by Elle Kennedy
“Thanks,” I say gratefully. “I’ve only got an hour, so let’s eat, like, immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later we’re seated and perusing the menu, which isn’t too extensive because the café only serves sandwiches and baked goods. After Daisy goes up to the counter to place our food order, we sip on our respective drinks while we wait.
“You look stressed,” she says frankly.
“I am stressed. I just spent the last hour explaining to Pace Dawson why he needs to start wearing deodorant again.”
Daisy blanches. “Why did he stop?”
I rub my temples, which are throbbing from all the stupidity I just had to deal with. “To protest the plastic pollution in our oceans.”
She snickers. “I don’t get it.”
“What’s not to get?” I say sarcastically. “His deodorant comes in a plastic container. The ocean is full of plastic. Ergo, to protest this travesty, he needs to stink up the studio.”
Daisy almost spits out her coffee. “Okay. I know he’s obnoxious to work with, but I mean, come on, everything that comes out of that boy’s mouth is pure gold.”
“Evelyn finally put her foot down and threatened to quit if he didn’t start using deodorant again. So I had to sit there and mediate until Pace finally agreed to Evelyn’s demand—on the condition that she donates two hundred dollars to an ocean conservation charity.”
“I had no idea he cared about the environment that much.”
“He doesn’t. His new girlfriend watched some documentary about whales last week, and I guess it was life-changing.”
Once our food order is ready, we continue catching up as we munch on our sandwiches. We chat about our classes, her new boyfriend, my new position at the station. Eventually the subject of my relationship comes up, but when I say everything’s fine, Daisy sees through my crappy poker face.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately. “Are you and Logan fighting?”
“No,” I assure her. “Not at all.”
“Then what’s going on? Why did you sound so…blah when I asked about you guys?”
“Because things are a bit blah,” I confess.
“Blah how?”
“We’re just both really busy. And he’s always traveling. He’s been out of town more days this month than he’s been home. Christmas was so good, but way too short. He left for road games immediately after the holiday.”
Daisy eyes me sympathetically as she takes a bite of her tuna wrap. She chews slowly, swallows, and asks, “How’s the sex?”
“Actually, we’re good in that department.” Very good, in fact. The night we pretended to be strangers at the bar flashes through my mind. The dirty memory triggers a hot shiver.
That was some great sex. Hooking up in public isn’t a habit of ours, but when we do it…holy fuck, it’s hot as hell. Our sex life has always been amazing. I guess that’s what makes this distance between us so terrible. When we’re together, everything is as passionate and perfect as it was in the beginning. Our problem is trying to find time to be together. Time is scarce in our world.
I’m not unhappy with Logan. If anything, I want more of him. I miss my boyfriend.
“The time apart is tough,” I tell Daisy.
“I can imagine. But what’s your solution? It’s not like he can quit hockey. And you’re not dropping out of college with only five months left in your senior year.”
“No,” I agree.
“And you don’t want to break up.”
I’m appalled. “Of course not.”
“Maybe you should get married.”
That gets a smile out of me. “That’s your solution? Get married?”
“I mean, we both know it’s going to happen eventually.” She shrugs. “Maybe if you guys had a more permanent commitment, it would make this stressful transitory period easier for you. Like, whenever you’re feeling the distance, you won’t have to stress about drifting too far apart because that extra-solid foundation is there to keep you stable.”
“It’s not a terrible idea,” I admit. “And I do want to marry Logan, absolutely. But our problem is time. Even if we wanted to elope, when would we have the time?” I sigh miserably. “We’re always busy and/or in different states.”
“So then I guess you have no choice but to suck it up,” Daisy says.
She’s right.
It’s difficult, though. I miss him. I don’t like coming home from class to an empty apartment. I don’t like turning on the TV in order to catch a glimpse of my boyfriend. I don’t like cramming for exams and being too tired to go out and see a movie or have dinner with him. I don’t like Logan returning home after a particularly tough game and crawling into our bed, bruised and sore and too exhausted to even cuddle.
There simply aren’t enough hours in a day, and it’s even worse now that I’m running the station. When I started college, I wasn’t sure what line of work I wanted to go into after I graduated. Originally, I thought about being a psychologist. But then I got a job sophomore year producing a campus radio show, and it made me realize I’d like to be a television producer. More specifically, I want to produce the news. Now that I’ve picked a career path, it’s harder to blow off class or call in sick to work if Logan suddenly has a free hour or two. We’ve both got other commitments that are important to us. So, like Daisy said, we just have to suck it up.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to be such a bummer. Logan and I are good. It’s just hard sometimes—”
My phone beeps with an incoming text. I glance at the screen and smile at Logan’s message. He’s letting me know the team landed safely in California. He did the same thing yesterday when they got to Nevada. I appreciate that he always checks in like this.
“One sec,” I tell my friend as I type out a response. “Just sending a quick text to wish Logan good luck on his game tonight.”
He answers instantly.
LOGAN: Thanks, babe. I really wish you were here.
ME: Me too.
HIM: I’ll call you after the game?
ME: Depends how late it is here when you call.
HIM: Try to stay up? We only talked for like 2 minutes last night :(
ME: I know. I’m sorry. I’ll drink a bunch of coffee today so I’m more awake!
