year in a boating accident. I mean, she still has her dad, thank God, but she lost her mom and stepdad. She’s raising her sisters by herself. Can you imagine?”
That’s a gut punch. When I looked her up, I was focused on her career, not her personal life. I’d thought it impressive that she chose to move from the Windsor team, which was performing well, to Niagara, who was at the bottom until she came on board, especially since it must have come with a pay cut. Now I wonder if that decision had to do with the loss of her parents.
I put my takeout container down. “I didn’t realize. When did you find this out?”
“Yesterday, when we were at the Watering Hole,” Peggy replies.
“I’m surprised Vander Zee hasn’t said anything about it.” There were pictures of her and her sisters on her social media, but I just assumed they were close, not that she was functioning as their sole parent. If I’d been less focused on myself and my feelings, I might have learned this when I drove her home yesterday. But I didn’t leave much room for sharing personal details. Especially not sensitive, emotional ones.
“It’s not really his place to divulge that, is it?” Peggy asks.
“No. It’s not. He asked me to give her some guidance.” I pick up my takeout again, and continue pushing noodles around. “I’m supposed to meet with her after lunch.”
“That’s great! She can learn so much from you.” Peggy’s eyes light up. “And maybe she’ll say something about her sisters. If anyone can empathize with raising a daughter on your own, it’s you.”
“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” Peggy is the light of my life.
“Me neither.” She hugs my arm. “Love you, Dado.”
We shift topics, thankfully, and Peggy tells me about the promo ops she and Hemi are working on, but I’m reeling all over again.
Lexi and I talked a little about family during our weekend together, but it was surface stuff. She’d mentioned her mom and her younger sisters, and how she loved her dad—who had been at the game and left early because of work—but he was obsessed with his job. I’d talked about losing my dad when I was in my late twenties, and how tough that had been. I hadn’t mentioned Peggy—not because I felt the need to hide her, but because I hadn’t wanted to complicate the weekend. It had felt good to just be me for that short span of time. Not a hockey player, not a dad, just a man.
I wonder if Lexi hasn’t said anything because she doesn’t want anyone to think her family life will impact her ability to do her job. But I know it can. I wouldn’t have been able to raise Peggy on my own without the help of the team.
It’s with this new knowledge that I leave Peggy’s office after lunch and head down the hall to Lexi’s. I find her poring over files, a pen caught between her teeth. A green apple sits next to her coffee mug. Before that weekend, I liked the sweet-tart fruit, but since then, it’s become a bit of an obsession. Logic and reason seem to go out the window every time I see her—even more so now that I know her situation—because all I want to do is gather her in my arms and feel the softness of her lips against mine. Which can’t happen.
I know her, but I don’t. I have intimate knowledge of her body, of the way she sounds when she’s on the verge of an orgasm, of the things she likes in bed. Our passion for hockey matches. Huge pieces of what makes her who she is are now being jigsawed in. This new information about her family softens my initial shock and anger over her reappearance in my life. I’m still upset about the way she left, but I also haven’t given her much of a chance to explain. Maybe because I’m afraid of the answer.
I’ll give her an hour of my time, provide some insight to make her job easier. Then Vander Zee is off my back, hopefully she’ll be armed with enough information to be helpful to the welfare of the team, and I can continue to work on keeping a safe distance. She’s indicated that’s what she wants.
I shove the past in a box as I knock on her door. I’m here as a resource. That’s it. “Coach Forrester.”
The pen between her lips falls to the floor. “Goalie.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.” She bends to retrieve her pen—and maybe to avoid eye contact.
I arch a brow when she straightens.
“Okay. You did,” she admits, then tacks on, “But it’s fine.” She clasps her hands, unclasps them, then drops them to her lap. At least I’m not the only one affected. This thing between us holds so much power.