The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

“She says no. That’s what she says,” Harry snaps. “What a stupid question—as if she would go out with you, anyway.”

My mouth falls open as I stare at Tristan. What in the world? This is not taking it slow at all.

He smiles sweetly. “Well?”

“I . . .” I look around at my children. Patrick is smiling hopefully, Harry is glaring at Tristan, and Fletcher looks like he’s swallowed a fly.

“I . . . umm . . .”

“Well, you did say you were ready to have a friend again,” Tristan says. “Someone to go to the movies and out to dinner with. A boyfriend, if you will.”

I have no words; this man is the living end.

“And as I see it, you have four choices,” he continues.

I frown. “I do?”

“Yes.” He carries on with his sales pitch. “You can go out with that man you met in Paris.” He pours us each a glass of water from the table jug. “However, that would mean that you all have to move to France.” He sips his water with a casual shrug. “And of course, Muff Cat and Woofy can’t move to Paris, so they would have to move in with me.”

The boys’ faces fall in horror.

“I am not moving to Paris,” Harry snaps in an outrage.

“Me neither,” Fletcher whispers angrily. “No way in hell.”

“Me three,” says Patrick.

Tristan’s eyes dance with delight. I see what he’s doing here.

“I don’t know; Paris may be good for us.” I smile.

“No way, Mom,” Harry whispers angrily. “You can forget about it. I’m calling Grandma; she won’t like this at all.”

“What are the other choices?” I ask as I play along.

“You could go out with Pilates Paul,” he offers.

“Oh, he’s nice.” I smile sweetly. “I do like him. Great choice.”

Tristan looks at me deadpan. “He’s boring, Claire,” he mutters dryly.

“But so handsome, right?”

Tristan narrows his eyes, and I bite my lip to hide my giggle.

“I’m getting a headache,” Harry says as he holds his temples.

“No, Mom,” Fletcher snaps. “That’s just embarrassing. He wears a pink sweatband around his head to Pilates.”

“Yes,” Tristan hisses. “Exactly my point, Fletch. He will bring the Anderson name into disrepute.”

“He is weird, Mom,” agrees Patrick. “You have to admit it.”

I let out an overexaggerated sigh. “Okay, what is my other choice?”

“You could meet someone new who has kids.”

I blink. This isn’t what I thought he was going to say.

“But whenever he comes over, he will bring his children, and they will have to have a bedroom to stay in. So Harry and Patrick will have to share a bedroom from now on.”

Harry’s face is getting redder and redder; he’s about to blow. “Why does Fletcher get his own room?” he demands.

Tristan sips his drink. He’s loving this. “Because Fletcher is an adult, and he needs his own room. But then . . .” He pauses, as if thinking, for added effect. “Those other kids will use a lot of internet, maybe all the data.”

I drop my head to hide my smile . . . oh, he’s good.

“They’ll also eat all of the food, and they won’t have a skateboard or bike at your house, so you will have to share all of your things.”

The blood drains from Harry’s face as he listens.

“That’s if they aren’t girls.”

“Girls?” Harry gasps as he chokes on his water. “No way. You are not going out with anyone with kids, Mom. I forbid it,” he whispers through gritted teeth.

“Oh.” I frown as I play along. “I kind of liked the idea of having more kids around.”

“Or not,” Tristan mutters under his breath.

“Well.” I smile at the gorgeous, conniving man beside me. “What is my last choice?”

“Me.”

“And why should I pick you to be my boyfriend?” I ask.

“That’s a very good question, Claire,” he says as he takes a piece of paper out of his suit coat pocket. “I have prepared a list of my attributes.”

I roll my lips to hide my smile at his shenanigans.

He unfolds the paper and begins to read from the list of points he has written.

“I’m good looking.”

Patrick smiles goofily up at Tristan. “It’s true; you are.” He bounces in his chair excitedly.

“Oh God,” Harry moans. “Here we go.”

“You don’t have to move to another country and leave your pets homeless and vulnerable.”

I laugh, and Fletcher rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to share a bedroom with anyone.”

