by Kendall Ryan
For one, I’m proud. At least a little, I think. After all, I did what I set out to do—I helped Logan. Maybe it didn’t happen how I expected, but the man I left back at the cabin is so different from the one I met when I arrived in Lost Haven.
He’s calmer now, more in touch with his feelings and how to deal with them in a healthy way. Mission accomplished, as far as counseling goes, which means it’s time to head home. Back to Boston and back to my normal life, where I don’t have to sit through violent dinner table arguments or psychoanalyze an entire family of brothers with broken pasts.
Things will be easier back home. Just me, my studio apartment, and my work. The way it’s always been.
And that’s where pride ends and depression sets in. Because maybe the way it’s always been isn’t what I want anymore.
My throat prickles, but I wrestle the tears down as best I can. I’ve made it this far without crying in public. Maybe I can make it home before I fully break down.
Swallowing hard, I focus on the flight attendant’s demonstration. She buckles and unbuckles a seat belt, pivoting so that everyone onboard can see, but hardly anyone is paying much attention.
The two other people in my row, a mother and her teenage son, aren’t even pretending to listen. They both have earbuds in, each of them bobbing their heads to their own preferred playlist. When one of the boy’s earbuds falls out, his mom reaches over and tucks it back into his ear, and he gives her the sort of half smile that tells me it’s far from the first time this has happened.
Of course, they remind me of Logan and his mom, and the prickling feeling climbs up my throat to my nose until the tears push past my eyelids. Jesus, I should have gotten this out on the tiny biplane from Durango to Denver. At least then there wouldn’t be an audience to witness my sobs.
I turn toward the window, fixing my gaze on the wing of the plane as the tears start falling steadily. Soon, the sleeve of my cardigan is wet with tears and snot, and all I can do is pray that my seat partners have their earbuds in tight. It’s not like me to cry in public like this, but then again, it’s not like me to fall in love with one of my clients either.
And that’s what I did, isn’t it? I fell in love with Logan Tate. Faster than I thought was humanly possible and harder than I thought my heart could handle.
And maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe that’s why I ran off so fast. Maybe I thought that would be easier somehow. I know now that I was wrong. I’ll miss the smell of a wood-burning stove and Logan’s winter-air scent.
The plane rumbles beneath me, and I realize the flight attendant has wrapped up her presentation and taken her seat, ready for takeoff. I must have missed the part where they tell us to turn our phones to airplane mode.
Reaching into my carryon, I grab my phone and swipe it open. But before I kiss my service good-bye, I open up that email from Les, scrawl my digital signature on the paperwork he sent over, and press SEND.
There. Logan is all set to return to the ice the second his suspension is over. And just like that, he’s no longer my client. It’s a thought that stirs up a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest.
If he’s not my client, maybe he could be something else. Like my boyfriend or, eventually, my . . .
No. I shut that thought down quicker than I can power off my phone.
I am absolutely not allowing myself to think about Logan’s insane proposal right now. It had to have been the post-sex endorphins talking, or maybe he was just living out some sort of weird domestic fantasy of his. Either way, he didn’t actually mean it. And even if he did, I’ve known the man for all of fourteen days.
Fourteen magical, whirlwind days.
My heart swells as each one of them plays through my memory like a highlight reel. From the first time I stepped into that house, there was something about him that I was instantly attracted to. And then that night Jillian sent him to build a fire in my cabin, that’s when I felt the first spark.
But this feeling in my chest now is much larger than that. It’s a roaring wildfire that torched any chance I had at being professional. That was made quite clear last night . . . and again this morning.
Heat floods my system at the memory of his strong arms around me, his warm lips at my neck. Last night, I felt like I was living for the first time, not just existing. Maybe that’s what a life with Logan would be like. A life worth living instead of merely going through the motions.
An ache builds deep inside me as the rumbling stops and a weightless feeling builds inside me. Takeoff. I’m officially no longer on Colorado soil. Time to leave it all behind me.
Once we reach cruising altitude, the tears subside, leaving me completely exhausted. At least it means I can sleep through this flight.
• • •
I hardly remember making the decision to sleep, but in what feels like two blinks and a yawn, the rumbling touchdown of the plane in Boston wakes me from my dream about—you guessed it—Logan. You can take the girl out of Lost Haven, but I guess you can’t stop the memories from following her home.
Once we’ve deplaned, it’s only a ten-minute cab ride back to my Southie apartment, where everything is exactly as I left it.
The coffee mug in the sink and the hamper of half-folded laundry remind me of what I thought this trip would be. A quick turnaround, no more than a day or two. Get in, persuade the client to work with me, and get out. I should have been back before the produce in my fridge went bad. It’s almost a funny thought now.
Exhausted, I let my duffel drop to the hardwood with a thud that echoes through the empty apartment, reminding me that, for the first time in weeks, I am really, truly alone.
With a sigh, I set aside my laptop bag, flip on the lights, and sink into the cushions of my couch, flipping on the TV to have some background noise.
