The way she peeked at me through her lowered lashes with a shy grin had my heart squeezing inside my chest as I admitted to her father, “Bristol’s very special to me too.”
Eyeing our private exchange, he cleared his throat. “Well, shit. Here I was thinking you were in trouble bringing your boss home with you.” He finally took my outstretched hand, giving it a hearty shake. “It’s just Russ.”
“Russ,” I noted aloud with a nod.
“He’s not my boss, Daddy,” Bristol clarified. “I work for the newspaper, not the Speed. I onlyreport on them.”
He grunted as if that made little difference. “You’re not in the other kind of trouble, are you?” There was a pointed look toward her stomach.
“Lord help me,” she muttered. “No.”
Russ shrugged. “I’m in no position to judge.” He threw an arm around Bristol’s shoulders. “This one was the best little mistake I ever made.”
My eyes bulged, and Bristol’s face turned red. Five minutes with the man, and I’d discovered he had no filter. I could only imagine the types of things Bristol had heard out of his mouth growing up.
Bristol dared to peek at me. “Aren’t you glad you decided to tag along?”
I flashed her my most charming smile. “I’m learning so much about you, babe.”
“You like football?” Russ didn’t seem to care about my exchange with his daughter.
“Sure. What red-blooded American doesn’t?” I replied.
“Good. You’re with me in the den. Game’s about to start.”
Eager to get on Russ’s good side, considering I wanted a permanent place in Bristol’s life, I looked to her for permission. She must have seen the need for acceptance written all over my face because she slipped from beneath her father’s arm and shooed us. “Go on, you two. Try not to yell too loud. No one needs the cops called on Christmas Eve because a ref made a call you didn’t like.”
Following the man into a room off the kitchen, I came to an abrupt halt, taking in my surroundings. Bristol had called this room a den, but it could have just as easily passed as a shrine to the Connecticut Comets. Every wall was covered in memorabilia. The only family photos present were of Russ and Bristol in their navy jerseys featuring the Comets logo from various games over the years.
“You gonna sit down or what?” Russ’s gruff voice demanded my attention, and I shook off my surprise enough to join him.
Crossing the room, I sank onto the opposite side of the navy and gray upholstered couch—Comets colors. The man took being a superfan to the next level.
The Hartford Hawks had just kicked off, and we sat in companionable silence for a while.
At the first commercial break, Russ said, “I have to say, I’m a big fan.”
I fought to hold in a snort. That was doubtful.
Gesturing around the room, I mused, “Yeah, sure looks like it.”
He chuckled. “No, seriously. You taking that penalty in OT during Game 7 against the Comets?” Russ brought his fingers to his lips as he smacked them. “Chef’s kiss.”
I sucked in a sharp breath of air through my teeth. “Yeah, that one still stings.”
“I’ll bet. There’s no doubt that whoever won that series was going to win it all.” And the Comets had gone on to win the championship that year.
Nodding, I agreed, “You’re probably right.”
“Shame what happened to you.”
The phantom pain in my right knee kicked up for the first time in months, and I rubbed my fingers against the spot where my scars would serve as a permanent reminder of what I’d lost that day.
“Yeah.” I didn’t really want to talk about it but was trying not to come off as rude.
“Listen, Maddox.” Russ’s tone sharpened, and I turned to face him. He nodded toward the kitchen. “She doesn’t know I know about the last pro she dated.” A hard expression stole over his features. “Datedis too nice of a word for it if you ask me.”
“You won’t get an argument from me on that count,” I gritted out.
