A Secret for a Secret Page 2

  My dad sighs, aware this isn’t a battle he’s going to win. I’m twenty-four. I’m athletic, curvy, and female. I refuse to hide my shape because men might happen to appreciate it. Although I do understand why my dad does not love the prospect.

  He locks up behind me, and his Tesla beeps once as he presses the key fob.

  My dad is the general manager of the Seattle NHL team. When he was a teenager, he showed real promise as a player. He even played in the minors and almost got called up, but then he got my mother pregnant and became a father at the ripe old age of twenty, which changed everything. Especially when my mom decided being a parent was too much for her and took off, leaving him to raise me on his own.

  He still could’ve played for the NHL. My grandparents would have helped take care of me during away games. But he didn’t want me to be without both parents for a good part of the year, and my mom had proven to be completely unreliable. By the time I was two, he had full custody. So he set aside his NHL-playing aspirations and took a lower-level administrative job instead.

  Over the years he’s worked his way up the ladder—taking positions inside the organization that required minimal travel.

  But the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself when Seattle took on an expansion team and they offered my dad the general manager position. We were living in Florida at the time, and I’d already transferred colleges once (and lost an entire semester), so I decided to stay behind, hoping I could prove myself capable of adulting. I also wanted my dad to put himself first for once. He didn’t love that I was on the other side of the country, and honestly, neither did I, but I wanted him to have a life that didn’t revolve around me.

  So I stayed in Florida and went to school. And for a while it worked. Until it didn’t anymore. I was one semester shy of graduating when the bottom fell out. Again.

  So I moved to Seattle, because that’s where my dad was.

  I managed to secure a job and got an apartment on my own. Not a great job, or a great apartment, either, but at least I could afford it without help from my dad. I tried a couple of college programs, but neither of them was a good fit. Even still, I was managing okay on my own until I lost another job, and all my prospects dried up. And now here I am, living in my dad’s guesthouse and working as his assistant, until I can figure out what exactly I want to do with my life.

  “Should I call you Mr. Masterson, or do you want me to call you Jake?” I ask as we pull out of the sleepy suburbs and head toward the arena.

  His brow furrows for what seems like the tenth time this morning. This might be a bit of a rough transition. Sure, I worked for my dad when I was a teenager, running errands and getting coffee, but it’s different now. I’m an adult and a woman who should be self-sufficient but am not. Also, as close as we are, my living in his guesthouse and working with him every day might be more than we can both handle.

  “That’s a joke, right?” he asks, attention shifting back to the road.

  “I can’t call you Dad in front of your staff and the players.”

  His hands flex on the steering wheel. “Yeah, you can.”

  This is definitely going to be a rough transition. “How professional will that sound?”

  His cheek tics and he sighs. “Fine. Everyone calls me Jake, so I guess you can, too, but only in front of them. Otherwise I’m Dad. For the most part they’re nice guys, but a few of them are all over social media for being womanizing assholes.”

  “Got it. Jake in front of the players and Dad otherwise. Stay away from the womanizing douches.”

  “Not just the douches. Don’t get involved with the players, or the staff,” he adds.

  “Is that a rule that everyone has to follow or just me?” I’m only sort of being snide.

  “It’s an unofficial policy, not a rule. We both know how much you love rules.” He half smirks.

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t date your players.” The last time I dated a hockey player, it blew up in my face. That was years ago, but the experience still haunts me. So much so that I haven’t watched the sport since my first year of college.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about, if I’m totally honest. You’re beautiful, just like your mother. Boys couldn’t keep their heads around her, and they’re exactly the same with you.”

  I shoot him a glare. “You had to compare me to her, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not intended as an insult. I didn’t mean it in any way other than you got your mother’s looks.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  “I get it. I just wish I had it together.” What I really mean is that I wish I were less like my mother in this regard. Looking like her is one thing, but I have far too many of her less-than-awesome personality traits. I seem to have inherited her penchant for poor life choices.

  She’s always been aimless, flitting from thing to thing, and place to place, and man to man. She was never consistent in my life. But when I was in college in Florida, she wormed her way back in for a short while. She’s always had the uncanny ability to get under my skin like a porcupine quill, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get her out.

  She was the reason I ended up dropping out in the final semester of my dual major of art and psychology after being told repeatedly—by her—that I was wasting my dad’s money on a pointless degree, since I’d never be good enough to get my work into a gallery and I was too fucked up to help people. She told me I’d be better off finding someone who could take care of me. And that was the last time I spoke to her.

  I hate that I believed her. I also despise that I did exactly what she said I should: I ran back home and let my dad pick up my pieces. But what’s worse is that I’ve been so afraid that she’s right about how screwed up I am that I haven’t even tried to finish what I started.

