“I don’t know. They always scent out when I’m there. That mother of mine loves stalking me in the media.”
“You make it awfully damn easy on her,” his grandfather grumbled.
“Hey, I haven’t been in the news all summer.”
“I noticed. Is that because of that Come to Jesus meeting with management back in April?”
Callan took another swig of his drink. He hadn’t mentioned the meeting to his grandfather and guessed his mother must have.
“Yes, Lucille told me,” his grandfather confirmed when Callan didn’t reply. “Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“That’s bullshit, boy. I’ve always given you my unwavering support, and you’ve done some monumentally stupid things over the years.”
“Hey.”
His grandfather pointed at him and said, “Rupert Falls.”
“Oh.”
Perhaps getting high in his NHL rookie season, going skinny dipping in a lake with an underage seventeen-year-old, and nearly drowning when they were carried over the nearby waterfall hadn’t been the best use of judgment. But he’d been a twenty-one-year-old shithead back then. He’d like to think he’d matured considerably since then.
“Look,” he said, “the team was just laying down the law. I’m not worried.”
“Maybe you should be.”
Callan frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’ve always had the world handed to you, boy. Your family has money, and your parents haven’t been afraid to invest it where they felt it most benefitted you.”
The words slapped at Callan’s pride. He’d spent years listening to his peers accuse him of only getting as far as he had because of his parents’ money. His grandfather always downplayed those accusations and assured Callan that it was his talent that really made him rise to the top. Now it sounded like his grandfather had been lying to him.
“Oh, I’m not saying you’re not talented,” G-Man said as though reading Callan’s mind. “You’re exceedingly talented. You’re just not as motivated as you should be thanks in large part to your mother.”
They’d had this conversation a number of times over the years. It once again brought Roxy to mind. She had been astonishingly accurate in her reading, particularly about his career in hockey.
His father, Phillip, was utterly obsessive about the sport. He was an avid Boston fan who bought season tickets every year and had two entire rooms dedicated to NHL memorabilia.
When Callan came along, his father was determined that his future would involve playing hockey. Callan’s mother, hoping to build a stronger relationship between Callan and his father, had put Callan in ice skates and skating lessons the moment he got old enough for them. From there on out, Callan played hockey whether he wanted to or not. He barely remembered a time in his life that didn’t revolve around it.
For many years, his grandfather had been excited about Callan’s hockey playing. He had also grown up a fan of the sport and loved going to Callan’s games to cheer him on.
His excitement waned, however, when he finally clued in that Callan wasn’t enjoying it. He attempted to reason with his daughter and son-in-law to get them to broaden Callan’s activities, but they disregarded everything he said. Their failure to see eye-to-eye created a noticeable rift in the family.
That rift widened when Callan’s parents learned that his grandfather tried to encourage him to stop playing hockey when he was in college. They stopped inviting G-Man to family gatherings, which meant Callan had refused to attend them either. And when Callan insisted on finishing his bachelor’s degree rather than entering the NHL draft in his junior year, he widened the rift to where the only time he ever heard from his father now was if he attended one of his games, and that was usually just to hear how disappointed his father was in his performance.
Callan didn’t have a large family. Neither of his parents had siblings and his paternal grandparents had both passed away before he turned six. Hockey was the only thing keeping him connected with his parents at all. Because of that and because playing hockey had been the path of least resistance, Callan ultimately decided to stick with it. His grandfather, as always, supported his decision, following him from one team to the next as his NHL career took off.
But they both knew Callan’s heart wasn’t truly in it.
“I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy,” his grandfather went on. “I’d rather you were doing something you’re passionate about, though I’m not even sure you know what that is right now. When you’re ready, you’ll need to look within yourself to find that passion and work hard at achieving some goals tied to it. But for now, by God, you’re a professional hockey player, and you should damn well strive to be the best hockey player you can be while you’re still privileged enough to play the game.”
He paused and finished the watery remnants of his drink. His color had risen, telling Callan how serious he was about this topic.
Reaching over to pat his grandfather’s knee, he said, “You’re right, G-Man. This coming season will give me a lot to think about.”
His grandfather shook his head and set his glass back down. “There isn’t much to think about, boy. A man needs to give one hundred percent to anything he’s committed to, be it a career, a team, or a woman.”
Callan attempted a smile to lighten the moment. “Why don’t we start with a team and go from there?”
His grandfather snorted. “I’d be happy with you achieving success as a player here in Atlanta, but I’m hoping for the woman sometime soon, too. That won’t happen until you give up being a player with your heart.”
Callan’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re waxing poetic, Old Man. I don’t think my player’s heart can handle it.”
This time, his grandfather laughed. And just as quickly as the deep conversation began, it came to an end.
“What are we ordering for dinner, Birthday Boy?” G-Man asked.
The Birthday Boy reference brought Roxy to mind for the third time that evening. She made a few more appearances in his thoughts as he enjoyed dinner with his grandfather and then headed out to meet Christian at The Copper Keg, a nearby bar, for drinks.
Normally he’d be anticipating a satisfying hookup just as much as the drinks. He’d been on only one date since his birthday, and the woman hadn’t interested him enough to pursue anything physical with her. In fact, he’d found her so boring that he’d faked a migraine just to give himself an out. He was well past due for some action.
And there was Roxy again, dancing with him, her soft curves pressed against him and her luscious mouth mere inches from his.
Fuck.
He was getting hard over the memory, quite awkward as he walked along the sidewalk outside the bar. What kind of Gypsy magic had she worked on him during their brief time together?
He shook that off as he approached the bar’s front door. Just as he reached for the handle, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He stepped back and pulled out his phone to read the text.
Sry. Can’t make it.
It was from Christian. Callan blew out a sigh, far from surprised. His friend wasn’t much for socializing and he’d nearly finished the coding project that had endured several backslides over the past few weeks. When he got like this, it was like pulling teeth to extricate him from his basement where he worked.