Offside (18 page)

“Uh huh,” he responded, handing her the bowls
so she could dry them and put them away.

“You going back?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so,
Dad.”

The pain in her chest was near crushing now
and the food she’d just eaten sat like a lump in the bottom of her
gut.

“Head injuries are tricky things and they
can’t be treated lightly, so maybe it’s good that you’re taking a
breather.”

Billie glanced up sharply. How did he
know?

“Look at what happened with Crosby. He was
out for nearly an entire year but with rest, you might be able
to—”

She placed her hand over his. “No, Dad, it’s
not gonna happen. I’m done with pro hockey.”

His watery blue eyes stared at her for
several long moments and she saw her own pain reflected in their
depths.

“Are you all right with that?” He more than
anyone knew how much the game meant to her. Her talent on the ice
had defined her for so long that she didn’t know anything else. She
was lost and he knew it.

“No,” she said softly. “I’m not.”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’m
sorry I wasn’t there for you pumpkin.”

“It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. None of this was okay.
What was okay about a fifty-four year old man suffering from
dementia? A man who had protected, loved, and raised three little
girls on his own? A man they all looked up to, and now? Now, half
the time he didn’t even know his own daughters.

Bobbi had told her that their father had good
days and bad…good weeks and even months at a time, but this was the
first solid conversation she’d had with him since returning home
and she didn’t want to waste it talking about a career that was
never going to happen.

She tossed the spoons into the drawer and
slammed it shut, the noise echoing into the quiet room and making
her father jump.

“Sorry, I…” she sighed.

“Are you recovered then? Is there anything I
should know?”

Billie pushed away from the counter and
turned to her father. How could he look and sound so normal when
only a few days ago he’d come after Logan with a shotgun? Oh, how
she had needed him months ago.

“I’m fine.”

At his arched brow she shrugged, and
attempted a smile. “I mean I haven’t had a dizzy spell in weeks,
the headaches are gone and my motor skills are A-1. If I was a
Crosby or a Gretzky I’d be playing right now.”

Her father stared at her without saying a
word and she knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t remember, or form a
coherent thought. He felt her pain.

“The doctors in Sweden were topnotch, my
trainers, all of that. Everything is good, it’s just,’—she hated
hearing the words—‘the fear is that I’ll get hit again and it won’t
be good and after assessing the risks, uh, I decided it wasn’t
worth it.”

Wow, she’d become a great liar because the
truth was, she would have done anything to keep playing, but the
team had never given her the chance. That last hit had weakened her
in the eyes of management and most of the players. It was the
excuse they needed to pay out her contract and send her home.
Another boys club where she didn’t quite fit.

Trent leaned against the countertop, his face
worn out, his expression as sad as she felt inside.

“I’m sorry, babe.”

[i]
Don’t cry. Don’t cry
.[i]

“I know.”

“I wish I could have been there for you,
for…everyone.” He glanced away and she swallowed thickly when she
spied the wetness that filled his eyes. Her dad never cried.
Herschel had told her once that the only time he’d seen his son cry
was at their mother’s funeral. The girls would have been much too
young to remember, they’d been barely three.

“I’m not well, but I suppose you know
that.”

“Dad,” she began and took a step forward but
he cut her off.

“I have a hard time remembering and I’ve lost
days, weeks even.” He glanced up at her. “Maybe months.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you’re good
right now?”

“I’m feeling pretty good,” he nodded, palms
outstretched.

Billie was across the room and in his arms
within seconds. Shocked as she was at his frailty, the feel and
smell of him was all she needed.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered into his
chest.

“I know.”

“Wow, everyone is up and no one made any
coffee?” They both turned as Bobbi walked into the kitchen,
followed by Herschel. Bobbi’s eyes were overly bright, her voice
subdued, though a rare hint of a smile curled her generous
lips.

Trent slowly released Billie and gazed at his
other daughter. “I’m feeling like hazelnut cream.”

