Gametime: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Jami Davenport (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

“I miss you, too.”

We said our goodbyes and I ended the call. Steeling myself, I walked upstairs to our apartment and entered.

Patrick was making out with the redhead on the couch, one hand between her legs and the other on her breasts.

“Seriously? Go in your fucking room.” All my good feelings dissolved with irritation, even though I had no room to talk. It wasn’t like Naomi and I hadn’t had our moments in public.

“Fuck you,” Patrick barked back.

The redhead looked me up and down and licked her lips, making no move to button her blouse. “Twins? I’ve never done twins before. Are you up for a threesome?”

“No, he’s not, and neither am I.” Patrick glared at me as if I’d made the suggestion. “I don’t do threesomes.”

“You didn’t object to one last week.”

“I don’t do threesomes with another man, especially my brother.”

Insulted, she stood, straightened her clothes, and stalked out the door without even a goodbye.

“Thanks for ruining my good time.”

“I wouldn’t have ruined it if you’d stayed in your room. You know, Patrick, sex is so much better with someone you actually care about. You should try it sometime.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I did.

“You’ve turned into a self-righteous prick this year, and I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”

“Really? At least you’ve only had to deal with my being a prick for a few months. I’ve had to deal with an entire lifetime.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You figure it out. You’re not as stupid as your grades indicate.”

A low blow, and I knew it, but I couldn’t take the words back now that I’d released them into the wild.

“You fucking asshole. That hat trick you scored has gone to your head.” Patrick closed the space between us in long, deliberate strides until we were toe-to-toe. His hands were fisted at his sides. I held my breath. In all our twenty-one years, we’d never come to serious blows. We’d had our scuffles, but mostly we’d been horsing around and one of us might get a little rough and draw blood.

“Every score you make inflates your overinflated ego. You’re jealous. Of me.” I angrily spit out my thoughts without meaning to. But he was jealous of me, and I never thought I’d see that day. I took no pleasure from it. Jealousy was a destructive emotion that could eat someone up from the inside out. I didn’t want that for us.

“Why would I be jealous of you?” he shot back.

“Because for the first time in our lives, I have the things you want.”

Patrick ground his jaw together, a sure sign he was about to lose his temper. Usually, he ended up in the penalty box when he did that. Only we didn’t have a penalty box nor did we have referees, and I didn’t know how this would end if we truly came to blows.

Our doorbell rang, and we both froze. Deciding to end this here and now, I backed away and turned to the door. I opened it and let Dad in. He looked at me, then at Patrick and frowned.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Nothing,” we said in unison, something we used to do often but hadn’t for a long while.

Dad strolled into our apartment carrying a couple bags. One contained two bottles of whiskey and the other had takeout from a nearby diner.

“Paxton, throw the food in the oven and heat it up. I need a drink.” He moved to the kitchen to get a glass.

He needed a drink? I did, too. “Pour me a strong one.”

Dad’s brows shot up, but he didn’t remark on my sudden desire for whiskey. Instead, he looked to Patrick, who nodded.

Drinking whiskey with my dad and brother was a bad idea, but I did anyway to dull the pain of my dysfunctional family. For the first hour, we talked college hockey and what teams had a chance at the championship besides our team. I started to relax, and Patrick did, too. Maybe we’d make it through this holiday unscathed.

But Dad was drinking two shots to our one and tossing them back like they were water. He wasn’t a lot of fun when he was drunk, and I glanced at Patrick, who’d tensed again. He was thinking what I was thinking. This wasn’t going to end well. Usually we ran interference for each other, but I wasn’t sure we were on the same page anymore when it came to having each other’s backs.

We ate our dinner, which consisted of overcooked turkey, soggy dressing, runny mashed potatoes, lumpy gravy, and canned green beans. I was hungry so I wolfed it down anyway. I’d never been a picky eater. Put food in front of me, and I’d devour it, not matter how bad it was. My mom used to joke that whoever married Patrick and me wouldn’t have to be a good cook because we wouldn’t know the difference. The pumpkin pie was good, and I had seconds.

My dad opened the second bottle of whiskey. He was drinking it on the rocks now, better than shots, I figured.

His gaze settled on me, and I held my breath. I usually flew under the radar with him, while Patrick drew his constant criticism.

“Have you given any thought to what the Sockeyes told you?”

I blinked, trying to decipher what he meant by that question. “Uh, yeah, quite a bit.”

“You’re playing above your abilities. It won’t last, but milk it while you can. They’re right. You have to focus on hockey and nothing but hockey.”

“I am, Dad. I’m serious about this.”

He snorted his disbelief. “Then get rid of her.”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot. You can’t see the truth?”

“What truth?” I asked warily. Patrick watched us both and wisely kept his mouth shut.

“You always were a dreamer like your mother. Naomi is using you.”

“No, she’s not.” Out of habit, I looked to Patrick for backup. He shrugged and didn’t respond, leaving me to believe he agreed with Dad