by Elise Faber
He opened it.
Then almost wished he hadn’t.
The drawing was of him and Sara, their faces young, their expressions carefree. The background was the part that gutted him. Slashes and swirls, pencil strokes that were harsh and painful.
Hidden in those writhing lines were older versions of him and Sara. Her face was long and gaunt, tears pouring like blood from her eyes, and he stood, brows pulled tight into a frown, eyes dark and disapproving.
Her tears swirled between the two of them, dripped down to surround their younger selves. It didn’t quite reach them, those youthful masks untouched.
But it was what was beneath it all that caused the greatest pain.
She’d done the whole piece in shades of gray, and Mike couldn’t help but think that was how she viewed the world.
Lacking in color.
Pain locked beneath cheerful facades.
And suddenly that guilt that had been harping on him a bare half hour before felt like peaches and rainbows. Because this guilt — the turning on her when she’d trusted him enough to open up — was a thousand times worse.
He’d hurt her.
Again.
Mike cursed. Again. For what felt like the hundredth time that hour.
He slammed into the garage, whipping his phone from his pocket and pressing the opener. It rattled up as he dialed and shoved himself into his car.
Stefan answered, sounding suitably distracted.
Mike was sure Brit had something to do with that, especially when he heard a feminine giggle in the background.
Gross.
But the nauseous feeling that was making his gut churn wasn’t the thought of his teammates doing a horizontal line change.
He’d hurt Sara. Again.
Jackass of the year. Fuck. The century.
He waited impatiently for the gate to open and sped down the road, back into the city, and away from the airport.
Hence the phone call.
Stefan’s voice sharpened, the giggle cut off. “Mike? You okay?”
“No.” He swerved around the corner, zipped onto 101 and went north. “I fucked up. Big time.”
“Was it the charm? I really thought you could pull some out of—”
“Not the charm,” he ground out, pushing his speed. He’d done well with the charm. Scavenger hunt with all her favorite things. Check. Flowers. Check. Multiple orgasms. Check, check, check.
The problem was his stunted little man-child emotions.
“Then what, buddy? ‘Cause I thought you’d decided to go for it. I talked to the team’s publicist—”
“What?” Mike almost rear-ended the car in front of him.
“Not in specifics,” Stefan rushed to say. “I never mentioned her name or even alluded to Sara’s troubles. I just asked her to think of some ways to spin a relationship with a player and a person who might be considered infamous — wrongly, of course,” he added when Mike spat out a curse.
He didn’t like the idea of airing Sara’s dirty laundry but hated more that he hadn’t thought of working with the powers that be preemptively.
If he wanted to protect Sara, then he needed to think of these things first, not rely on his teammates to bail them out.
But that wasn’t important because—
“Her story got worse.”
“How could it possibly be worse?”
Mike cut over two lanes and took the exit that would lead to Sara’s apartment. “Trust me. It did.”
“Fuck,” Stefan said. “I’m assuming you can’t tell me the specifics.”
Mike paused at a signal. “Not my story to tell.”
“Yeah. Figured.” A sigh that slid through the airwaves. “So what now? It’s not your fault that her life got worse.”
“It is when you’re so pissed and angry at the people that hurt her that you don’t realize she needed a freaking hug.”
Or kind words. Or reaffirmation that it hadn’t been her fault.
The light turned green, and he smashed down the accelerator.
“You need to grovel.”
“That much is clear,” he snapped. “But I have to find her first.”
“She left? Fuck, man. You really did screw up.”
“Yeah. Sara’s got a habit of running when things go bad, and I—”
He hadn’t helped matters. He’d freaked, and now she thought he was blaming her and—
“So what do you need me to do?”
The signal turned red, and Mike screeched the car to a stop. Right ahead. Then another left, and he’d be at her apartment.
“Just cover for me with Bernard if I’m late. I should be good but…” He trailed off, not really knowing if he’d be good at all. Not if he didn’t find Sara and convince her to forgive him.
But his mind was in a fucked-up air space. If he didn’t at least try…
“Will do.” Stefan paused. “It’ll be okay.”
“How do you know that?” Mike screeched to a halt on the street in front of Sara’s apartment.
“Because I’m guessing that Sara already knows you’re an idiot.”
“I’m hanging up now, asshole.”
“I got one more tidbit bit of advice for you, buddy.”
“You can take your advice and stick it straight up—”
Stefan didn’t let him finish. “In all seriousness, know that I’m—”
A muffled female voice said something.
“—correction, we’re here for you.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Oh, and Mike?”
He popped the door, hesitated before opening it to get out. “Yeah.”
“Groveling works better when you get down on both knees.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WHY DID SHE always run?
It was pathetic, really, how quickly she cut her losses and took off. What was even more pathetic was the fact that she was tying her sneakers and getting ready to take an actual run, rather than the Uber one from Mike’s place.