“Huh,” their grandfather huffed. “Only an
idiot would ruin a good old coffee bean with that artificial
crap.”

“Well,” Trent said with a wink. “I guess I’m
an idiot.”

Herschel opened the cupboard door and grabbed
both the regular roast and a small bag of flavored coffee. He
tossed it to Bobbi. “Guess you’re not the only one then.”

Billie glanced at Bobbi and whatever was
there between them—that hard, unyielding thing they’d created over
the last few weeks—disappeared. For the moment they were like
family again and it was all that mattered.

At least until Billie glanced at the clock
and realized it was ten minutes to six.

“Shit!”

“What’s up?” Herschel enquired, as he poured
water into the coffee machine.

“I have to get to the arena.” She kissed her
father on the cheek and grabbed her keys off the counter.

“What for?” Bobbi asked as Billie flew past
her.

“You don’t want to know,” she replied and
then grabbed an overcoat off the hook beside the garage door,
thankful she’d parked inside.

She tossed a “See ya later,” over her
shoulder and was gone before anyone could say anything else.

Logan was still pissed.

He hadn’t seen Billie since Saturday night
and he was still hot and bothered…and pissed off.

Hell, he’d been walking around with a
permanent boner ever since and not even four fucking cold showers
had been enough to quench his desire.

Christ, it was insane how much he wanted her
and it wasn’t just because she was so fucking hot. It was the total
package. The fire in her eyes when she was talking about something
she loved. The dry humor he was sure no one else appreciated. The
way her hips swayed gently from side to side when she walked.

The smell of her hair, the line of her jaw,
even the hurt in her eyes when she thought about her father.

It was all of that.

Which sucked because he had no way to read
her. He didn’t really think she was the cock tease he’d called her
the other night. Not really. That was Betty’s style.

But there was something going on and even
though he knew he was right about one thing—the Barkers were total
screw-ups—he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

And get her into his bed.

It was all he’d thought about.

Logan shifted and glanced down, once more
thankful that his dick was hidden behind the thick confines of his
hockey pants.

Never had a woman gotten under his skin the
way Billie-Jo Barker did. Never. Hell, he’d even considered not
showing up this morning, but Christ, he’d plunked down a
grand—which wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done—for these damn
lessons. A grand. One thousand big ones.

Gallagher had laughed until he’d nearly
cried.

Him. Logan Forest paying for hockey
lessons.

“Just jump her bones already,” Gallagher had
joked.

Logan scowled. Yeah. If only.

He stared out at the ice and thought of
another time, of another Barker girl who’d royally screwed him
over. God, Betty had been something else. She was the ultimate cock
tease and one he’d been stupid enough to fall for. The one night
they’d spent together had been something else—hell, he still
thought of it from time to time—but she’d left for New York the day
after without a word.

At first he’d chalked it up to the fact that
Betty was known for playing the field. Half of the guys in town had
claimed to have had her. But Logan was no slouch when it came to
the ladies. He’d had his fair share and that night had been
different. Special. He’d known they’d been good together.

So a few months later when he’d returned from
college for summer break and she’d been home from New York for a
few days, he’d been expecting something other than the cold
shoulder he’d received. Betty had acted as if they’d never hooked
up.

It was then that he’d come to the realization
that the Barker girls were bad news. At the time Billie wasn’t on
his radar—she was the hockey girl—but Bobbi had already set her
sights on Shane. He’d warned Gallagher, but his buddy hadn’t
listened and look where that had gotten him.

Christ, he couldn’t figure these women out.
There was a trail of broken hearts lying in their wake and damned
if his was going to join them. Not that Billie had a chance at his
heart. He wasn’t that stupid, but maybe…[i]
maybe
[i] it was
time to teach one of them a lesson.

He knew Billie wanted him. As much as she
played the hot and cold card, he was pretty damn sure if he pressed
his point the other night he’d have eventually gotten her home and
into his bed.