  This year I was hoping I could work on some business-related courses, because that sounds practical, but there was a mix-up with my transcript, and by the time the problem got sorted out, I was late applying and ended up on a wait list. My marks are decent, but it’s a competitive program, and not exactly what I’m passionate about, so it’s probably better that it didn’t work out.

  “You’re only twenty-four,” my dad says gently. “You have lots of time to find your passion, Queenie. I don’t want you to feel like you have to pursue something because you think it’ll get you a job in a better pay grade. The money isn’t important. I want you to do what you love, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I wish I knew what that was.” I know he means well, and that we’ve relied on each other for a lot of years, but I don’t want my dad to take care of me for the rest of my life like a pampered brat. Besides, he’s only forty-four. He has all his hair, he’s in great shape, and he’s an awesome person with a killer sense of humor. It’d be nice if he could find someone who could appreciate all those things about him, aside from me. Since we spend most nights hanging out, I know he’s not actively dating. He doesn’t even have an app on his phone.

  “You’ll figure it out, kiddo, and in the meantime we’ll get to spend more time together. It’s pretty much a win all the way around, isn’t it?”

  “Total win, Dad.” And I mean it. Mostly. I love spending time with my father. I just worry that working for him isn’t going to be quite as easy as we hope.

  CHAPTER 2

  SOMEONE’S BABY GIRL

  Kingston

  “Hey, momster, how’s it goin’?”

  Hanna chuckles and shakes her head. “Should I start calling you bro-son, or sother?”

  “I told you that nickname would grow on you.”

  “Like mold?”

  I pause in my mission to clean my breakfast dishes so I can meet her gaze in the two-dimensional screen. “If it bothers you, I won’t call you that anymore, Hanna.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I actually kind of like it.”

  “I can hear the but in there.” I set my cereal bowl in the drying rack.

  Morning video chats have b
ecome a new part of our routine at least twice a week. It’s our way of getting in one-on-one time as we adjust to the new dynamics of our relationship. That’s how the therapist put it. Really we’re just working out the awkwardness and weirdness of the whole thing. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

  “We know each other too well.” Hanna sighs and sips her coffee. “I just . . . don’t want Mom to feel like it makes her role any less important. And I don’t know if I deserve a special nickname, all things considered.”

  “You deserve a lot of things, including a special nickname. We’ve always been tight, and it doesn’t diminish her role in either or both of our lives. It can just be our thing, if that would make you feel better.”

  She laughs quietly. “Listen to you. Who’s the parent and who’s the child here? I should be the one giving the support, and more times than not it’s you supporting me.”

  “You had to give up something, though. And I’ve had two amazing female role models in my life, so for your loss I had a significant gain. How you experience this revelation and how I do are going to be different.”

  “I know, and like every other situation, you’ve handled it incredibly well. Anyway, I didn’t call to get all philosophical with you about a nickname. I just wanted to wish you good luck this morning. How are you feeling about the beginning of the season?”

  I pull the plug and let the sink drain before wiping down the sides with a sponge. “Pretty good. I was a little restless last night, but otherwise fine. I worked out a lot with my teammates this summer, and we’ve had enough time together that we’re smooth on the ice now.”

  “Your friend and the team captain are still getting along? I know that caused a lot of problems for a while.”

  “Oh yeah, Bishop and Rook are good. For the most part. I mean, Bishop is always going to be Bishop, so he often misses the concept of tact, but the rivalry on the ice is long over, which is better for the team.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I know that kind of thing weighs on you.”

  “Well, we both know how much I love internal dissension.”

  We laugh, because I’m 100 percent the guy who addresses an issue as soon as it arises. Hence the reason I put Hanna on a plane the day after I learned that she was my biological mother. We dealt with it together, and then when we were ready—or as ready as we could be—we flew home to Tennessee and dealt with it as a family. Because that’s how we’ve always done things. No point in letting wounds fester. The best way to heal is to get rid of the rot, even if it hurts at first. And this one hurt a lot, although I’ve done my best not to put that on Hanna.

  “How about you? How are you handling everything else?” I’m referencing the divorce, which hasn’t been easy for Hanna, especially with my finding out the family secret that our mother had apparently planned to take to the grave. Instead, Hanna’s vindictive jerk of an ex-husband took it upon himself to send me the adoption papers citing Hanna as my biological mother.

  “I’m okay. Better now that the house is sold and I’m in a new place without my mistakes from the past haunting me on a daily basis.”

  “Has Gordon backed off? Do you need any more help with the lawyer stuff? Do you want me to come out there? My weekend should be pretty open.”

  “No, no, you don’t need to do that. You’re at the start of preseason training, and I’ll be flying out in a couple of weeks.”

  “Are you sure? Family takes precedence. I always have time for you if you need me.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ve got things handled. Between Mom and Dad, and some work friends who live close by, I’ve got loads of support. Me and a few girlfriends are planning a rom-com movie night on Saturday, and I know how much you love those.”

