Puck & Make Up (A Rush Hockey #7)

Chapter 4

Four

Dessie

I wipe down the bar, gaze cutting to the side, keeping a wary eye on the entrance of Monroe’s.

My uncle’s bar.

It’s comfortable. It’s home. It’s…a great place to go and forget about the shitshow my life has turned into.

And really, my uncle needs me to manage it.

Monroe’s is a lot for him to run on his own, and I have plenty of time on my hands and?—

“You’re not supposed to be working tonight,” he says, his tone taking on an edge I don’t love.

It means he’s on to me…

And my avoidance.

“Stockroom needed a refresh,” I mutter.

He pauses then leans a hip against the bar, and I nearly groan at the universal code for an incoming conversation that’s sure to be long, soul-searching—at least when it comes to my uncle. His words when he speaks a moment later confirm I’m right. He’s far softer than normal, “Dessie, kiddo,” he says gently—fucking gently , “the stockroom has never been more organized”—his eyes flick to the side, toward the steel counter I’ve been wiping down—“and this whole space is clean enough to run a science experiment on. What’s going on?”

I’m avoiding a certain location— cough my apartment—in case a certain hockey player shows up.

Same as I’m keeping my eye on the front door.

If I had a life, I’d go somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

It’s just…well, I have my friends.

And I have Monroe’s.

Something I know that Fox knows , considering that I spend almost every waking moment here.

But since Bailey and company are back in the Bay Area, getting ready with their men for the upcoming Gold season, and I have absolutely no intention of going to Maggie’s or being a sitting duck in my apartment…I’m hiding here.

At least the bar has two exits.

“I took a vacation not that long ago,” I hedge, dropping the towel onto the counter and turning to give him my best I’m-totally-fine-and-don’t-feel-like-my-life-is-falling-apart-and-that-I’m-a-giant-failure look.

One he doesn’t buy given the expression he tosses back.

Oh, and the fact that he calls me out on my?—

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” I press on, knowing that I’ll either have to argue with him—and continue to lie—or make a break from it, hole up, and hope that Fox was just fucking with me like usual.

Don’t back down.

Don’t ever back down.

The familiar mantra—the words that helped me power through a toxic work environment, that helped me when I lost my dream career, that helped me when I moved home like a fucking failure—somehow don’t have the same charm they used to.

Or effectiveness.

“And remember that vacation?” I narrow my eyes when he glares at me. “Don’t think I forgot the state of this place when I returned.”

His cheeks, mostly hidden beneath a bushy white beard and handlebar mustache flashes red. “Managed just fine all these years without that damned computer.”

“That damned computer houses the inventory system I implemented so you’re not sending servers out to the grocery store because we’re out of onions or milk.”

He scowls.

And I take advantage of the fact that he’s momentarily stymied to lean over, press a kiss to his cheek. “And on that note,” I murmur, “I’ll head home. Call me if you need anything.”

His face smooths out. “Now that Rosie has taken the town’s hockey players in hand”—by playing matchmaker with her niece and Axel, former ringleader of said hockey players—“there’s nothing to worry about here.” He pats my shoulder. “Go home, Dessie girl. Get some rest and don’t even think about coming in tomorrow?—”

“I—”

He fixes me with a glare that even I have to give in to?—

Not backing down. Nope. Just…choosing my battles.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’ll be in Friday for the dinner rush. And I don’t want to hear any arguments about it,” I add, jabbing my finger in his direction.

He ignores me. “Dessie?—”

“No.” Another jab. “ Arguments .”

A sigh. “Go on then, kid. And I’ll see you Friday,” he adds begrudgingly.

Damn right he will.

Because, seriously, what else do I have to do?

I keep that thought to myself as I grab my coat and purse from the office, as I delay as long as I dare taking a look through my inventory system, making sure everything’s on track. But as it nears seven-thirty, I know that I need to make my escape before my uncle catches me…

Or before Fox comes in.

If, for some insane reason, he was serious about meeting me at Maggie’s, he’ll have realized by now that I’m not going to show up.

Which means…

He’ll come here .

And the last thing I need right now is to have to deal with him in front of my uncle.

In front of half of River’s Bend (the other half being down the street at Haggarty’s).

I zip out the back door, turn for the staircase that leads up to my apartment?—

Yes, I live above Monroe’s.

No, it’s not ideal for avoiding someone who might be looking for me.

I’m working with what I’ve got, okay?

I clutch my purse in my hand, tuck my coat beneath my arm, and run up to the second floor, my gaze swiveling from side to side.

Looking out for a certain giant, bearded, annoying as hell hockey player.

And no, I’m not disappointed when he doesn’t emerge from the shadows as I run.

And I’m certainly not disappointed when I make it upstairs and he’s not standing outside my door, looking to confront me for standing him up.

And I’m absolutely, definitely not disappointed when I unlock the front door, flick on the lights, and find my apartment empty, Fox not having mysteriously found a way to get inside.

Or less mysteriously and more…

Breaking and entering.

But there’s no hockey player.

My apartment’s empty.

And I’m left with…well, not disappointment, but also, perhaps, something that feels a lot like…

Disappointment.

“Dumb,” I whisper, shutting the door behind me.

But…he still might show.

Which is why I lock up, turn off the lights, and sit on my couch in the dark, waiting for him to come and knock on the door until I answer (which I won’t because… don’t back down. Ever. ).

But…

There’s no knocking at my door.

Same as there are no calls or texts on my phone—even though I check regularly.

There’s no sign of any hockey players—not even the big, annoying one who I stood up—as eight o’clock ticks by.

Then nine.

Then ten.

Which is the moment I realize I’m being dumb.

Fox was messing with me.

It’s what he does. It’s what we do.

Tease and annoy and push each other’s buttons.

Of course tonight would be no different.

I drop my cell on the table in disgust (this entire scene is pathetic) and turn on the lights. It takes no time at all to get into my pajamas, to take off my makeup, to get the good snacks from the pantry.

Same as it takes no time at all to find a bad movie to watch and set it streaming.

Easy.

Without issue—or annoying hockey players.

But…

Lonely maybe.

The rest of my friends have lives, have people who love them or kids who keep them busy, or fulfilling careers.

And I…

Well, I’m back at the beginning.

Back in River’s Bend.

Back working at Monroe’s.

Back living in this fucking apartment.

Alone.

Again.