by Gina Azzi
But I was a cocky motherfucker with an overly healthy sense of self.
It isn’t until right now, this moment, that I realize Dad was right. My glove reaches up to trace the scar through my eyebrow, but my visor is in the way and my hand drops.
If it wasn’t for Noah, I would have already plunged down the drain, not just circled around it.
A man like my brother is worthy of his fat paycheck, his adoring fans, a woman like Indy. A guy like me only has a paycheck because of him, only has fans because of him, and will never keep a woman like Claire.
“Hey.” Noah shakes my shoulder. “What the hell are you thinking about?” He smacks my helmet, peering at me intently. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, shaking off his touch. The last thing I deserve is comfort. “Fine.”
Noah gives me another searching look. I can tell he’s trying to get a read on me. His brow furrows in worry and I fucking hate it. Hate that after all these years, Noah is still saddled with worrying about me.
I also hate that I can’t get my head straight after Sunday night. It’s messed up. I don’t know exactly what changed but now that Austin knows about Claire and me, all of the worries I had about our relationship have risen to the surface. We’re no longer wrapped in our honeymoon period but plunged into reality. If Claire and I plan a future the way I want to, will she inherit all of the concern Noah manages on my behalf? Will her days be spent mulling over my shifting moods? Will she hide her worry behind nervous smiles? Will panic seize her thoughts when there’s traffic and I’m late coming home? A million scenarios flood my mind and all of them suck. Because all of them show—with disturbing clarity—what an energy drain I am on those closest to me.
“We’re lining up.” Noah’s voice is clipped.
I nod and skate to my position for the face-off. We’re scrimmaging today. Tonight, we fly out to Houston. Next week, we have three tough games against fierce competition. The puck drops and Austin gains control, flipping it to Noah even though I’m open. I snort, knowing the game he’s playing.
Anger—at Austin, at my father, at myself—fuels me. I let it simmer in my veins, use it to my advantage to get me through the scrimmage. Thanks to my brother, I have years of muscle memory to rely on because today, my heart isn’t in it.
“You look like shit,” Torsten says. He holds the door open for me as I leave the arena.
I was hoping to sneak out without anyone noticing but Torsten was three steps ahead of me, in his own rush to leave after today’s practice.
“Not sleeping great,” I reply, my voice gruff.
His grin falls and he narrows his eyes at me. “You okay?”
“Yep.” My lips make a popping sound on the p and I know Torsten knows I’m full of shit. I fix the strap of my duffle bag, hitching it higher on my shoulder.
“Come on, dude, whatever’s going on with you and Austin is going to blow over.”
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
Torsten frowns. He crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his position to shield his face from the wind. “Whatever it is can’t be that bad. Unless you drank all of Mary’s good wine or made a pass at Claire—”
My eyes jerk up to his at the mention of her name.
He reads the situation immediately and swears. “You and Claire?”
I nod.
“You kidding me? Claire Merrick is not just some—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warn him, stepping closer. “I know exactly who Claire is. I know I’m not good for her. I know I’ll never be worthy of her. I know it and I did it anyway because she’s fucking…Claire.” I sigh, raking a hand across my face. The last thing I want to do is get into it with my team. But it’s too late for that now. “It wasn’t some random hookup, okay? I care about her, man.”
Torsten stares at me for a long moment before nodding. He steps back and shakes his head at me. “Whenever you fuck up, Scotch, you go all fucking in. I swear I’ve never seen a guy take more risks with his future, with his friendships, than you. One day, you’re going to have to own up to the shit you pull. Make this right with Austin. The team is counting on it. And don’t fuck around with Claire. She doesn’t deserve your bullshit. Make things right with her before you get on the plane tonight.”
I bite my lip and turn away even though I really want to cock my fist back and ram it down Torsten’s throat. But I don’t, because he’s right. The last three times I went out with Torsten, I went home with a different girl. One time, we didn’t even make it home. I fucked her in the men’s bathroom and Torsten walked in on us. Of course he doesn’t want me around Claire. She’s the team’s surrogate little sister and I’m the guy who screws everything up.
The only reason I haven’t gotten my ass handed to me yet is because of Austin and Noah.
And now, I’ve completely lost Austin’s trust too.
“Fuck,” I swear, throwing my bag in the trunk of my car. I slide behind the wheel and drive home. A part of me hopes that Claire is there so I can wrap her in my arms, kiss her senseless, and feel something other than self-hate and despair.
But the smarter part of me wishes she’s already packed her bags and bounced. Because while I’m not strong enough to stay away from Claire the way I should, she’s sensible to know better than to hang around for me. The only thing I can offer is heartbreak and the only heart I ever gave a shit about not breaking is Claire’s.
When I get home, disappointment fills me. She’s not here. The house is spotless, everything perfectly in its place just the way she likes it. But her warmth is missing, casting my home in a dull grey.
I pour a glass of water and plop down on a kitchen barstool. Glancing at my phone, I ignore the messages from Noah checking on me. His concern causes more guilt to layer in my stomach. When is Noah going to learn that he can’t single-handedly save me? That most days, I’m not even worth saving?