“I’m not doing that anyway,” Harry cuts him off. “Don’t get any ideas, Mom.”

“I’m getting a bigger car,” he continues.

“You are?” I frown. I put my hand out for the paper. “Show me where it says that on the list.”

He pulls the paper out of my grasp. “That was a recently added point, Claire. Don’t interrupt me.”

I giggle.

“I’m fun.” He straightens his tie.

I swoon across the table . . . you got that right, baby. You are so fun.

“You are not fun,” Harry huffs. “You’re boring.”

Tristan flicks the paper down in disgust. “How am I boring? Name one time I have been boring.”

“Right now. This is boring,” Harry fires back.

“You’re boring,” Tristan mutters dryly. “Shut up, Wizard, and listen to my points.”

“He’s not boring, Mom,” Patrick whispers, as if feeling the need to remind me.

“I live in New York, so I can come and visit you, and you can come to my house and visit me, if you like. Nobody has to move anywhere, and it’s no big deal to visit.”

They all listen intently.

“And,” he adds, “I am an excellent cook.”

I frown. “You cook?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He flicks the paper in front of him. “My specialty is baking brownies and chocolate cake. They asked me to make a cookbook on chocolate desserts once, which I gracefully declined.”

The boys’ faces fall, and I struggle to hide my laugh.

“Well. I’m very impressed,” I reply. “You do have some excellent assets.”

“I do.” He smiles proudly.

The table falls silent.

“I propose a vote,” Tristan says.

“A vote?” I frown.

“Yes.” He smiles proudly. “We all have to vote who your mom is going to have as a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Harry says.

“No, Wiz, you have to pick one for Mom. Think very carefully about it, and remember, majority vote wins,” he says quickly as a disclaimer.

Tristan’s eyes find mine, and I smile softly as I try to send him a telepathic message: I love you.

“All in favor of you moving to France, hold your hands up.”

I go to put my hand up, and Tristan screws up his nose in a warning.

I giggle.

“Okay,” he says, carrying on with the proceedings. “All those in favor of sharing bedrooms and internet, raise your hands.”

Everyone sits still.

“All those in favor of me being your mom’s boyfriend, raise your hand.”

He puts his hand up. Patrick nearly touches the ceiling his hand shoots up so fast.

Fletcher frowns as he contemplates the question, and Tristan looks over and raises an eyebrow in a warning. Fletcher shrugs and sheepishly puts his hand half up.

“So . . . what are my other options?” I ask.

Tristan looks at me deadpan. “Pathetic Pilates Paul,” he snaps.

“Oh, I do like him, though,” I tease.

Tristan narrows his eyes.

“But I guess between you and him, I would prefer you.” I raise my hand, and Tristan smiles and gives me a sexy wink.

Harry crosses his arms in front of him, outraged at such a vote.

“What’s it going to be, Wiz?” Tristan asks. “Who are you voting for?”

Harry looks around the table as he weighs up all the options. “I’m voting for . . .”

We all hold our breath.

“I’m going with Pilates Paul.”

My heart sinks. I was hoping he’d pick Tristan.

“Oh well.” Tristan sighs. “How sad that you lost. Majority vote wins, and it’s four against one.” He sips his drink. “I can drop you at Pilates Paul’s house on the way home, if you wish. I’m sure he has a spare pink headband for you.”

Harry glares at him. Tristan smiles broadly back.

Tristan sits back in his chair, proud of how the vote went. “Well, I have to say I’m very relieved.” He reaches over and takes my hand in his. The boys’ eyes all nearly pop from their sockets as they watch. “What are you ordering, boys?” he asks casually, as if nothing is wrong. “I’m having the steak.”

Over the next hour I sit as a spectator and watch Tristan interact with the boys. He chats and listens and laughs, and I really have to wonder how it is that he’s so good with them. It’s as if he has a world of experience with teenagers, when he actually has none.

