I snapped back to reality. How long had I zoned out for?

“He played for them at the time. He had just been traded from New York, and we were still trying to sell our house.”

Her thumb skated along my skin, easing some of the tension I was holding. “Did he play hockey with you when you were growing up?”

“All the time,” I said, still avoiding her eyes. Talking about him made me feel nostalgic, sad, and uneasy all at once. “He’s why I started playing.”

“You must have loved watching him on TV.”

“Sure did.” I took a sip of my beer. Time to steer the conversation in another direction. It was easier to talk about my asshole stepdad.

“As far as Rick goes,” I said, “I have to qualify this by saying that my mom’s not a bad person. She never quite recovered after my dad died. It was like she was broken. Lost.”

More specifically, my mom didn’t get out of bed for a month and a half after the helicopter crash. After that, it was a merry-go-round of meds and therapy, a few good days sprinkled into a lot of bad. My happy, fun-loving mother disappeared and never returned. And my rebellious teenager stage did our relationship no favors—especially with Rick in the picture.

These days, we got along, even if we weren’t close.

Bailey nodded. “I can imagine. It must have been devastating to your whole family.”

She wasn’t wrong. I think I’d been off-course ever since.

“Once she started dating again a year or so later, she dated a string of losers. Unemployed deadbeat types, probably after her for my dad’s money. One guy, Mitch, was a straight-up alcoholic.” I hesitated, weighing whether to continue.

Generally speaking, I hardly ever raised my voice. At my size, I didn’t need to in order to get the point across. Even when I got into fights in hockey, I wasn’t angry, per se. Annoyed maybe, or thinking someone needed sense knocked into them after a cheap hit, but not mad.

I could count the number of times I’d lost my temper on one hand.

But if I had a sore spot, it was men disrespecting or hurting women. Also see: Morrison.

“He pushed her against the fridge one night, and I beat the shit out of him.”

James might worry that I had anger issues, but it happened; I couldn’t rewrite history. Wouldn’t want to, either. He deserved it.

Her eyes widened. “How old were you?”

“I was thirteen. But I was big for my age, and I was fucking pissed. He didn’t know what hit him.”

“I believe it,” she said. “I’ve seen you fight.”