Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,34

her gaze drops to my bare chest again. I settle back further to give her a better view. Her eyes burn hot for a second before she swipes my shirt off the floor with a grunt. “One-point-four-two, actually.”

“Get dressed, all-star. I’ll be back in a second.”

Like earlier in the day, my wait for Genevieve starts with the best of intentions. But one minute becomes two, two becomes five, and soon I’m staring at the time with a mixture of irritation and concern. I wasn’t kidding that the team plays today, and being on the IR doesn’t mean I flake out on the season. I’ve been sitting through meetings with the coaches and watching film since I woke up from surgery, attending every home game and watching every road game on TV. Tonight we’re playing Philadelphia, considered to be one of the top teams in their conference, in a nationally-televised game. With the time difference, I’ve probably already missed half the first period. Randy has been struggling in net since he replaced me, and I feel compelled to help as much as possible, even if it’s only tips on what I’m seeing. Not that anything would make it okay that I’m out, but this two-and-eight stretch we’re on certainly isn’t helping my mental state. After last year’s playoff run, this was supposed to be my breakout year, the season I established my status among the elite goaltenders of the league. Instead, I’m spending it in the weight room with Carlos.

I push away the dark thoughts, refusing to go there right now, and direct my pacing toward the door. Yes, she told me to wait, but inaction isn’t something I handle well. I currently spend enough time on the sidelines. Besides, they’re parents. How bad can they be? Maybe it’s time they meet someone willing to stand up to any bullshit related to their daughter.

I find my way to the back stairs and descend as quietly as possible. Once I reach the lower floor, I listen for voices and think I hear activity in the kitchen. The conversation grows stronger as I approach, and soon I can make out Genevieve’s voice along with an older one I don’t recognize.

“Really, Genevieve. I don’t know why you’re acting like this. White Flame has invested so much in this tour. It’s what you wanted. They even said they’d try to accommodate any cities you’d like to include.”

“I’m not ready! I was planning for March. January is too soon.”

“It’s a month from now.”

“That’s hardly any time. And the new song? It’s so lame, Mom. I just… can’t.” I hear the tears choking her voice, and my heart constricts in my chest. Surely her own parents can see how injured she is. How desperate she is for one person to see her. To just shut up and listen.

“What has gotten into you? A week ago you were fine. Now all of a sudden you’re contrary and unfocused. You’re lucky White Flame didn’t drop us today after your silliness.”

I stiffen, my fist clenching at my side as I move into view. The older woman notices me first, her eyes widening in shock, then suspicion.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my daughter’s house?” the woman snaps.

Genevieve spins back, and I bristle at the tears in her eyes and blotches on her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same question. Who’s this, Genevieve? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”

“He’s just a friend, Mom. This is Oliver,” she mumbles, shrinking as she says it. Oh hell no.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Fox,” I say, moving forward with an extended hand. “Your daughter is an amazing woman.”

I’m almost surprised when she takes my hand, giving it a swift, perfunctory tug before letting go with a clear scowl.

“Yes. She is. With a lot of responsibilities and commitments.” Her eyes bore into me, dimming with a strange coldness. “You look familiar.”

“Genevieve and I met last week at the meet-and-greet at my training facility.”

Her cold look shifts into shock, then horror. It’s kind of funny, actually. I could have said I was a convict she met at a charitable prison event and probably gotten the same reaction. “You’re the hockey player! The injured one she had to help up when he fell.”

My jaw tightens at the description, but I force a nod. “Yes. I’m better known as the Trojan’s starting goalie.”

“Well, not at the moment, are you?” she quips, and steam builds in