Harry is obnoxious and constantly trying his hardest to ruffle him, but Tristan casually deflects his comments, as if he hasn’t heard them. Patrick hangs on his every word and has his chair up so close to Tristan’s that he is almost on his lap. His little hand rests on Tristan’s thigh as they talk. And Fletcher—well, he and Tristan speak a language that nobody other than the two of them gets. They snicker and laugh at private jokes.

The waitress arrives with the hugest pile of ice cream and cake. It’s shaped like a spaceship. “Here we go.” She smiles. “Death by Chocolate.” She sets it down in front of Harry, and we all gasp as we stare at the mountain of sugar.

She sets our tiny little desserts in front of the rest of us. “Thank you.” I smile.

“Well, well, well, Wiz,” Tristan says. “I’ll make a bet with you. If you eat every last bite of that, you get to pick what dinner I make tomorrow night.”

Harry’s eyes hold his, his interest suddenly piqued. “Anything I want?”

“Anything,” Tristan replies.

“Cockroaches.” He snickers.

The boys and I groan in horror.

Tristan cracks his knuckles. “My specialty, actually. Crumbed or fried?” The waitress walks past. “Excuse me,” he calls to her.

“Yes.”

“Can we have a pot of english breakfast tea with milk, please?” He gestures to me.

“Of course,” she replies as she disappears into the kitchen.

I look over at the beautiful man beside me. He knows that I like granny tea with my dessert. He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.

“But, Wiz,” he adds, “if you don’t eat all that dessert, every last bite, you have to cook what I want for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Deal,” Harry snaps. “Piece of cake.” He gets to work on his mountain of dessert, and I watch my family around the table.

It’s like Tris has always been here, and it’s bizarre—in one dinner he has the boys all agreed that we’re dating. They seem weirdly okay with him holding my hand . . . and he has opened them up to having dinner with us again tomorrow night. There’s a reason Tristan Miles is the takeover king. When he knows what he wants, he goes and gets it. A charming, aggressive sales pitch that is second to none.

The master magician.

“Oh God,” Harry moans from the back seat. “I’m going to be sick.”

“If you vomit on us, I’m breaking your nose,” Fletcher warns him.

Tristan smiles. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror to a very full and sick Harry.

“Maybe you should punch him in the stomach now, Fletch . . . you know, just for fun.”

“Oh no. Mom!” Harry cries. “Tell them to stop talking. I’m serious; I might throw up.”

“Wimp,” Tristan mouths to himself as we drive.

I look over at his pleased-with-himself face. “I’m quite sure this is some form of child abuse.”

Tristan lets out an evil laugh. “Death by Chocolate,” he says in a monster voice. “Prepare to die.”

“Oh, stop talking about it,” Harry moans. “I can’t even think about chocolate anymore.”

“Whatever you do, Wiz, don’t think about fish milkshakes or slimy brains or anything gross.”

Harry wails in pain.

“Tristan!” the whole car cries.

“If he throws up on me, I’m rubbing it on you,” Fletcher calls.

“Yeah!” Patrick yells. “Me too.”

“You do know”—I look over at the master teaser as he drives—“if he throws up, it is in your car. Who do you think is cleaning it up? Because it won’t be me.”

Tristan’s eyes dart to me in horror. He didn’t think of that, did he? He puts his foot down and steps on the gas. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and Harry. “Hang on, Wiz. Nearly there, buddy.”

An hour later, we walk out the front door and toward Tristan’s car, parked on the street. He came in for a little while but is leaving now. Patrick is holding Tristan’s hand. He hasn’t left us alone for a minute. Surprisingly, Fletcher and Harrison are lingering too.

“So . . . I wonder where I can buy cockroaches.” Tristan sighs. “Is there like a market or something?”

I smile. He lost the bet. Harry is picking what we eat tomorrow night. “I’m not eating cockroaches, Harrison,” I say. “Pick something more food-like.”

Harry twists his lips as he thinks. “Umm . . .”

“Something good,” Tristan says. “I want to show off my culinary skills to your mother.”

I giggle. Little does he know there is no need to show off—I am utterly impressed already.

“Mom likes pasta carbonara,” Patrick says. His eyes widen, as if he’s surprised that he remembers that piece of information.

“I do.” I smile.

