“Who are you and what have you done with my teammate, Tacker?” Dax accuses, tongue in cheek, as his eyes focus on his laughing friend.
Tacker’s laugh turns to a chuckle before fading away. His eyes are still bright though when he answers. “Your wife told me all her secrets. So I told her one in return.”
Dax’s eyes now bug out of his head as his face morphs into disbelief that I’d outted our marriage. I shrug and say, “I thought I should share something personal to get him to open up.”
Dax blinks.
I grin. “And it worked.”
Knowing I won’t reveal it unless given permission to do so, Dax raises an eyebrow at Tacker. “And what exactly is your secret?”
“Management has ordered me into mandatory therapy if I want to keep my place on the team. My suspension will be lifted as soon as I start meaningful counseling sessions, whatever the hell that means. I have to give them an answer tomorrow.”
I’m shocked he gave that information up to Dax so easily. I almost feel a little betrayed, but not really. I’m actually thrilled he’s brought my husband into the fold.
“So,” Dax drawls, taking a few steps closer, his gaze pinned on Tacker. “You’re ready to hug it all out and open up to your pain?”
“Fuck no,” Tacker growls as he pushes from the couch. He holds his hands out, looking baffled. “Last thing in the world I want to do is discuss my ‘issues’ with some stranger. It means I have to move on, and I don’t feel ready to.”
“I sense a ‘but’ in there,” Dax murmurs. I hear it, too.
“But…” Tacker continues, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m also tired of feeling shitty. I’m ready for these toxic, wasteful feelings to get the fuck out of me. And… I miss hockey. It’s one of two things that have given me purpose lately.”
“What’s the other?” I ask curiously.
Tacker darts a glance to me and he flushes, as if realizing he’s truly opening up and ruining his reputation or something. I tilt my head, eyes imploring him to trust me with another secret.
He sighs, gaze dropping to the floor as he rubs the nape of his neck. Finally, he raises his head, looking first to me, then to Dax, before he admits, “When you and I were riding around, searching for Charlie… I felt so fucking awful for Legend. I was expecting the worst, and my heart was fucking bleeding for him. And that made me realize I cared about you fuckers a lot more than I’d given myself credit for. So yeah… you guys give me purpose, too.”
“That’s wonderful,” I exclaim, having to restrain myself from clapping in delight. “So you’re going to give it a try. Good decision, Tacker.”
His eyes are flat when they return to me. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Regan, but I haven’t made my final decision. Still have some thinking to do.”
And with that, he nods at Dax and moves around the couch, heading to the staircase. He doesn’t say another word, just leaves us staring at each other, more confused than ever.CHAPTER 24DaxChecking my watch, I see the reporter is technically only two minutes late. I try not to be annoyed. I’m a stickler for punctuality, but even I admit things can sometimes throw schedules off.
I stir my club soda and lime. The reporter—a woman by the name of Chelle Markinson—suggested we meet for drinks. I never quite know what that means coming from a woman, which might be interpreted as sexist by some, but I always tread with caution these days since I got sued by Nanette Pearson for sexual harassment. It still burns me up so bad knowing a woman can just lie like that and take a man to court. But because the woman doesn’t have a shred of proof and Dominik Carlson is taking a tough stand against her, I’m just not going to worry about it. At any rate, I suggested a restaurant/bar I had intended to take Regan to dinner at tonight. She should be arriving within half an hour. She had a job interview this afternoon close by, so this was about her convenience as well.
I check my watch again. Now two and a half minutes late.
Lifting my glass to take a sip, I see a woman walking in dressed semi-causally in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a navy blazer. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, and she’s carrying a cross-body satchel. She scans the bar area, which only has a handful of people and zeroes in on me.
When she smiles and raises a hand, I return the motion.
The woman holds her hand out after she approaches. “Chelle Markinson.”
“Dax Monahan,” I reply as we shake. I nod to the stool beside me. “Have a seat.”
Chelle hops on the barstool, putting her satchel on the bar top before pulling out an iPad. It’s equipped with its own keyboard and she takes a moment to set it up, commenting, “I hope you don’t mind if I type my notes.”