I gulp the water back in three swallows. The front door opens and I pause, my gaze whipping to the foyer.
My angel steps through the door, her blonde hair piled on her head like a halo. She moves slowly, as if she’s in a daze. I frown and sit up straighter as she makes her way toward the kitchen, dropping her bag at the foot of the stairs.
When she enters the kitchen, she jumps, pressing the heel of her hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all. What else is new?
“I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Practice ended early.”
She nods, helping herself to a glass of water. I watch her movements, noting the detachedness between her actions and her thoughts. She seems sluggish. When she looks up, I see that her eyes are rimmed in red, her eyelids puffy.
It hits me like a sucker punch. I made Claire, my Claire, cry. In this moment, I hate myself even more than I did the night Dad’s beer bottle smashed into my eyebrow, slicing it wide open and resulting in five stitches. That night, I resented myself for letting him get the best of me. Right now, I resent myself for ever putting Claire in this position.
I took advantage of her goodness, her sweetness, and now, I sliced her open and made her tears rain down. I’m dying to go to her. To wrap her in my arms, tug her against my chest, and breathe in the scent of her hair. I want to whisper reassurances in her ear, press my lips over her skin, and coax her body and mind to relax.
Instead, I force myself to remain seated. My hands fall to my lap, curling into fists under the kitchen island and out of Claire’s sight. I don’t want her to know how much she affects me. I want her to move on so she can have the life she deserves. With a man who deserves her.
God, the thought of her with another guy cuts deep. My chest burns like an army of fire ants invaded the space and my foot taps a staccato against the bottom rung of the barstool.
Claire places down her water glass. The silence in the kitchen continues, adding a glare of anger to our silent standoff.
“Are you
going to say anything?” she asks me quietly.
“I fly to Houston tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m back tomorrow night. I’m going to spend a few nights at Panda’s,” I force out.
Her face falls. “You don’t have to do that. I can be out of here by the time you get back tomorrow.”
No! I want to shout it loud enough to burst the fucking windows. Instead I shake my head. “Stay. This is your place too.”
She scoffs.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, praying for some mental clarity. “I just need a minute, Claire. I need some time, some space, to work through all the shit in my head.”
“You could talk to me,” she offers.
I shake my head. “It’s not pretty, babe.”
“I don’t care.” The second she says it, I know she means it, and that makes me feel worse.
“I know you don’t,” I admit, feeling more for her in this moment than I ever have. The emotions rush over me, drowning me in their intensity. For a second, all I can do is stare at her sapphire eyes, the freckle that dots just below the right corner of her mouth and wish that things between us could be different. That I could be different. Less like me.
“I don’t want you to move out. I know I haven’t been fair to you. I’ve been shutting you out since Sunday and Austin…I just, I need a minute,” I repeat.
She nods, tears filling her eyes. To her credit, she doesn’t let them fall. “Okay.”
I slip off the barstool. “I gotta pack. I’ll check back in with you sometime Saturday.”
“Sure,” she agrees noncommittally.
When I get to the stairs, I force myself to turn away. I pack my bag, take a quick shower, and get ready to head to the airport. By the time I come back downstairs, Claire is gone.
20
Claire
Because I’m a masochist, I watch Easton’s game in Houston. For the first time this season, he edges Sims out for playing time and spends the entire third period on the ice. Watching him weave effortlessly through players, maneuvering the puck like it’s an extension of his stick, leaves me a little breathless. He’s focused and intense, a quiet strength and skill humming around him like an aura.
I sit perched on the edge of the couch in East’s game room, my fingernails in my mouth, as I watch Easton the hockey god rise from the ashes like a phoenix. His play is breathtaking, reminiscent of his past seasons, before he spiraled, before he ended up making waves because of his alcoholism.
Tonight’s Easton is the man I first fell in love with and I cling to the images of him on ESPN with my breath frozen in my throat and my eyes tearing. After Easton’s final goal, the Hawks win 6–3. Easton had two goals and an assist, making him a celebrated hero in a matter of hours.
I turn the television off as soon as the game ends. Tonight, the team will party hard. Easton will be pulled into the excitement of a huge win, feeling his own personal accomplishments, and walk into any club like he owns it.
All the thoughts of what can go wrong clang in my head and I squeeze my eyes closed tight. I hate that I’m so caught up on him. I hate that I’ve made my world revolve around him and his feelings toward me. For years, I’ve watched Easton from afar. I had big feelings for him but I knew how to navigate them. Thinking he’d never be attracted to me, I still went out, partied, dated, had fun. But now, knowing that Easton is slipping further away with each passing day, I can’t bring myself to do anything but mope.
“Aagh,” I let out a strangled, pissed-off cry and flop back on the couch. I need to get my life together. I can’t just exist in this emotional limbo while Easton takes time for himself.
I need to take time for myself too.
Forcing myself to sit up, I grab my phone. I ignore the stab of disappointment that there’s no message from East. Not even one asking me if I watched the game.