Her hip didn’t need the extra pounding—
And, great, now she was blushing because her mind couldn’t think of the word pounding without conjuring images of Mike and how good it had felt when he’d pounded into her.
Hot skin, hard muscles—
Sharp words.
Cowardice.
“Goddammit,” she muttered and wrestled her hair into a ponytail.
She’d run. Left without standing up for herself.
Maybe she and Mike wouldn’t work out. Maybe they couldn’t get over all the shared and individual baggage they carried.
But she hadn’t fought. For any of it.
Instead, she’d rolled over and died. Again.
Pathetic. And yup, her picture was going in that proverbial dictionary. Sara Jetty: cheating ice princess and connoisseur of avoiding any and all conflict.
Shoving in her earbuds with one hand, she twisted the knob with the other.
The door pushed open, almost smacking her in the face.
In fact, it would have smacked her had a large, strong hand not caught the plank of wood and stopped it a half inch from her nose.
She knew those hands. Knew that scar across the ring finger, knew the light dusting of hair on the knuckles.
Slowly, the door was drawn back, and Mike slipped inside her apartment.
He raised a brow at her, no doubt taking in her sweats, sneakers, and firmly contained ponytail. “Going somewhere?”
She lifted her chin, tried to pretend that her heart wasn’t racing.
Why was he here? Why did she care so damn much?
“Yeah. For a run.”
“Seems to be a lot of that happening.”
Her arms crossed on their own, she’d swear it. Either that or Mike had the uncanny ability to piss her off faster than any other person on the planet. “Not really.”
“Yeah?” He closed the door behind him, leaned back against it. “So you’re going to tell me you didn’t run from my house?�
�
Sara ripped her earbuds out and walked over to her small sitting area. The armchair was a soft blue velvet and beyond worn, but it was the perfect height for her little round table that played double duty as both work space and kitchen counter.
She slammed her phone down onto the table, not caring when the cord to her headphones tangled and the little plastic speakers collided with her cup of pencils, almost knocking it over.
Her mad was on and raring now, and it felt so much better than the hurt from before.
Leaving the phone, she whirled around and marched over to Mike. Poked him in the chest. “Don’t try and tell me for one second that you didn’t want me gone. You all but ripped the truth from me then wanted me to GTFO.”
He propped one foot behind him on the wall.
It should have irritated her, that action. He was getting street scum on her walls, probably marking up the paint. And yet her mind literally would not let her focus on anything aside from the fact that he could fill out those slacks.
Really fill them out.
As in, she knew now from personal experience how well he could fill out a pair of pants.
Whew.
Was it getting hot in her apartment?
She pulled at the collar of her shirt, needing some cool air on her heated skin.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“What what means?”
Mike snagged her wrist, pressed her palm to his chest. He wore a suit jacket and button-down, so there were at least two layers between her hand and his skin, but her body didn’t know the difference.
Or hell, maybe it did.
Because her lady parts were demanding that she slip those buttons loose, part the shirt, and lick his pecs like a popsicle.
“I don’t know what g-t-f-o means.”
“Get the fuck out.”
He blinked, dropped his fingers from her wrist.
The action was abrupt enough for her undressing fantasy to waver, enough for her to realize it was just that. A fantasy.
She and Mike were only a fantasy.
“I—” He cocked his head, eyes flashing to the ceiling as he worked something out in his brain. “Oh. Oh.”
“What?”
“GTFO means to get the fuck out.”
Well, yeah.
“Not that you want me to leave now.”
Except, now that he mentioned it…
He flashed her a grin. “Tell me how you really feel, Sara girl.”
She huffed. “I thought I just did.” Turning, she sighed again. “Mike. You wanted me gone. You don’t like what happened to me. I get that. But—” Her chair creaked as she sank down into it and dropped her head into her hands. “Truth is, you wanted me to leave.”
“Yes.”
All traces of heat vanished, her body iced over. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
That had come out on a steady voice. If nothing else, there was that. Her hurt was hidden so deep that no one would ever know.
Except for Mike.
Because the jerkwad always saw beneath her armor.
This time was no exception.
He cursed and was in front of her in a second, hands on her knees, face between her arms, forcing her to look at him.
“Sweetheart.”
Sara leaned back, crossed her arms. “Don’t call me that.”
Mike’s lips twitched. “Fine. Sara girl, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.”
“Well, I’m pissed as hell at you.”
The twitch transformed into a full-blown grin. “God, I like you.” Her heart stuttered, her words caught in her throat. He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Nothing to say about that one?”
How could she?
He’d taken her armor — the one made from the ashes of her heart — and crumbled it effortlessly under the slightest show of charm.
At her silence, he sobered. “I should have been there to protect you.”
She found her voice… or at least her scoff. “Protect me from whom?”
“I—”
“My coaches? The media? No one could have protected me from that circus.”
His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket with a curse.
