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1
Liam
As we head up the stairs to the Big Brothers Big Sisters of America organization, I tilt my head and grin as my gaze rakes over the Seattle Shooter’s newest publicist—probably hired just for me. Probably? Oh hell, who am I kidding. He was most definitely hired for me. I am, after all, known as the rule breaker.
“What?” Jeremy asks, like he can feel my eyes on him as we walk. As the late June sun shines down on us, he reaches for the door with barrel arms, and I lift my head to take in his questioning eyes. At six-foot, two hundred pounds, I consider myself a big guy, but Jeremy still towers over me and those muscles don’t come from a gym or a rink, like mine. He grew up on a farm and I’m guessing those arms come from picking up tractors or something. He doesn’t fit the image I envisioned for a publicist. Maybe that’s sexist on my part, or maybe I’m influenced by all the chick flicks I’ve watched.
I chuckle. “You know, in every makeover movie I’ve ever watched, the publicist is always a hot woman who ends up falling in love with the guy she’s ‘fixing.’” I stop to do air quotes around the word fixing. Is this trip to the Big Brothers organization about fixing me, changing my image? Damn right it is. That’s what too many fights will get you, especially when they’re off the ice, videoed by every patron at the bar and splashed all over social media.
“You watch a lot of romantic comedies, do you?” he asks with a smirk.
I shrug. “Three older sisters. I couldn’t escape it.” I’m not about to tell him I enjoyed those chick flicks just as much, and maybe even more, than my siblings. No, if I admitted that, I’d have to cash in my man card, and that just can’t happen. The world can’t know I’m quiet and introverted, and my antics on the ice and at the bars are for show only. The world expects rowdy from me, so I give them rowdy. It’s all about keeping the fans happy, right?
Although I’m not too sure anyone was happy with that leaked sex tape a puck bunny I slept with sold to Dirt, an online tabloid that breaks the biggest stories in celebrity and entertainment news. I guess she wasn’t happy that I didn’t want a long-term relationship, and really, she knew that from the start anyway. It’s not a secret that I don’t do commitment, the secret is why I don’t.
“Should I be worried about you falling for me?” he asks. I laugh at that and he adds, “Just so you know, I like you, but I don’t swing that way.”
His heavy hand lands on my shoulder, as I walk through the open door and laugh out loud. “Ditto.” Everyone knows I’m a man-whore. It’s all part of my image, and another reason I’m staring at a big desk, the beige walls behind the receptionist splattered with posters of smiling kids doing fun activities with their mentors. Honestly, how anyone thinks I’m capable or qualified to guide a youth is beyond me.
I was the youngest of four, with little responsibility at home. Not only do my fans call me the rule breaker, I live up to it. That’s not the kind of guy who toes the line and sets good examples. But if I want to keep my coach happy, and keep my endorsements, mentoring a youth and cleaning up my image is what I must do. But what will the fans think? Are they going to drop me because I’m not who they think I am, not living up to their rough and tough expectations? Talk about a rock and a hard place. Nevertheless, I have a seven-figure endorsement contract that I don’t want to lose, and I damn well hope I don’t lose my fans once I become the poster boy for good sportsmanship.
The middle-aged lady behind the counter smiles up at me, and I glance at her nametag. “Liam Dalton,” she says and stands, her hands going to her round cheeks. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks,” I say and tug on my ballcap. “If you’d like, you can grab your phone and we can get a selfie.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?” She glances around. “I mean, we’re not supposed to harass our volunteers, especially the famous ones.”
“But I asked you, Rita,” I tell her with a smile. “And I’d be nothing without fans like you.” I wave my hand. “Get on over here.”
She snatches up her phone, comes out from around the desk, and holds it out, but can’t quite angle it right. I take it from her to get a better reach and put my arm around her shoulder. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as I snap the picture. “There you go.”
Beside me, Jeremy smiles and gives a nod, approving my behavior. I’m not putting on an act here. I love my fans and take all the time in the world for them. She shuffles back to her chair, and her face is glowing as she hands over a pen and clipboard.
“If you could just fill these out. Mr. Sanders will be with you in a moment. You can have a seat over there.”
As I walk toward the small waiting room, toys in one corner, muffled voices reach my ears. I drop down into a plastic chair, and spot a young boy staring at me. He’s tugging on his mother’s dress with one hand and pointing to me with another.
“That’s him, that’s Liam Dalton,” the boy says repeatedly. I’m not great with ages—heck I can never remember my nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays—but I’d say he’s around four or five.