“It’s Harry’s pick,” Tristan replies.

“Umm . . .” Harry looks over to me, and I know he wants to pick something horrible but now will feel bad if I don’t get my favorite meal. “Fine.” He sighs. “Carbonara it is.”

“Okay,” Tristan says as he looks among us. “Pasta it is.” His eyes come to me, and I know he’s internally navigating how to say goodbye with all our spectators.

“Tricky.” He messes up Patrick’s hair. “Fletch and Wiz. See you tomorrow.”

They all stand and wait for him to drive off.

Go inside, will you?

He reaches up and tenderly touches my face. “Anderson.”

My heart nearly explodes in my chest, and I want to throw myself into his arms. “Goodbye, Tris.”

Patrick still has Tristan’s hand in a viselike grip. He looks up the road with a worried face. “I don’t want you to go home,” he stammers.

“What?” Tristan frowns.

“What if there’s a drunk driver?” He looks around in a panic. “It’s very dark, and . . . it’s not safe.”

Drunk driver.

He’s referring to the way his father died.

“Darling, it’s okay. There’s no need to worry,” I say.

Patrick’s eyes are filled with tears. “What if something goes wrong?” he whispers as he looks between us. “Bad things happen to good people, Mom.”

My heart breaks.

Tristan drops to his knee in front of Patrick and looks up at him. “You’re worried about me driving home?” He frowns as he pushes the hair back from Patrick’s forehead.

Patrick fidgets nervously with his fingers and nods, ashamed.

Tristan stares at him for a moment and then stands. “Okay.”

“Okay what?” Patrick replies.

“Okay, I won’t go home.”

I frown.

He takes Patrick’s hand and begins to walk back into the house. “Come on. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Tris, it’s okay. You don’t have to,” I reply.

He turns back to me. “Yeah, I do, Claire. I don’t want him to worry about anything, least of all me.” He turns, and with Fletch and Harry trailing behind them, they disappear into the house.

I blink . . . huh?

What just happened?

I stand in the dark and stare at my house.

I don’t want him to worry about anything, least of all me.

Emotion overwhelms me, and I get a lump in my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this.

It feels nice.

Tristan

I toss and turn as I try to get comfortable.

Who fucking designed this piece-of-shit couch? They should be fired on the spot.

What if there’s a drunk driver?

Patrick’s words come back to me, and my heart breaks . . . that poor little kid.

He’s so small, half the size of other kids his age; he has reading difficulties; and now I find out that he’s so traumatized about drunk drivers that he worries.

God, what a nightmare.

I think about how excited he was that I was staying, and I smile to myself.

I hear the stair creak, and I glance up to see Claire tiptoeing down in the darkness. She’s wearing a white nightdress, her hair is in a messy braid, and she looks as beautiful as ever. I scoot over to make room.

“Hi.” She smiles as she sits beside me on the couch.

“Hi.” I put my hand on her thigh. Finally, I can touch her.

She brushes the hair back from my forehead as she watches me in the darkness.

We stare at each other, and it’s there between us, this magical spell she casts on me. It swirls in the air, steals my breath, and makes me ache for her.

She cups my face in her hand and stares at me for a moment. “I love you, Tristan,” she whispers.

I get a lump in my throat as my eyes search hers.

“A . . . great deal, actually.”

“It’s about fucking time, Anderson,” I whisper.

She smiles as she leans down and kisses me softly. Her lips linger over mine. Our faces meld together as we hold each other tight.

This is special . . . she is special.

“I . . .”

She puts her finger over my lips. “This isn’t about how you feel,” she cuts me off. “This is about me . . . loving you. I wanted to tell you, and I know it’s premature. But I can’t hold it in anymore. It doesn’t matter how you feel about me, but I wanted you to know how I feel about you.”

I smile up at the beautiful woman in front of me, and I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.

I do love you.

I pull her down to me, and we kiss more urgently. My tongue swipes through her open lips with a hunger for intimacy. “This needs to be celebrated.”

“I know.” She smiles against my lips. “But we can’t.” We kiss again. “Not yet,” she breathes.