Her passion had been real. The way she’d
opened her mouth and kissed him back had been real. So why had she
pulled back? She was twenty-five years old and from the way she’d
responded to him, she sure as hell wasn’t a virgin.

Did they even come in twenty-five year old
models anymore?

He straightened and squared his shoulders. He
could do that. Give her a bit of her own medicine.

He [i]
should
[i] do that. Hell, he’d
been tied up in knots since Saturday night.

Stu, the caretaker strode toward him.

“Barker not here yet?”

Logan shook his head.

“Hm. I’m opening up the other side. The
midget girls are practicing.” Stu grinned. “You know, in case you
want to skate with more than one girl.”

“Nice,” Logan retorted.

“No,” Stu pointed behind him. “That’s
nice.”

Logan turned and for once he was speechless.
Where was the goddess, sex slave who had haunted him for the last
two nights straight? The one responsible for a new record in manual
stimulation?

He grinned—couldn’t help it—especially
because her scowl deepened the closer she got to him.

Billie-Jo wore pajamas—blue flannel pants
with pink piglets all over them. Her raincoat was an old, yellow
thing, obviously Herschel’s or her fathers, but her feet—he
couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips when he spied the
gray bunny slippers.

“What?” she barked.

The gray—used to be fluffy and now
soaked—bunny slippers. Heck, the ears drooped so far across her
toes that she almost tripped on them coming down the stairs.

Her skates were slung over her shoulder and
she held her hockey stick her hands.

Logan glanced down at his equipment, feeling
a little over dressed.

“Where’s your gear?” he asked.

“I forgot it.”

She trudged past him and slipped out of the
rain coat. Underneath was an old sweatshirt, but the edge lifted up
as she flung her coat onto the player’s bench, showing an
impressive amount of skin and—was that a belly ring?

Jesus, but she was full of surprises.

“Crap,” she muttered to herself as she bent
over the bench with her skates. “Do you have an extra pair of
gloves?”

[i]
Don’t look at her butt
.[i]

“No, but Stu can grab you a pair.”

[i]
Her butt is the enemy
.[i]

“You’re late,” he managed to say, barely
keeping his eyes above her hips.

She finally turned and sat on the bench.
“Sorry, I was…I slept in.”

As she pulled on her skates he strode past
her and stepped out onto the ice. “I paid good money for these
sessions, Barker. Don’t be late again.”

Logan skated a few laps while she finished
lacing up her skates and by the time she joined him on the ice, his
blood was flowing and he was feeling pretty good.

That was until Billie-Jo Barker put him
through the ringer.

He was a guy who was in shape. He played
hockey, baseball, basketball and soccer. He knew that his mother
thought the reason he was still single, was because if he wasn’t at
the shop, he was playing some sort of organized sport. There was
some truth there—he didn’t know many women who’d put up with their
man out of the house five nights a week. But the point was, he was
a guy who was used to hard, physical activities.

And yet, Billie had him doing drills over and
over again that had his legs shaking, and his heart pounding so
hard it felt like it might burst.

She had him running drills up and down the
ice, some utilizing the puck and some not. He spent at least
fifteen minutes skating backward around the center ice, and then
around each faceoff circle in the end zones. Always with her on his
heels, shouting for him to be better. To go faster. To keep his
head up and use his legs.

You name it, he did it.

Shit, maybe she was trying to kill him, but
Logan was stubborn enough to play along and by the time she set up
pylons down the center he’d almost had enough.

Almost.

“I think it’s time you show me some of your
skills.”

She turned to him and he was struck by the
fragility of her bone structure. Just like that his thoughts
scattered. Her jaw and cheekbones were exquisite, her nose delicate
and that mouth. Sweet Jesus..

How was it that this woman could tear up the
ice the way she did, and still be the hottest thing he’d ever
seen?

Her blue eyes were wide and questioning as
she skated over to him.