Killian (On the Line #1) - Brenda Rothert Page 0,8
Because you insist on working so much. You need to take what you have and cash out. Get serious about finding personal success. I can have Ron value your companies and I’ll buy them myself.”
“You aren’t buying my companies. They aren’t for sale.”
His conciliatory, happy tone disappeared. “No man worth having wants a woman who’s married to her work.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to five. I’d have to count to ten thousand before the anxiety my father caused me would begin to fade.
“Dad, I have a busy day. Do you need something?”
“I just wanted to remind you that our anniversary party is coming up. Your mother will be very disappointed if you don’t come.”
I clicked my mouse onto the scheduler on my computer. “I have it scheduled. I’ll be there.”
“I hope so. You have a habit of missing important family occasions.”
Dad was right. I did miss some of the family get-togethers, but there was a good reason for it—I was always subjected to judgment and scrutiny every time we got together. My younger brother, on the other hand, was slapped on the back and told to focus on school and work. Seemed he had a free pass until he reached his thirties.
“The party is on a Saturday night and there’s no game that night, so I’ll be free and clear. I’ll be there, Dad.”
“Good. And consider my offer on your companies.”
It was seven forty-five AM, and I was already tired. “Talk to you later, Dad.”
Despite having been literally born into it, working in a man’s world had never been easy. But my dad’s criticism of my choices was part of the fuel that made me work so hard every day. Nothing made me want to succeed like being told I couldn’t.
Killian
We’d hit the road for Alabama at four AM, and it was a long trip. The sun wasn’t up yet and the bus was quiet, but I still wasn’t able to fall sleep in my small bunk. I could hear a few guys talking quietly up near the front of the bus, but I wasn’t feeling social, so I stayed in bed.
I scrolled through the text messages on my phone. I’d gotten several last night from Tara, a woman I’d met on a road trip to Louisiana. We’d hooked up one time and now she texted me constantly. Her boob shots and messages about how bad she wanted to suck me off weren’t doing anything for me. I deleted all of the texts after skimming the first one.
A sense of restlessness had been with me since the year I graduated college, but it had gotten worse lately. The things that had amused and entertained me for the four years I’d been with the Flyers didn’t interest me anymore. I’d begun to rethink my decision to blow off my chance at the big leagues. I’d made that choice right before I’d joined the Fenway Flyers, and now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
Women like Sidney weren’t interested in minor league hockey players. I made shit money and traveled all the time. None of that had mattered to me before. But seeing Lance Holt looking so smug with his hands all over Sidney in those photos was nagging at me.
I didn’t even have to look him up. I knew he was rich and successful just by looking at his photo. And he was what a rich, successful woman like Sidney Stahl wanted in a man. I had no doubt that I could seduce her, but I knew it would only be physical. And she’d probably regret it afterwards.
But I only wanted a physical relationship, so I couldn’t figure out why I’d turned into a whiny bitch all of a sudden. For most of the trip, I spent my time thinking about the mistakes I’d made in my career. By the time we reached Alabama, all the guys knew I was in a mood. I was usually moody on game days though and didn’t talk to anyone, so they didn’t think anything was different. My playlist ran through my earphones and I spent the trip getting into game mode.
By ice time, I’d shaken off my funk. We were playing the Oilers, a team we had a longstanding rivalry with. I wanted to come out fast and strong. Scoring early was important against this team.
Once the formalities were over and the anthem was sung, I got ready for the opening puck drop. I had to face off against