She’s barely finished speaking when we hear the voices. And the footsteps. A lot of voices, and a lot of footsteps. My teammates are coming down the tunnel.

Summer snatches my fallen towel off the ground and hurriedly wraps it around my waist. Her fingers brush my dick, and I swallow a groan. I’m still hard.

I take a breath and nod to a doorway on the far end of the showers. “The PT room is in there. It leads to the coaches’ offices, and there’s another exit to the arena from there.”

The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by animated male voices and raucous laughter. My teammates sound happy, which means we won.

“Summer,” I say when she doesn’t move. “You gotta go. And you better do it fast, before the boys get in here and start pulling their dicks out.”

She hesitates. “We need to finish this conversation.”

“We will,” I promise. “At home.”

Her teeth dig into her lip. “Brenna and I are meeting friends at the bar.”

“Then we’ll talk at the bar. Or afterward. Right now, you need to go.”

Summer nods. She stands on her tiptoes, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then she’s gone.

I’m a pussy. I don’t go looking for Summer after the game, and I don’t go to Malone’s. I also don’t go home.

Like an asshole, I get in my car and drive to Boston.

My friend Tucker bought a bar in the city this past fall. I helped him with the reno, getting it ready for its big opening in November. Doesn’t surprise me that the only person I want to confide in right now is Tuck. He’s easy to talk to and has a good head on his shoulders. Gives really smart advice too, and right now I’m desperate for some advice.

I’m reaching the freeway exit when my phone rings. My car is an older model and doesn’t have the Bluetooth feature, so I’m forced to use speakerphone. If it wasn’t my mother’s number flashing on the screen, I’d probably press ignore. But ignoring Mom is never a good idea.

“Colin! Sweetie! Are you all right?” Her greeting holds a hefty dose of concern.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your Uncle Randy was at your game tonight, and he just sent me a phone picture of your face!”

“You can just say ‘picture,’ Ma. You don’t have to specify ‘phone.’”

“But he sent it from his phone to my phone.”

“Yes, but—” I stop myself from continuing. Pick your battles, man. My mother isn’t an old lady and therefore has no excuse for her total lack of knowledge about anything tech-related. But she’s also set in her ways and arguing with her is pointless.

She still uses a BlackBerry, for chrissake.

“I promise, I’m fine. Got stitched up and now I’m good as new.”

“How many stitches?”

“Only two.”

“Okay.” The worry leaves her tone. Unfortunately, it’s replaced with anger. “This is all your father’s fault.”

Here we go again.

“How do you figure?” I don’t know why I’m playing along. I already know the answer.

“Because he forced you into hockey.”

“He didn’t force me. I love hockey.”

I may as well be speaking to my car windshield. “What a selfish prick that man is,” she gripes. “Come on, Colin. You don’t think it’s pathetic that a grown man is trying to live vicariously through his son?”

My jaw tenses. No use in asking her to stop, though. Or vice versa. The pair of them never stop. “In other news,” I say in an attempt to steer the topic into safe territory. “My job interview went well.”

“You had an interview?” She sounds startled.

“Yup.” I quickly fill her in on Kamal Jain as I get off the freeway and stop at a set of red lights. “I guess he’ll make his decision after this fundraiser thing in New York.”

“There’s no decision to be made—you’re clearly the best candidate,” she replies with the kind of unshakeable confidence only a mother can feel toward her son.

“Thanks, Ma.” I turn onto the street that houses Tuck’s bar and click my blinker to claim the last available parking spot at the curb. “I just got to my buddy’s and need to parallel park. I’ll call you later this week.”

“Sounds good. I love you.” Does she? Sometimes I wonder.

“Love you too.”

We hang up, and I experience the same sense of overwhelming relief as when I got off the phone with my father last week.

I hop out of the car and glance at the neon signs lighting the front of Tucker’s bar. And there’s actually a line at the door. Business is obviously booming. Good for Tuck.

As I approach the sidewalk, I send him a quick text.

ME: Dude, I’m outside your bar. Not gonna make me freeze my nuts off in this line, are ya?

Three dots appear as he types a response.

TUCK: I’m upstairs. Come up. And 4 future—tell bouncer ur name and he’ll let u in. Ur on the perma guest list

Sweet. I’m a VIP.

I bypass the front door and walk to the side of the building, where a narrow door buzzes open the moment I reach it. I know Tuck is staring at me on a camera right now. I helped him set up the system, which he can control entirely from his smartphone. It makes it easier to get in and out of this place. Plus, he takes security seriously. His baby girl and baby mama are the most important things in the world to him.

“Hey,” I say when I reach the second-floor loft.

Tuck greets me with baby Jamie on his hip. “Gaaah!” she shrieks when she sees me.

I can honestly say she’s one of the most beautiful babies I’ve ever seen. The kid belongs in diaper commercials and on baby-food jars. She inherited the best of both her parents, who are disgustingly attractive to begin with, especially Sabrina.

Jamie’s pink rosebud mouth opens, and she gives me a huge gummy smile. Her arms flail in my direction.

Tuck sighs. “She’s such a little attention seeker.”

“Aw, I don’t mind.” I hold out my arms, and the six-month-old practically somersaults into them. “She’s gotten so big, man.”

“I know. Swear to God, I turn around for five seconds and I look back and she’s doubled in size.”

Jamie wiggles happily in my arms, her chubby hands instantly seeking out the stubble on my face. She loves textures and is fascinated by colors. The last time I saw her, she was in total awe of my tats.

“Are you sure you don’t mind that I stopped by?” I ask as he shuts and locks the front door.

“‘Course not. You’re welcome here any time, man.”

“Where’s Sabrina?”

“Study group.”

“So late?” It’s almost ten o’clock.

“Yup. That woman works her butt off.” Deep pride resonates in his voice.

Sabrina is in law school, and, truth be told, I have no idea how she manages to be a mom while studying to be a lawyer. Fortunately, she and Tuck have help—his mother moved up here from Texas in December. Apparently she lives in an apartment a few blocks away.