Looking a little frazzled and rushed, his mother drops to her knees and says something to her son, something quiet and private—something that sounds like she doesn’t want to bother me, and that they’re in a big hurry—but her little boy is so excited, I don’t think he’s listening. My gaze drops to take in her perfect, heart-shaped backside as she aims it my way. I should look away. I want to look away. Damned if I can help myself, though. You didn’t miss the part where I said I was a man-whore, right?
I quickly pull myself together and cleanse my wayward thoughts. She’s here with her son for Christ’s sake, not to get ogled by me, and I shouldn’t be taking pleasure in the way her dress hugs her curves. I’m about to stand and ask if they’d like a picture, when the mom turns to me, a wobbly, apologetic smile on her face.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, and stands, sweeping her hand down a summery blue dress, the fabric splattered with big, white daisies. My gaze tracks the motion of her hands, going lower and lower until I reach long slender calves. Sexy and adorable. There’s a combination I don’t see every day. “My son Gavin would like to say hello, if that’s okay?”
“Of course, it’s okay,” I say and jump up, but my fast reaction seems to startle her. She stumbles back a bit, and my stomach clenches at her skittish reaction. Shit, I know I’m a big guy, and can be overbearing, but I didn’t mean to scare her. I slow my pace, and when I reach the child, I go down on one knee, facing her son at eye level.
“Do you watch hockey, Gavin?”
He nods emphatically and I smile at him. “I watch it with Holden. Mom doesn’t like it.”
His mom’s face is twisted, apologetic once again when I glance up. “That’s okay, not everyone likes hockey.” I resist the urge to ask him if Holden is his father. Then again, he would have called him Dad, right, and am I really thinking about hitting on this woman as she stands here with her child? Jesus, fuck, I am. Now that we’ve all established that I’m a grade-A asshole, I ask, “What’s your favorite team?”
“Seattle Shooters,” he says and makes a motion like he’s taking a shot.
I laugh at that. “Atta boy,” I say and ruffle his hair. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“Cole Cannon,” he answers without missing a beat.
His mother sucks in a tight breath. “Sorry,” she says, but I laugh it off.
“Don’t be sorry.” I glance up at her, take in her big blue eyes and the way she’s wrestling her hair back into a big clip. Dog hair clings to her dress, at least I think it’s dog hair, and with a face free of makeup, her blonde hair all over the place, nothing about the woman screams composed or poised, which somehow intrigues me all the more. Strange, I know. But Jesus, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I tear my gaze away, despite the fact that I’d like to take all the time in the world to admire her, figure out why she’s so agitated, and focus in on her son. “I wouldn’t want anything but honesty from you, Gavin.” I take my hat off and put it on his head. “A little big, but it’s yours if you’d like it.”
He takes it off, looks at the Shooters emblem, and turns to his mother. “Mommy, can I have it, please?”
“I don’t think we should take it,” she says, and I’m not sure what it is, but my stomach tightens again, that strange protective feeling I had earlier once again careening through my blood as I note the uncertainty in her eyes. “He’s not supposed to take things from strangers,” she clarifies.
“Oh, sorry. I never thought of that.” I smile at Gavin. “How about this.” I hold my hand out for a shake and he puts his small palm in mine. “I’m Liam Dalton, and you are…”
“Gavin Peterson.”
“Well, Gavin, now that we’re friends, would you like my hat?”
He nods and his mother lets loose a small laugh that curls around me. I lift my head to find her smiling. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll never take it off.”
Gavin puts his hat back on. “Are you here to get a big brother too?” he asks, and my heart squeezes a bit.
“No, but I’m here to be a big brother.”
Blue eyes go wide as he stares up at me. “Can you be my big brother?”
“Gavin,” his mom says quickly. “We can’t ask things like that, and I’m sure Liam’s already been matched.”
Gavin’s shoulders sag a little, and I cast a quick glance toward the receptionist. “Have I been matched?” I ask.
“Not yet. We haven’t even received your paperwork yet.” The phone rings, and Rita answers it with a happy chirp in her voice.
“I guess there’s still a chance.” I stand and hold my hand out to Gavin’s mom. “I’m Liam Dalton.”
She puts her hand in mine, and I catch her sweet scent that reminds me of the citrusy jellybeans I used to eat as a kid. Damned if that’s not another thing that attracts me to her.
“I know who you are,” she says.
I angle my head. “Oh really, and here I thought you didn’t watch hockey?”
“No, but I do read the papers.”
I inwardly cringe. “You know you can’t believe everything you read, right?”
She hikes her big purse up higher. It looks like it weighs a ton. “You didn’t punch that guy out at Nelly’s bar last week?”