“Can you lie with me for a while?” I whisper.

“I can do that.” She gets under my blanket and lies half over my body and kisses my chest.

We lie together in the darkness. It’s quiet, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. It’s not sexual or urgent but a closeness and a sense of belonging to each other.

A deep connection.

She’s snuggled into my chest, and I smile into the darkness.

She loves me.

For the first time in my life, I feel at home.

We walk down the bustling street. “That went well,” I say. We just had a meeting across town, and a price was agreed to on a company we have been trying to get for over twelve months.

“It did,” Fletcher replies.

“Watch what happens now,” I say. “They will suddenly be urgent for the takeover to happen.”

“Why is that?”

“This is what happens—they resist and resist so that by the time we take over, they are so over it that they just want to get out.”

“No way,” Fletcher gasps as he stops in front of a shop window. He takes out his phone and takes a photo of something.

“What?” I ask as I go back to see what he’s looking at.

“That’s Harrison’s screen saver.”

“What is?” I frown.

“The rocket. It’s a model that you have to build.”

“Huh?” I peer into the shop to see a huge red-and-gold rocket with all the bells and whistles on display. “Harry likes this kind of thing?” I frown.

“This is his ultimate. Mom won’t buy it for him because she says he won’t be able to do it. It’s way too hard. He’s asked for it two Christmases in a row.”

I stare at the model as my mind races. Hmm . . . “Very interesting,” I mutter under my breath.

“Wait till I send him the pic. He’s going to go batshit crazy,” Fletcher whispers.

I smile as I stare at the elusive spaceship. “That’s a normal state for him, isn’t it?”

Fletch shrugs. “I guess.”

“Let’s check it out.” I walk into the store, and the bell goes off over the door. This is very old school.

“Can I help you?” an old man with white hair asks. He looks a little like Santa Claus.

“Yes, I was interested in the spaceship model in the window.”

“Oh.” He twists his hands together. “That’s for experienced modelers only. I doubt you would be able to complete it.”

I stare at him deadpan. Don’t assume you know what I can do. “And what makes you think we wouldn’t be able to do this?”

“Well.” He gives me a condescending smile. “I can see you are not a modeler.”

“How so?”

“Well.” He holds his hands up toward Fletcher and me. “Your suits tell me you are in big business.”

Fletcher and I exchange a glance. Don’t piss me off, old man. “We’ll take it,” I snap.

“I must advise—”

“Wrap it up,” I cut him off.

He raises his eyebrows. “Very well.” He disappears out the back.

“Old wanker,” I whisper.

“I know, right?” Fletcher whispers back.

Five whole minutes later he comes back with the biggest box I’ve ever seen. “That will be six hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“What?” My eyes widen. “For a toy?”

He gives me that smile again, and I imagine myself hitting him over the head with the gigantic box.

“Fine,” I snap as I take out my wallet. “This better take us to the moon when it’s built.”

“If it’s built.” He smirks.

I raise an eyebrow at the know-it-all old man. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to brush up on your customer service . . . it’s severely lacking.”

He smiles sweetly. “We don’t do returns, so when you realize I was right and you were wrong, don’t ask for your money back, Mr. . . . Big Business.”

I stare at the man over the counter as I imagine myself sticking the rocket up his ass.

Fletcher grabs my arm to distract me. “Goodbye,” he says as he pulls me from the shop.

We stumble out onto the street with the huge box. “What’s his fucking problem?” I whisper angrily. “I hate that old bastard.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure he hates you too.”

“Tristan, your mother is on her way down to your office.” Sammia’s voice comes through my intercom.

“Thanks, Sam.”

I hit send on the email I’ve been writing. Then . . . knock, knock.

“Come in,” I call.

My mother’s warm smile comes into view, and I stand immediately. “Hello, Mom.” I rush to her and kiss her cheek.

“Hello, darling.” She hugs me. “I just came to check on my favorite son.”

I chuckle. She says that to all four of us . . . apparently, we are each her favorite son.

“Take a seat. Do you want some tea?” I ask.