  “Jessica used to get so mad when I’d fall asleep on her.” We both chuckle.

  “How is Jessica? Are you two still talking, or . . .” She lets it hang.

  It’s been seven months since I broke things off with Jessica. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but it was necessary. “She calls every once in a while, and we were a part of each other’s lives for a long time, so I don’t feel like I can cut her out of my life altogether. But I don’t think the whole being friends thing is easy on either one of us, since I’m already over it and I don’t think she is.” We didn’t see a lot of each other apart from occasional visits and a few uninterrupted weeks during the off-season. But we’ve been an integral part of one another’s lives for the better part of a decade, and my family has always treated her like a daughter—more than hers ever has—so I understand the challenge that comes with feeling like she’s lost more than just a boyfriend.

  “Mmm, I think you might be right about that,” Hanna agrees.

  “What’s going on? You’re doing that lip-tapping thing.” It means she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should or not.

  “Mom told me Jessica stopped by more than once with some of your things, but the timing was suspect, since it’s been around dinnertime on Sundays.”

  “Did she stay or drop stuff off and go?”

  “You know how Mom is. She’s not going to turn her away.”

  “No. Of course not.” I rub the back of my neck. Our mom has always been Team Jessica and wants nothing more than for us to reconcile. “Did Mom say anything else?”

  “Just that she seemed to be a little nostalgic. I’m sure she’ll move on, though.”

  “Hopefully they both will,” I mutter.

  Hanna laughs, but it’s a half sigh. She gets what I mean. Our mom is very much about making things work. “You two were together for a lot of years, so it makes sense that she’s having trouble letting go. And you know how Mom is. She doesn’t love change. Anyway, what about you? Any hot dates lined up?”

  “Uh, no. No hot dates. I’m just getting my head back into the hockey season. I don’t have much time to dedicate to dating.” It’s not a complete lie.

  My alarm goes off, alerting me that I need to leave in the next ten minutes so I can pick up Bishop and make it to the arena on time. “The team meeting starts in less than an hour, so I gotta run.”

  “Don’t think I don’t notice that every single time I bring up your love life you suddenly have somewhere to be.”

  “I really do have somewhere to be, though.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time. Have a great day. I’ll talk to you later in the week.”

  “Sounds good. Message if you need anything.”

  “I will. I love you, Ry.”

  “I love you, too, momster.” I end the call and stare at the blank screen for a few long seconds, hoping she really is okay, and that our family isn’t making this divorce more difficult for her instead of less.

  Thirty-seven minutes later my teammate and best friend, Bishop Winslow, and I push through the front doors of the arena, ready for the first team meeting of the season. I inhale the familiar scent of cleaning products, rubberized mats, ice, and—no matter how much they bleach—the slightly stale smell of hockey equipment.

  “What are the chances that Waters won’t throw a preseason team party this year?” Bishop asks.

  “Slim to none, I’m thinking.” I’m not opposed to the preseason party. It’s a good way to get to know the new players and catch up with the ones I haven’t seen in the off-season in a less formal environment. “It boosts team morale, and the new guys feel more comfortable with the team.”

  “Why must you always be so damn positive about every fucking thing, King?” Bishop gripes. Bishop is a bit of a pessimist and not much of a people person.

  “Because you’re negative about everything, and we all need balance in life.”

  “It’s a fucking miracle that I have friends and a wife, isn’t it?” He gives me a wry smile.

  I clap him on the shoulder and grin. “Not at all. I consider myself one of the lucky few who actually know what’s under the surly exterior.”

  He rolls his eyes and knocks my hand away, but he’s st
ill smiling too.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out, checking to see who it is. My family text has twenty-five missed messages—which is not unexpected, since I was driving and everyone is chatty first thing in the morning. There are also three from Jessica.

  Bishop glances at the phone and then at me. “Everything okay?”

  “Should be. Probably the usual ‘Have a good day’ stuff.” At least, the family group messages should be like that. Every morning at nine my mom—it still freaks me out to think of her as my grandmother—posts her quote of the day, usually taken from her daily “words of inspiration” calendar. My dad—uh, granddad—chimes in with a funny meme, and then we all see if we can post something funnier or mess with Mom’s quote.

  The messages from Jessica I leave for now, because once I respond there’s a chance she’ll call. Since I’m going into a team meeting, I won’t be able to manage the situation in a sensitive manner should it be necessary. There have been a few occasions in which she’s called and then ended up in tears. It can take a while to talk her down, and I don’t currently have the kind of time I may need to explain, gently, why our relationship wasn’t working for either of us and that getting back together is a bad idea.

  “Jessica’s still texting you? Is that a regular thing?” Bishop asks, glancing at my phone screen.