Joe Hayes hates me from the moment he opens the door and sees me standing on the stoop. And hoo boy, don’t I feel overdressed. Allie told me to dress “nice”， so I’d chosen a white Tom Ford dress shirt and gray Armani trousers. No suit coat, but my black Ralph Lauren jacket gets an eyebrow flick from Allie’s dad, who’s in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.
“You AJ’s friend from school?” he barks.
I wrinkle my brow. “AJ?”
“My daughter. Allison Jane?” Mr. Hayes looks annoyed that he has to explain.
“Oh, ah, yes, sir. I know her as Allie, though.”
“And you didn’t know her nickname?” He makes a derisive sound. “Not much of a friend, are ya?” He mutters, “Come in” and turns around stiffly. Stiff in the literal sense, because his gait is visibly labored as he stumbles forward on a slender cane.
Allie had warned me that her father has MS. She also advised me not to bring it up in conversation, saying he doesn’t like talking about it and will most likely bite my head off if I mention it. So I don’t, but it’s clear even with my non-medical background that he’s in pain right now.
I follow Mr. Hayes through a surprisingly large main floor with gleaming hardwood and what looks like the original woodwork and doors from whenever this brownstone was built. Allie and her dad have the two lower floors, which I’m brusquely told contain four bedrooms and three baths. Either the family purchased the apartment before the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood became super exclusive, or pro-hockey scouts make way more money than I thought.
He leads me into a spacious living room with a bay window that overlooks a neatly tended garden and patio. “Do you garden?” I ask politely.
Allie’s dad scowls at me. “Woman upstairs takes care of the garden.”
Okay then.
“Dean. Hey.”
Oh thank Christ. Allie pops into the room, and I’m relieved to see she’s wearing a knee-length blue dress. Not a fancy one, but nice enough that I no longer feel like I showed up to a potluck in a tuxedo.
“You want anything to drink?” she asks after she greets me with a quick hug.
I glance at the brown leather couch that Mr. Hayes is slowly lowering himself on. He tucks the cane on the edge of the sofa and snatches a beer from the coffee table. His hand trembles wildly as he raises the bottle to his lips. When he catches me staring, he scowls again.
“Uh…” I gulp. “A beer would be nice.”
“Coors or Bud?”
“Bud.”
She nods. “Coming right up.”
I’m once again left alone in the clutches of Mr. Hayes, whose blue eyes are now glued to the Lions game flashing on the flat screen. I’ve got about five inches and thirty pounds on the man, but he still fucking terrifies me. I suspect he was a bruiser when he played hockey. He’s got that stocky barrel chest. And the surly attitude.
“What are you waiting for, pretty boy? Sit down already.”
Pretty boy?
Goddamn it. Why did I show up in Ford and Armani? Allie’s dad probably took one look at my expensive getup and decided I was a rich prick.
Very reluctantly, I sit on the other end of the sectional.
Mr. Hayes glances over briefly. “AJ says you play hockey.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forward?”
“Defenseman.”
“What’re your stats so far this season?”
I pause uncertainly. Wait, does he expect me to rattle off actual numbers? Like goals and assists and penalty minutes? I could probably ballpark it, but reciting my own statistics feels pompous.
“They’re decent,” I say vaguely. “The team’s had a rocky start. We won the Frozen Four last season, though.”
He nods. “Won it junior year. Boston College.”
“Nice. Uh. Congrats.” His face is utterly expressionless, so I can’t be sure if this is some kind of pissing match. If so, I could probably mention I won it the year before, too. But I keep my mouth shut. Luckily, Allie is back with my beer, and I reach for it as if it’s a life preserver. “Thanks, babe.”
We both freeze the moment the endearment leaves my mouth. Shit. I hope Mr. Hayes didn’t hear that.
He’s sitting right here. Of course he heard.
I twist off the bottle cap and take a much-needed swig of alcohol.
“So what did I miss?” Allie asks in an overly cheerful voice.
Her father scoffs. “Pretty boy over here was just telling me how he won the Frozen Four.”
Fucking hell.