The chatter of some sitcom family instantly calms me and simultaneously revs up my imagination. I wonder what the Tates are up to tonight. Maybe Austen built a bonfire and they’re cozied up around it, drinking home-brewed beer and swapping stories about growing up.
I check the time on my phone. It’s early enough that they could still be eating dinner, with Jillian carving up a perfectly cooked venison roast. I’ll bet they’ve already put away that extra chair they pulled out specially for me. The thought stings.
And then it really sets in. The loneliness. And not the usual kind, either. This is something deeper. Heavier.
For so long, I’ve been used to my life, my little studio apartment that I don’t have to share with anyone. I reported the ins and outs of my life to my journal or social media instead of calling my mom, like my friends get to do. I was perfectly content not knowing what I was missing.
But for a short time, I had a family. Friends. A man I was hopelessly falling for. And the hollowness in my gut tells me maybe I shouldn’t have left it all behind.
But it’s too late now. I left. I threw away whatever precious and fragile thing we’d built. It’s over.
And it’s all my fault.
21
* * *
LOGAN
I head off toward the old barn at the farthest end of the property, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat to fight off the November chill.
Too brokenhearted and hurt to appreciate the awesome views of the mountains and frost-covered lake in the distance, I keep my head down and trudge onward.
Ever since Summer left, my head’s been full of nothing but her, and my stomach has been twisted up in so many knots, I can barely eat. Even my mom’s homemade lasagna, which has always been a favorite of mine, has held no appeal.
Summer made me feel things I have no use for feeling. Made me desire things I never thought I’d want. A wife. A little house of my own overlooking the valley. Kids. Maybe a dog someday. Something with a wagging tail and floppy ears that we would laugh at.
But I can’t let myself think about Summer right now. Just the very thought of her affects me, causing a stir of deep longing to pulse through my veins
. There’s work to be done this morning, and I’m not ready to face all that I’ve lost at such an early hour.
I need more coffee for that. Or maybe one of those strong cocktails called a mind-eraser, despite it being barely eight in the morning.
When I reach the old barn where we store equipment, I let myself inside and am greeted by the familiar smell of diesel fuel and leather.
It’ll be a busy day today, and first on the agenda is changing the oil on the snowblower. I’m grateful for the mindless work. Something to do with my hands will be good.
I haven’t seen Graham yet this morning. He started his workday early, so it’s not like I’ve been flat-out avoiding him. Although after he texted me last night saying we should talk, I was too stunned to reply. Graham isn’t the talk-it-out type, so whatever is on his mind is sure to be serious. And I don’t think I can handle anything else serious right now.
After locating a pair of vise-grip pliers, I get to work removing the thumbscrew. I’m not very far into my task when the heavy barn doors open, and in with a gust of wind comes Graham.
“There you are.” He frowns, coming closer.
“You found me. I’m taking care of Big Bertha.”
He nods, his frown fading. It’s the nickname we affectionately gave our snowblower. She’s a beast, one of the last things Dad bought for the property before he passed. We all love this snowblower.
Once the screw is almost free, I set an empty paint can beneath the machine to let the old oil drain into, then remove the screw all the way.
“You wanted to talk?” I nod to Graham, who’s still watching me, obviously with something on his mind.
My brothers haven’t said much since Summer took off. Maybe it’s a guy thing. They didn’t want to pry. My mother and grandfather had no such qualms, though. They both questioned me repeatedly about what I’d done. They both assumed I’d somehow screwed things up with her.
If they only knew the truth. I asked Summer to marry me that last day. But even that wasn’t enough to get her to stay. The pain of her rejection still stings deep inside.
Graham takes a seat on an empty stool beside me. “You need to go home, Logan.”
I roll my eyes. “This is home.”
“Not for you, it isn’t. Not anymore.”
I watch the last of the oil drain into the paint can, and then pull out the dipstick to be sure the reservoir is good and empty.
“You’ve got a shot most people would kill for. You can’t fuck that up. This will always be your home, but not right now. You’ve got what, five, maybe ten good years to play hockey?”
I replace the dipstick and tighten the thumbscrew. “Yeah, I guess.” An average NHL contract is five years.
“Exactly. Then that’s what you need to be doing.” Graham’s tone leaves no room for negotiation.
Silence settles around us as I grab a quart of motor oil and twist off the top, then begin slowly pouring it into the machine.
“Unless you’re telling me you don’t like playing hockey anymore, and you’d rather hang around here listening to me bark out orders all day?”
I shrug. “Never said I don’t like hockey.”
“That’s what I thought. And I doubt you want to spend your time reroofing the barn or harvesting the garden?”
“It’s honest work.”
“It is. But does the idea of listening to me bitch about the cost of new fermentation tanks appeal to you?
I chuckle. “Not exactly.”
“Then go back to Boston. Your team needs you.”
I consider his words. “And what about you guys?”
“We’ll manage. Just like we always do.”
With the oil topped off, I wipe my hands and turn to face Graham. “You really want me gone that badly?”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I want what’s best for you.”
There’s a sincerity to his words.