“Yes, please, that would be lovely.” She sits down and crosses her legs.

I hit the intercom. “Sammia, can you ask someone to bring in some tea for Mom, please?”

“Sure can.”

“Thanks.” My attention turns back to my mother. “So . . .”

“So . . .” She widens her eyes with a smile. “I’ve had a hysterical Melina at our apartment all day.”

“Oh God.” I roll my eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes, Tristan. She’s very hurt.”

“Mom.” I stand in exasperation. “We broke up six months ago.”

“You were taking a break.”

“There’s no such thing as a break, Mom. That’s what you say to try and make it less painful. As soon as you hear the word break . . . it means it’s over. Everyone knows that.”

She exhales heavily and looks at me.

“What?”

“She said you’re seeing someone.”

“I am.” I lean my behind on my desk and fold my arms . . . here we go.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because you’re still playing tea parties with Melina three times a week.” I sigh. “And I don’t need anyone’s approval, Mom . . . not this time.”

She watches me, and I know a million questions are on the tip of her tongue. “Who is she?”

I clench my jaw. I am not in the mood for this. “Her name is Claire.”

“And who is Claire.”

I smile. “Somebody . . . special.”

She watches me intently. “It’s serious, then?”

“Yes.”

“She’s divorced?”

“Widowed. Three boys. And yes, Mom, I’m in love with her,” I snap.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “How old is she?”

My eyes drop to the ground.

“How old is she, Tristan?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“So—” She cuts herself off.

“So what, Mom? What do you want to say?”

“Tristan.” She pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. “If you end up with this woman, you won’t have children of your own. She doesn’t have much time—that’s if she even wanted to.”

“Probably not.” I inhale sharply. I hate the cold hard facts.

“And you’re okay with this?”

“I have to be, Mom. It is what it is, and I can’t turn off my feelings for her. I tried that already. And perhaps she could, Mom. She’s only thirty-eight, and you never know. We may be blessed with a child.”

“Tris,” she whispers. “It will take years for her to be ready to start again with another man. By then it will be too late. Deep down you already know that.”

I screw up my face. The truth hurts. “Don’t.”

“How can I not worry, darling?”

“Mom.” I shrug. “Trust me on this. Claire is nothing like anyone I’ve ever dated before. You will like her. There’s a lot to like about this woman . . . everything, actually.”

Her worried eyes hold mine.

“I’m bringing her on Saturday night.”

She rolls her eyes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means . . . I’ll see you on Saturday night.” She stands.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.” She sighs.

I exhale heavily, annoyed with how our conversation has gone. “And cut ties with Melina, please. She’s my ex-girlfriend. It’s weird.”

“Tristan, I’m friends with all of your ex-girlfriends. I can’t just cut them off like you.”

I roll my eyes.

“I just don’t know how you can be so coldhearted to these women who love you. My heart breaks for them. Melina is absolutely devastated.”

“She’ll get over it.” I look my mother in the eye. “She doesn’t love me, Mom. She loves my money and my surname. Just like the rest of them did.” I shake my head in disgust.

“Why would you say that?” she snaps.

“Because it’s the truth. You be nice to Claire . . . she’s important to me.”

She marches to the door and then looks back. “I want my son to have his own family.”

“And I will,” I snap. “It just may not fit into your perfect little box.”

She shakes her head and leaves in a huff, and I stare at the door she’s disappeared through.

A knock sounds at the door. “Hello,” I call.

Fletcher pokes his head around the door. “Hi,” he says nervously. “I’ve got the tea you wanted.”

“Hey, buddy.” I fall into my seat, and I gesture to my desk. “Bring it in.”

He walks in and with shaky hands puts it down onto the desk. He lingers, as if waiting, and my eyes rise to meet his.

“I heard what your mother said,” he says softly.

I bite my bottom lip in anger. “I’m sorry. Ignore her.”

“She doesn’t want you to date my mom?” His eyes search mine.

I shrug.

“You don’t want your own kids?” he asks.

“I do.” I undo my tie with a sharp snap. “But I want your mother more.”