Pucked Under - Page 29

She checks and makes a face. “It’s your dad. Do you want to take it?”

“Nah. Don’t bother. Let it go to voicemail.”

She doesn’t ask questions, just sends the call straight to my messages. Right away he calls a second time, and we ignore it. Lily knows my relationship with my dad is shitty, and she gets it since she doesn’t have one at all with her father. Her mom’s current boyfriend, Tim, seems to be a decent guy, though, even if he’s shirtless half the time we see him.

It’s been an awesome weekend. I don’t want to ruin the end by fielding another call from my dick of a dad asking for a place to crash.

“He’s not in town, is he?” Miller asks from the backseat. Sunny fell asleep on his shoulder a few minutes after we hit the road.

“I don’t know. I don’t have time to deal with him right now, not with training starting next week,” I say.

Miller nods his understanding.

I’m antsy the rest of the way home. I need to listen to that message and make sure my mom knows not to take my dad’s calls in case he’s decided to come to Chicago despite my not being there. They haven’t been together for more than a decade, but he still tries to see her and pull his bullshit when he can. She might not take it from him, but it affects her. She gets stressed, worried that he’s going to stop by the house and pull one of his stunts. I think back in the early days, when they’d just split up, he did that to her a lot—making promises, trying to win her back. She doesn’t need that kind of head game, especially not after this many years.

I’m seriously hoping he’s not in town. I don’t want Lily to meet him. Ever.

It’s after ten by the time we drop off Sunny and Miller and their dogs at home. Lily’s relaxed and quiet beside me; the sun and sex have worn her out. At least she doesn’t have to work until eleven tomorrow, so she can sleep in.

Lights illuminate the kitchen when we pull into the driveway. I don’t remember leaving them on, but it’s entirely possible I did since I was in a bit of rush, wanting to get to the arena before Lily had to be on the ice with that Finlay guy. Who I still don’t really like for no reason other than he gets to put his hands on my girl. I get our bags from the back of the truck while Lily gathers up the items scattered around the cab.

She still seems pretty awake and cheery, despite the long day. I’m hoping a shower and some slow, easy sex will round out this kickass weekend. Lily punches in the code, and I open the door. The TV’s on in the living room.

“Did you leave the TV on all weekend?” Lily leans against the wall so she can toe her shoes off without dropping her armload of miscellaneous stuff.

“I don’t—” A pair of bare feet hang over the edge of my couch. “Fucking shit.” I slam the door.

Lily jumps, and the items tumble from her arms to the floor. I drop our bags and immediately shift her behind me. My first instinct is to walk right back out the door and drive her home, except she is home. Because she lives here. With me. And I don’t want anything to change that.

The feet disappear, and a head pops up.

“Randy, who—” Lily begins.

“Hey, kiddo, I tried to call you a couple of times, but I guess…” My dad pauses, his bloodshot gaze shifting to Lily. A slow, sloppy grin spreads across his face. “You’ve been busy. Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your chippy.”

9

RANDALL BALLISTIC (SR)

IS AN ASSHOLE

LILY

 

Randy puts a protective arm around me and pulls me into his side, angling us so I’m half hidden from the leering man. I don’t need to ask who this is. It’s pretty obvious it’s Randy’s father. Even without the “kiddo” and “buddy” references, one look answers so many questions about Randy’s insecurities when it comes to being like his dad.

It’s honestly like looking at Randy, except a good twenty years later and without a beard. Randall Ballistic, Sr., could be a handsome, distinguished man—if he gave a shit about himself. It’s clear he doesn’t.

He’s wearing a stained, wrinkled T-shirt and a pair of Randy’s pajama pants, which means he went into our bedroom to find them. He’s not terribly out of shape, though he stretches the shirt around the middle. His hair is a greasy mess, but it’s all there. His appearance isn’t the most shocking thing about him.

The bottles lining the table indicate the slur in his speech isn’t because he’s tired. Oh no, he’s drunk—really drunk based on the empties. He seems to have gone through a twelve-pack.

“Lily’s my girlfriend, not a fucking chippy,” Randy snaps.

This gets me another onceover from Randy’s dad. “Whoa, girlfriend?”

Randy’s arm tightens around my shoulder. It’s like he wants to wrap himself around me, or push me out the door. Of all the parental introductions, this tops the list for the worst.

“How’d you even get in here?”

“Your mom gave me the code. Took a little persuading.”

Randy’s hold on me tightens further. “You went to Mom’s?”

“Nah, I just called.” Randall, Sr., uses the arm of the couch to push himself to standing. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your little girlfriend? Where’s your manners, kid?” He stumbles and hits the coffee table with his knee, sending bottles flying. One rolls to the floor and shatters.

“Christ,” Randy mutters.

“Ah, it’s not a big deal. I’ll clean it up.” His dad waves him off and tries to step over the broken shards. But he steps right in the middle of the mess instead of around it. He loses his balance and stumbles forward.

“For fuck’s sake, Dad.” Randy grabs him as he goes down to one knee. Hoisting him up, Randy drags him away from the mess of broken glass and drops him on the floor, propping him against the wall.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” I offer.

“It’s just a little cut; it’s fine,” Randall, Sr., says, despite the shard of glass in the bottom of his foot, the gash on his hand, and the steady stream of blood dripping to the floor.

“It’s not a little cut; look at how much you’re bleeding,” Randy snaps.

I leave Randy to deal with his dad while I retrieve the first aid kit. I don’t want to be gone long, because I can see how agitated he is over this. I also have a feeling the gash on the bottom of his dad’s foot may need stitches.

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