Tomboy (The Hartigans #3)(17)

Whatever. “I face down men armed with big-ass sticks and blades who want to take my head off for a living,” Zach said. “I think I can handle one family long enough to convince Fallon to come to tomorrow’s game.”

Lucy started laughing so hard the sheer schadenfreude joy of it bounced off the cathedral ceiling in his kitchen. “Oh, Zach, you have no idea what you’re in for. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll calm down the front office, Zach baby,” Kyle said as he got off the treadmill. “You just get back to playing the game the way we all know you can.”

That was the only thing he wanted right now, and he’d do whatever it took to make that happen, even if it meant persuading one Fallon Hartigan to act as his Lady Luck in this harebrained scheme that just might work.

…

Two hours later, Zach was knocking on the door of a single-story ranch house in a working-class neighborhood that looked a lot like the one he’d lived in growing up. The sidewalks were tree-lined, the houses came in what looked like three or four models painted different shades of blues, whites, and yellows, and there were kids playing a pickup game around a basketball hoop set up at the end of the cul-de-sac. Add in a red pickup truck in the drive and a special shed for his hockey gear to air out in and the Hartigan house could have been the one he’d grown up in. He shivered and swallowed the bile burning the back of his tongue. The whole place gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Fuck this.

He was halfway through his turn away from the house when the door opened. A middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and reddish-brown hair pushed open the screen door.

“Can I help yo—” Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, you’re Zach Blackburn.”

And now he was stuck.

Sucking up the fuck-me-ness of the moment, he pivoted back toward the door and did his best to try to smile back at the woman. “Hi.”

“Oh, wait until Frank sees you.” She clapped, looked back over her shoulder, and hollered, “Honey, come here.” Then she turned back to him. “He has so many suggestions that will really help you during the next game.”

Any doubt that he’d accidentally knocked on the wrong door went straight out the window. “You must be Fallon’s mom.”

“I’m her younger sister.”

Zach’s brain froze. There was no way this woman was Fallon’s younger sister. He had no idea what to do, so he just stood there and blinked as if he’d gotten dinked in the head by a puck.

That’s when she threw back her head and let out a gusty laugh. “Oh God, that look was the best. Of course, I’m her mother.” She held out her hand. “Kate Hartigan.”

On automatic pilot, he shook her hand as he tried to regain his mental footing. “Is Fallon here? Lucy said she should be.”

Kate’s eyebrows went up practically to her hairline. “She should be but she’s late as usual.” She shook her head in obvious maternal frustration. “I tell you that girl is burning her candle at both ends, and it’s going to catch up with her.”

She looked at him as if he had any idea what she was talking about, as if he knew any more about Fallon. It was too much. Too familiar. Too friendly. For the love of Gretzky, he had to get the fuck out of here. Lucy had been right about the Hartigans, they were more than he could handle.

“Can I leave her a message?” he asked.

“There’s no need for that, just come on in.” Kate stepped to the side, making space for him to walk inside. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

His palms got sweaty at the idea of sitting on the Hartigans’ couch and listening to hockey advice from Frank (whoever that was) while Kate treated him like he actually had a non-selfish reason to be there. “I’m not sure—”

“Speak of my daughter,” Kate said, waving at someone behind him. “There she is.”

Thank Gordie Howe.

He turned around and couldn’t do anything more than stare. Fallon was in jeans, a T-shirt, and Converse high-tops, cruising up the driveway on a skateboard. Her long brown hair was down, and she was smiling so big, her dimples were on display—right up until she spotted him in the shadows of the front porch and her lips flattened.

Ouch.

She stopped and did some step-off kick move that sent her skateboard into the air, where she caught it without ever taking her eyes off of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Good Lord,” Kate muttered. “You’d think I never taught you any manners.”

Manners? He didn’t give two shits about that. He wanted to win, and everyone’s idiotic idea had finally burrowed into his subconscious deep enough to start to make sense in some weird way.

“We need to talk,” he said, standing straighter, prepped for battle.

She all but rolled her eyes. “About what?”

“The other night.”

A commotion at the door yanked his attention away from her and the random thought wondering how he’d missed seeing those dimples before. Three men crowded in the doorway next to Kate—a dark-haired giant, a gray-haired guy who looked like he could still do some damage in an octagon, and a third guy who was wearing a Waterbury PD T-shirt and a shitty expression on his face.

“What do you mean ‘the other night’?” the giant asked.