“None of this is your fault.” She shook her head. “I should have realized what was going on long before it all came out. I knew—”
Eyes flashed up to hers. “Knew what?”
“That something was off during the Olympics.” She sighed. “I thought it was nerves—”
“Except you never got nervous.”
No. She hadn’t.
“Born and bred for skating competitions” was what her coaches had always said.
“Clutch,” her brother had called it.
Her mother had referred to it as “grace under pressure.”
But at the Olympics, it had been different. She’d thought it the large scale, the high stakes, the pressure.
How wrong she’d been.
“Anyway, you need to go,” she said, standing and forcing him to back up. “The team’s got to be leaving soon.”
“I—”
She turned and walked toward the door. “Your team needs you.”
“You need me.”
Armor was a joke. She had none when it came to Mike. “Come here,” she said.
“What?”
“Just come here.”
He rose to his feet and crossed to her. When he was within arm’s reach, she launched herself at him. He caught her — as she’d known he would — and pulled her tight against his chest.
“Thank you for coming after me.”
“I may have been an idiot back then, but I’m not one now.”
She snorted.
“Okay, I’m still an idiot, just slightly smaller in magnitude. How’s that?”
“Reasonable.”
His breath ruffled her ponytail as he chuckled. Sara rubbed her cheek against the crisp cotton of his button down. He smelled… like him. “I’ll always come for you,” he said, “so no more running, okay?”
“Again reasonable.”
Arms loosening, he smiled down at her. “We’re both going to give this our best chance, yes?” he asked, and when she nodded, pressed his lips to hers softly.
Before the pleasant fire, the stoked flames could turn into a full-raging inferno, Sara stepped back.
She raised a fist. “Do our best.”
Mike’s eyes went wide at the gesture. They’d said it each time before going their separate ways in the rink. A fist bump and—
“Do our best,” he murmured, tapping his much larger hand against hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MIKE MADE IT to the plane with literally minutes to spare.
Which meant that the only open seat was next to Max and his collection of plastic toys — sorry, figurines.
“It’s a short flight,” he muttered under his breath as he walked down the aisle and stowed his bag.
One hour. He could make it through one hour.
“How’s it?” Max asked, pulling out a Walking Dead graphic novel instead of a bucket of toys.
Thank fuck.
“Fine.” He plugged in his headphones and… waited.
“What did you think of last week’s episode?”
Mike knew he had two choices: either answer the question and hope Max got on a monologue about some minuscule detail of the show, or draw out the torture and ignore him.
In which case, Max’s questions would just continue until he wore Mike down and he answered anyway.
So Mike asked, “What show?”
“Walking Dead, of course.”
“I don’t watch zombie shows.”
“What about zombie movies?”
He shrugged. “Nope. I’m not into the whole post-apocalyptic thing.”
“What? How can you not like Mila Jochavick in the Resident Evil franchise? She’s hot and kickass and…”
And there he went. Mike turned on his music, Max’s
droning about zombies becoming pleasant background noise.
“DO YOU HAVE a minute?” Mike asked Bernard.
Their head coach paused the video he was watching on his iPad before glancing up. “Come in.”
Mike stepped to the side, letting Stefan walk into the office Coach had commandeered first. Then he shut the door and sat down.
Bushy white brows were drawn together. “Want to tell me what this is about?”
“Stefan knows some of the story, but I thought as captain, he should know the rest.” Mike shrugged. “And I didn’t want you to be out of the loop when this all comes out.”
Bernard set his iPad aside. He didn’t ask the question, that wasn’t his way, but instead waited for Mike to give him the remainder of the story.
“I grew up with Sara Jetty.”
Stefan’s breath hissed out, Coach didn’t react so obviously. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and pressed his palms to his desk.
“We skated at the same rink for years, I drove us both to practices before school, ate dinner at her family’s house more often than my own.” Mike paused as those memories ran wild in his mind.
Sara… sweet and soft and shy.
Sara on the cusp of being a woman.
Sara… strong and competitive and hardworking.
“And?” Coach prompted.
“I was in love with her then, but she left for the Olympics, and I left for juniors and—” He stopped, not wanting to share his reasons for staying away. Not when Stefan and Coach didn’t need to know.
“You grew apart?” Stefan asked.
A nod. “We were young, busy with our own stuff, but then I ran into her in the city a few weeks ago. She’s working as an artist, and things are… well, like they were before.” He straightened his shoulders. “We’ve decided to give us as a couple a try. I wanted you to know only because of the potential blowback on the team.”
Coach pressed his lips together.
“I know no one gives a shit about me, but Sara’s past—” A shrug. “I don’t want to screw with the team, not when we’re playing so well, but at the same time…”
Sara was important.
More important than anything else.
“I’ll discuss with upper management. Stefan, you’ll deal with anything that comes up on the team side. Come to me only if you have to. I don’t want to be the host for a fucking dating show.”