by Elise Faber
And Logan lost his shit.
Look, he knew he was impulsive, had to regularly force himself for patience. But that patience wasn’t often needed for his temper. He dealt with pain in the ass forwards on the ice, pushing his buttons, slashing his calves with their sticks, cup-checking on an occasional basis—occasional because while he was slow to anger, once he got to that point, it was an implosion of spectacular proportions.
Last time he’d lost it on the ice, he’d ended up kicked out of a game when some fucker had taken a cheap shot at Brit.
Today, it was this fucking stranger in front of him.
This wasn’t his dad, wasn’t the person he’d respected and had fun with, who’d coached his hockey team and taught him how to ride a bike. This person was a miserable bastard who seemed to be completely lacking in empathy.
“You call me to bitch about her,” Logan said. “She calls to bitch about you. I find myself completely stuck in the middle.”
“You’ve got your own life to live.” A shrug. “Stop complaining and go out and live it.”
Yeah, that was exactly the same conclusion he’d come to.
Because it had taken these last couple of weeks with Char to recognize exactly how fucked up this tangle he’d allowed himself to be ensnared in with his parents was.
And he was done.
“I don’t know when you turned from the dad whose opinion I respected more than any other person’s to this angry asshole in front of me—”
His dad’s fishing rod clinked down into the holder. “How dare you call—”
Logan jumped to his feet. “That’s the only thing that gets a rise out of you? Me calling you an asshole? I don’t know what the fuck happened to you, but you’re not the man I grew up wanting to emulate, not by a fucking long shot.”
“Then go, Log. Go live your fancy life. Go be with your fancy friends and see how happy that makes you.”
He sighed. “That’s just it, Dad. I don’t give a shit about my fancy life or friends.” The ones he’d made this season he didn’t count in that number, but he didn’t bother to explain the distinction between them to his father, not when there were so many other important things to tackle. “I haven’t been happy. And that’s not because of you and Mom,” he added, when his dad started to protest. “It was because of me. Because I gave up the woman I loved so she would have a chance at her dream. But now I have her back, and I cannot for the life of me understand how you wouldn’t do everything in your power to make the woman you love happy.”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Why argue over the craft room or the job or the trip she wants to take to Finland? Even if you don’t give a shit about how she stores her fabrics or her dream to see the northern lights or the job, don’t you see how working makes her happy, along with piecing together a quilt? Don’t you want her dreams to be realized?” Logan waited for his dad to reply, and when he didn’t, Log sighed and figured why not say the rest of it? “She gave up her career for yours and didn’t complain once. She moved away from her family and support system to advance your career. She gave, Dad, so why couldn’t you give back?”
And still . . . nothing.
Beyond fucking done, Logan turned away, started down the dock.
“I would have given her everything,” his dad said, and Logan spun back, saw his dad walking toward him. “If she hadn’t fallen in love with my best friend.”
Thirty-Two
Char
The smell of peach pie filled the kitchen, and she was sitting full sandwich-style between her sister, Amelia, and her brother, Will.
And having a pile of shit heaped onto her.
Shit of the teasing, sibling variety.
God, it was good to be home.
Her brother and sister had spent most of the last two days at her parents’ house, and she was so thankful for her family and their inability to hold the fact that she’d been beyond distant over the last few years against her.
Even when she’d been too wrapped up in work to appreciate them, they’d still reached out, and being here with them, finally being aware of how she’d felt and acted over the years—closed down and separate and probably a bit cold—made her realize how much she’d been missing out on.
Amelia bumped her shoulder against Char’s. “You look happy, Char-Char. I’d thought we’d be consoling a defeated barrier-breaker who’d been denied her ultimate prize.”
“I was considering holding a Chubby Bunny contest, just so Lo-Lo can win something.”
She narrowed her eyes even as her lips quirked. “I may be defeated in my search for the Cup, but I’ll never lose another Chubby Bunny contest.”
A bag of marshmallows landed on the counter in front of her. “Prove it.”
She glanced up to see her dad grinning at them, a laughing expression softening the planes of his face.
And that was how she found herself defending her title of Chubby Bunny champion.
“Twenty-three!” she exclaimed—or rather attempted to exclaim.
She moved to the trash can, spat out the clump of gelatin and sugar in a very unladylike gesture—sometimes sacrifices to beauty and elegance had to be made—and turned back to her siblings, who had stopped at ten and fourteen respectively.
Will shook his head at their mom, who had come in mid-competition. “Isn’t the middle child supposed to be the peacemaker?”
“Not our Charlotte,” her mom said, kissing their father on the cheek. “She’s fire and steel and determination.”
“Makes all the rest of us look bad,” Amelia grumbled, her eyes sparkling with humor as she wrapped her arm around Char’s waist. “Always got to excel at everything.”