I open my email app and double-check the time of my phone interview for tomorrow. 11a.m. Although I’m not particularly excited about designing medical packaging, even I know better than to pass up on an interview opportunity.
Easton was always a long shot. The old adage—if it seems too good to be true, it usually is—comes to mind.
Sighing, I get to my feet, make my way upstairs, take a shower, and throw myself into bed. Tomorrow, I’m turning over a new leaf. Tomorrow, I’m going to secure a job offer for myself.
Tomorrow, my heart will ache a little less.
“Tell me everything,” Indy demands, pushing past me in the foyer and making her way to the kitchen. She helps herself immediately to a decaf Nespresso pod. “I’m too cheap to buy one of these,” she tells me over her shoulder, “but I’m a little bit obsessed.”
I roll my eyes and settle back on my barstool. “Want some waffles?” I pour a healthy serving of syrup over mine.
“No, thanks. I ate already.” Indy leans back against the counter as she waits for her coffee. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the phone interview. I could have helped you prep.”
“You’re the only person I’ve told. And I didn’t need help prepping. But thank you,” I add when I see her expression.
“Wait, you haven’t told your parents yet?”
I shake my head.
“Austin?”
“Nope.”
“East?”
I glare at her.
“Why haven’t you told anyone?” she asks, incredulous.
I chew a big bite of my delicious Belgian waffle with extra maple goodness. It’s just like the Scotch brothers to own something like a fancy waffle maker that’s never been used. Until now.
“Well, for starters, I want to see if I get it first.”
“Fair.”
“And,” I add, knowing I’ll only admit the truth to her and Rielle, “I’m not sure if I even want it.”
Indy makes a face. “Why not? It’s a solid entry-level position with a reputable company.”
“In New Jersey,” I point out.
Indy shrugs. “Sometimes you have to move to the opportunity.”
“Doing medical packaging.”
“It’s a graphic design position.”
I scrunch up my nose as Indy watches me thoughtfully.
“Your heart’s not in it,” she states.
“My heart’s not in it,” I agree.
“Are you still going to hear that rapper with Aiden on Saturday?”
I nod.
“Any word from East?”
I shake my head, pressing my lips together to hold back the emotion that swells up at the mention of his name.
Indy gives me an empathetic look. “I’m sorry, Claire. I hate that he’s making you feel like this.”
“But?” I prod, knowing there’s more she wants to say.
“But don’t you feel like things happened really fast between y’all? I mean, in a matter of weeks, you went from glaring at each other and having your feelings hurt because he called you ‘kid’ to getting naked with him and planning a future.”
I sigh, hating that Indy is echoing Rielle. Still, I can’t just dismiss her observation since it’s now the second time I’ve heard it. “Maybe.”
“He needs time,” she says. “And you can’t just wait around for him while he takes it.”
“I hate feeling like I’m in limbo,” I admit. “I don’t know where I stand with him and it’s driving me nuts. The waiting is almost worse than the knowing, even if his decision isn’t the one I want.”
“Well what about what you want?” Indy asks, taking a sip of her coffee. “You don’t have to wait around for him. You’re choosing to.”
I let those words sink in and nod slowly. “You’re right.”
“Take time for yourself too, Claire. Think about the type of future you want. Easton is a great guy. He’s Noah’s brother and my baby’s uncle and I care about him. But I care about you too. East’s recovery is new. And fragile. You will always worry about him. There may be more periods where he needs time and space. Are
you okay with that? Can you live like this?” she asks, gesturing at me.
I bite the corner of my lip. Can I live like this? My stomach is in knots and my throat is closing with too many desperate feelings that have nowhere to go. I feel useless and worthless and…hurt. “I don’t know,” I admit.
Indy lifts an eyebrow but her tone is gentle when she says, “Well, now is a good time to think about it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Rielle asked me to go out Saturday night. After the thing with Aiden. Have a girls’ night.”
“You haven’t had one in a long time.”
“I know. I guess I felt…” I trail off, pressing my lips together.
“Guilty,” Indy supplies, correctly reading my thoughts. “Because you didn’t want to go out and have drinks with Easton sitting at home, working on his sobriety.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the guys flew home this morning. Noah is sleeping but he told me that Easton decided to crash at Panda’s. If he’s not back by Saturday…” she lets her sentence linger.
“Then, I’ll go out with Rielle. Have a night out to clear my head and have some fun. And pack my bags Sunday morning.”
Indy nods, her expression serious. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”
I blow out a deep sigh. “Me too.” Logically, I think it makes the most sense. But emotionally, the thought of moving out hurts. It hurts deeply and anguish rolls through me.
Not just because I don’t want to move back to Mom and Dad’s. But because I truly don’t want to leave Easton.
Me: I’m in. Let’s go out tonight and do it big.
Rielle: Thank God! I need to blow off some serious steam.
Me: ???
Rielle: Not even worth explaining. Just know, I may need to be carried home.
Me: [thumbs up emoji] I’m on it. I’m meeting Aiden at 9.