“And when you retire, move back here, if you like. Build yourself a nice house on that ten acres on the other side of the river.” He points his chin in the direction of the acreage I’ve had my eye on.
I nod. “That might be nice.”
Graham agrees. “It would. It’s a prime spot. Far enough away from Mom and Al to be private, but not so far that you can’t easily swing by for a homecooked meal.”
He has a point. But thinking about my future . . . about a future without Summer by my side? It’s not something I can let myself do right now.
“One other thing,” Graham says, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “When you get back to Boston, stop with the fighting. That’s not what Dad would want either.”
I hang my head. “Okay.”
Graham clutches my shoulder and gives it a good hard squeeze. “We’re all proud of you, kid. You know that, right?”
“Thanks.” I break into a smile because sometimes it’s just nice to hear those words. Lately, I’ve felt like everything I touch turns to shit.
A warm feeling rushes through me. The other thing that’s surprising is the fact that these encouraging words are leaving Graham’s mouth.
“Damn, dude, I didn’t think you had it in you.” I grin at him.
“Had what?”
“The patriarch thing. Giving advice. Filling in for Dad. Those are the most words I’ve heard you string together . . . ever.”
He chuckles. “Well, who the hell knows? Maybe I’m rising to the occasion. Maybe we all will.”
That’s a nice thought.
“What about Mom? How’s she doing?” I ask, knowing she confides in Graham more than she does the rest of us.
He pauses to consider his response. “She has good days and bad days, just like anyone else. But she’ll be okay. We all will. One day at a time, right?”
“I guess so.”
I toss the empty motor oil container in the trash can and fire up the snowblower to make sure it starts. After letting it run for a minute, I shut her off.
“Should we head back?” I ask.
Graham doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. “There’s one other thing. What happened with you and Summer?”
I inhale sharply at the mention of her name. The dull ache in my chest gives a painful kick. “Not talking about that.”
The wounds are still too fresh. It hurts too much. And I doubt that her rejection of my proposal will ever stop stinging.
Graham nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. Every man’s allowed to have one thing that’s off-limits.”
“Thanks.”
“One other thing,” he says. “You tell anyone about this little heart-to-heart chat we had, and it’ll totally ruin my reputation for being an asshole.”
A laugh falls from my lips. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it. Your secret is safe with me.”
22
* * *
LOGAN
I often think of Summer’s advice to me . . . you can’t enjoy the sweet until you’ve tasted the bitter.
But lately, it feels like everything in my life has turned bitter. When she left, she took any bit of leftover sweetness with her. All the softness is gone, replaced only by hard edges. All of her sunny smiles and those sweet kisses and her gentle concern . . .
But I can’t focus on that right now, because I’m preparing to walk into a conference room at the Elite Airlines Stadium in Boston for a meeting with my coach.
I adjust my tie and check my watch. I’m five minutes early because Coach appreciates punctuality. See? I have learned a thing or two during my suspension.
Taking a deep breath, I wrap my hand around the doorknob, telling myself that I’ll be okay with whatever happens next. Only I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
When I enter the room, I find Coach Wilder seated alone at the conference table.
For a moment, I pause and blink at him. I expected there would be other people here—several members of the coaching staff, maybe that lady from player safety, perhaps even someone from the league. A tiny part of me held on to some hope that maybe Su
mmer would be here at this meeting too. Of course, I’m not so lucky.
I built it up in my head, imagining what I might say to her if she were here. Pictured her lips tilting up in a smile at me from across the room. Thought about how it would feel to have her bright eyes directed my way again.
Those thoughts got me through the past few days. But of course she’s not here, and she’s not coming.
Coach Wilder, oblivious to my inner turmoil, stands and extends his hand. “Tate. Welcome back, kid. You’re looking good. You feel good?”
I clear my throat. “Is it just us, or . . .”
He motions to the door just as it’s opening again. In walks Les, the front office manager, and we all take our seats as Les apologizes for running late. He puts his phone on silent and then turns his attention to Coach.
Coach exhales slowly and fixes me with a concerned expression. “Well? How was your time away?”
I straighten and respond with the word my agent told me to use. “Productive.”
Coach nods and his brow relaxes. “That’s good to hear. And your family?”
I force myself to smile. “Everyone’s doing as well as can be expected.”
Coach nods again, and Les discreetly looks at his watch. This is the man Summer regards as a sort of father figure in her life, though I’m not sure he even realizes it. Part of me wonders if I should say something to him. Let him know how important his guidance has been for her, then I decide against it.
Coach taps the conference table with his knuckles. “Let’s get down to it. Your therapist sent in her report, clearing you to play.”
I nod my understanding and shift in my chair, my tie suddenly too tight. “So . . . that’s it? I’m good?”
Coach’s eyes narrow. “You feel ready to return?”
“Absolutely.”
If I’m not here to play hockey, there’s no reason for me to be here in Boston at all. And if Coach thinks I’m going to grovel, then he doesn’t know me very well. There’s plenty to keep me busy back at home.