Will snorted, since Amelia had recently returned for her master’s degree and had just finished explaining how excited she was that her bid for a spot on a new committee to develop curriculum with the school district had been accepted. Not that Will was one to talk—earlier he’d shared that his research paper was going to be published in a well-known scientific journal. He’d also just been tenured at the University, not an easy feat in this day and age of adjunct professors.
“My little gig of playing with athletes can’t compare with corralling elementary school students”—she squeezed Amelia’s hand—“or, for that matter, college students”—a nod at her brother—“I just get to be the face of a group of people who are more family than workplace.” She picked up the bag of marshmallows, began rolling down the plastic.
When silence greeted her, she looked up into the surprised faces of her siblings and parents.
“What?” she asked.
Her mom’s eyes were damp. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you, honey.”
Char blinked, opening her mouth to say she’d always been there.
But that would have been a lie.
She hadn’t been there, hadn’t been present, and her family had clearly seen that, even if they hadn’t called her on it.
“What’s his name?” her grandmother asked. Char had almost forgotten she was there, sitting on her usual stool pulled up to the island, silently playing solitaire as they’d all caused chaos in the kitchen while her father cooked dinner.
The room fell quiet.
“What?” she asked, though she had a sneaking suspicion she knew the him her grandma was referencing.
“Or her,” her grandmother pressed.
Char attempted to play dumb. “Him or her who?”
Steady brown eyes fixing her in place. “The one who brought you back.”
She wanted to say she’d brought herself back, but that would be a lie. And not only would her family call her on that lie, but she knew they wouldn’t stop pestering her until she admitted the truth.
But that was what family did.
What she’d failed to appreciate until she’d seen it with the Gold.
They were nosy and when it came to the important things, they didn’t cut each other slack. They pushed and expected mo
re and dammit, they made it known that they wanted to be privy to all the little details.
Because they mattered.
Because she mattered.
Which was how she came to spill the whole story of Logan and her relationship to her entire family. Their clandestine start, the breakup, his present of slippers and lunches and cooking for her. How he’d fixed her gate and filled her fridge with groceries. How he took care of her in a hundred small ways—ways she’d never begun to think of and ways that touched deeply.
And how—most importantly—she wanted to take care of him right back.
“I thought that he’d broken something inside me, that he’d taken away my ability to love a man in that way,” she finished, “but the truth was that no other man has ever understood me like Logan. I’m with him, and a part of my soul just relaxes. I don’t have to worry about being Char the GM or Char the role model for black women or Char the kickass businesswoman who doesn’t get pushed around.” Her eyes stung, voice dropping to a whisper. “I can just be Starlight.”
Amelia sniffed. “Char-Char, you really love him.”
Char made a face. “I do.” A beat as the room filled with laughter. “As much as I hate that it ruins my tough as nails exterior.”
Will tugged her back against him. “I still want to kick his ass for hurting you.”
“He was trying to help me,” she argued. “But”—her lips curved—“I already threatened him with dull skate blades if he presumed to make a decision about me without me again.”
“That’s my girl.” Her dad kissed the top of her head. “You sure about him? It makes the work situation tricky, and I know you love your job.”
Char was already nodding, lips parting, when her mother spoke.
“Meh,” her mom said. “Those Gold players have made the news for far bigger scandals than this. I bet it’ll barely make a blip on the radar.”
That was to be determined, Char knew, but she wasn’t going to give Logan up regardless of the press or that they both were important to the Gold. “Plus, the HR department with the team is well-versed with this type of relationship.”
“And it can’t be any more of a conflict than Pierre Barie being the GM for the team his son played on.”
“Or his son’s wife. Or my coach Calle dating my player Coop.”
“It’s like a soap opera,” Amelia said on a giggle.
“They’re a family,” Char said. “They’re messy and intertwined, friendships and lovers and business all tangled together, but . . . beneath all that is love.” She smiled. “And I’m happy to be just beginning to find my place in all of that messy.”
“With Loooogan,” Will teased.
“Shut up, you,” she muttered, smacking him lightly across the chest. “But yes. With Logan.”
“I’m happy for you, baby,” her mom said, “but make sure he knows that he needs to get his ass here in order to pass inspection.”
“Exactly,” her grandmother said.
Char laughed. “I’ll pass that along.”
The timer went off, and even though they were all grownups, each of them still moved to do their assigned job. Her dad headed to the oven. Amelia sprang to her feet, Char joining her. It was time for Amelia to set the table, for Char to gather drinks and condiments. Will would be on dishes, her mother on lighting the candles her dad required for ambiance.
And her grandma . . . well, her only job was getting her tush to the table and sitting down.
Perks came with age.
As they moved, the conversation turned to other things. To Amelia’s rundown of her class and how she was going to miss them in the fall. To the underfunded educational district she taught in. To Char’s mind sparking with an idea of how to get her players involved with San Franciscan schools and her whole family helping her refine and perfect the notion.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel distant.
And she knew that was because Logan had filled her up, given her the strength to look into her heart, and helped her recognize what she was missing.
She’d done the hard work.
But he’d had her back.
As she ate some of her father’s delicious cooking, she thought back to the phone call, to the way Logan’s voice had gone sad, the pain radiating through the airwaves, and she promised herself she would have his back in return.
They’d both spent too long alone.
Now was the time for them to move forward.
Together.
But by the next evening, she wasn’t sure if together was what Logan wanted.
She’d called.
She’d texted.
She’d called again.
She’d even sent an email.
“Maybe I should send a carrier pigeon,” she muttered.
“What’s that, honey?” her mom asked, glancing up from the thick book in French she was reading quote, “just for fun.”
She made a face, shoved her phone in her pocket. “Nothing,” she said, half to convince herself and half to focus on the time with her family. She only had a couple more days with them before she needed to get back to the Bay Area. She wanted to enjoy this time in Baltimore.
“She said she wanted to send a carrier pigeon,” her dad chimed in.
“A carrier pigeon?” The book hit her mom’s lap. “Why?”
“Mom—”
“No,” her mom snapped, and the sharp tone was so different from what she usually used that Char blinked and stopped talking. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“I can’t get ahold of Logan.”
“Was everything you told me about him bullshit?”
Another blink, Char’s mouth opening and closing like a guppy. “Um, no?”
“Is that a question or an answer?” More stern.
More blinking, but enough that Char finally pulled herself together. “An answer, Mom. He’s always been available, or at the very least, called me back as soon as he could.”
“How long has it been since you talked to him?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“That’s not so long—”
Her dad shut up when her mom’s sharp gaze transferred to him.
“You told me this man adores you,” she said. “So, is that part bullshit, or is something else going on?”
That was what she was worried about. He’d been upset and now not to hear from him after he’d been so careful to rebuild her trust in him. But at the same time, she didn’t want to make something out of nothing. Maybe he was just busy. She certainly hadn’t been glued to her phone. Or maybe he dropped his phone in the lake while he was fishing and couldn’t call her—
“Char.”
She nibbled at her lip. “It’s weird to hear you curse.”
A sigh. “Charlotte.”
“Damn,” she muttered. “I haven’t heard that tone from you in about fifteen years.”
“I haven’t had much cause to use it with you, honey. Tell me why I’m feeling the need to now.”
“I don’t want to make this a big deal, to start letting our relationship dominate my every waking thought. What if it becomes more important than everything else, and I suddenly—” She cut herself off.
“Suddenly want to quit your job and become Suzy Homemaker.”
Char sighed. “Yeah.” A pause. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I think it’s amazing that you stayed home with us when we were little, am so thankful that grandma was there, too. I just worry that there’s something inside me that will make me forget everything important.”
“Maybe what you think is important isn’t really.”
Soft words that had her spinning toward her dad.
“Your job can’t love you back, baby. It can fulfill you in many ways, but it can’t fill that hole inside your heart.”
No, it couldn’t.
“And,” her mom said. “You’re my smart, talented, lovely, stubborn daughter. You’re not one to repeat your mistakes.”
There was
that.
“What if I decide that work is less important than Logan?” she asked.
“Isn’t that how it should be with the man you love?” her mom asked, gaze full of warmth when it met her father’s.
The question was both terrifying and also . . . right.
Because would it be the end of the world if her priorities were something other than work, if they shifted to the family she hoped to build with the man who held her heart?
No.
That seemed to be the only way forward.
Logan hadn’t hesitated to put her first over the last weeks.
Now, it was her turn.
Thirty-Three
Logan
To say the last twenty-four hours had been tense was the understatement of the century.
The bombshell revelation.
Him walking away from his father, totally unbelieving.
And then his mom coming home from work, taking one look at his face, her face falling, words tumbling from her lips.
“He told you.”
Then she’d begun crying, and he’d gone through a spectrum of emotions—disbelief, fury, horror, sadness, disappointment—before he’d crossed through the kitchen and taken her in his arms.
Tears.
God, he’d never seen her cry like that.
Wrenching sobs that shuddered through her, dripping down her cheeks, soaking into his shirt.
So much pain.
Her knees had eventually given way, and he’d picked her up, carried her to the couch and held her.
Such a strange experience, holding the woman who’d cared for him his whole life, who’d kissed his hurts and comforted him when he’d had a bad dream. Seeing her so broken, the tearing sobs coursing through her when the most he’d ever seen was her upset at a movie or book, a few tears here or there.
She hadn’t even cried this hard when Logan’s grandmother had died.
And all the while his father hadn’t come in.
Through the night, when eventually the tears stopped coming.
All through the next morning, when his mom had finally fallen asleep and Logan had covered her up on the couch.