But although I keep the first part of that promise—chugging coffee like a fiend—the caffeine only makes me crash harder when I get home from campus that evening. I’m dead on my feet. Barely have enough energy to eat dinner and take a shower.
By the time Logan texts me at midnight to chat, I’m already fast asleep.
4
Logan
GRACE: How’d the press conference go?
ME: It went OK. I blew it on a couple questions, spoke too long. G answers everything short and snappy. He’s an old pro, tho.
HER: I’m sure you did great <3
ME: Well, Coach didn’t pull me aside afterward to fire me, so I assume I passed the media test.
HER: If he fires you, I’ll kick his ass.
I smile at the phone. I just got back to the hotel after tonight’s game against San Jose, and I’m still feeling energized. Eventually the exhaustion will crash into me like a tidal wave, but the adrenaline of a game typically takes a while to drain from my system.
ME: Anyway. EAM.
HER: EAM? I’m too tired to try to decode that.
ME: Enough about me. Tell me about your day.
HER: Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m in bed already. It’s 1 a.m. :(
I check my phone display. Dammit. Of course she’s in bed. It might only be ten p.m. here, but it’s way past her bedtime on the East Coast.
I imagine Grace all snug and warm beneath our flannel bedsheets. It’s freezing in New England right now, so she’s probably sleeping in her plaid pants and that long-sleeved shirt with the words SQUIRREL POWER! on it. Neither of us knows what it means, because the shirt has a pineapple on it. She won’t be wearing any s
ocks, though. She sleeps barefoot no matter the temperature, and her feet are always like little blocks of ice. When we’re curled up in bed, she presses them against my calf because she’s evil.
I rub my tired eyes. Fuck. I miss her.
I type, I miss you.
She doesn’t respond. She must’ve fallen asleep. I stare at the phone for a while waiting for an answer, but it doesn’t come. So I pull up another chat thread and text Garrett.
ME: Quick drink at the bar?
HIM: Sure.
We meet downstairs and find a quiet corner in the lobby bar. It’s not at all busy, so it doesn’t take long for our beers to arrive. We tap our bottles together, and each take a swig, mine longer than his.
Garrett watches me for a second. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Swear to God, if you’re about to bitch me out again about Alexander, I refuse to hear it. You broke into our house and planted him there to scare the shit out of Wellsy. If you think I’m gonna apologize for delivering him to you on Christmas, it ain’t happening, kiddo.”
Trying not to laugh, I cock my head at him. “You done?”
“Yes,” he huffs.
“Good. Because I also refuse to apologize. You know why, kiddo? Wait, are we calling each other that now? I don’t get it, but okay, sure. Anyway, we’ve all had to suffer at the creepy porcelain hands of Alexander. Hannah’s birthday just happened to be your time of torment.”
Garrett’s indignation dissolves into a grin. “Who you gonna ship him off to next?”
“I was thinking maybe a wedding gift for Tuck?” Our best friend Tucker is finally marrying his baby mama this spring, after three years of living in unwedded sin, that blasphemous asshole. I’m a bit surprised it took him and Sabrina this long to tie the knot—they’ve been engaged for-fucking-ever—but I think Sabrina wanted to finish law school first. She graduates from Harvard Law in May.
“Dude. No.” I swear Garrett’s face turns pale. “You do not fuck around with people’s weddings.”
“But the holidays are fair game?” I counter.
“Chicks are happy and agreeable during birthdays and holidays. Weddings? They turn into lunatics.” He shakes his head in warning. “Sabrina will rip your balls off if you do that to her.”
He’s probably right. “Fine. I’ll dump him on Dean. He deserves it more.”
“Truth, brother.”
A pretty, dark-haired young woman saunters past our table and instantly does a double take when she notices us. I brace myself for the wide eyes and piercing shriek, the plea for an autograph or a selfie with the Garrett Graham. But to her credit, she plays it cool.
“Good game tonight,” she says tentatively, her awed gaze shifting between me and Garrett.
We both tip up our bottles. “Thanks,” Garrett replies with a polite smile.
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your night.” She waves and keeps walking, her stilettos clacking against the lobby’s marble floor. She stops at the front desk to talk to the clerk, all the while continuing to toss quick looks at us over her shoulder.
“Aww, look at that, superstar,” I mock. “They don’t even ask you for selfies anymore. You’re old and washed up.”
He rolls his eyes. “Didn’t see her asking you for one either, rookie. Now are you gonna tell me why I’m down here drinking with you instead of getting my beauty sleep?”
I swallow another mouthful of beer, then slowly set the bottle down.
“I’m worried Grace is gonna break up with me.”
The bleak words hang between us.
Garrett looks shocked. Then, his gray eyes soften with concern. “I didn’t realize you two were having problems.”
“We’re not, really. No fighting or anger or cheating—nothing like that at all. But there’s this distance between us,” I confess. There aren’t many people I feel comfortable turning to for advice, especially about chick problems, but Garrett is a good listener and a damn good friend.
“Distance,” he echoes.
“Yeah. Literal and figurative. And it’s only gotten worse. It started when I played for Providence, but that schedule is nothing compared to this one.” I motion vaguely at our surroundings. I can’t even remember the name of this hotel. Hell, some nights I don’t remember what city we’re in.
The life of a professional hockey player isn’t all glitz and glamour. It’s a lot of traveling. A lot of time spent on planes. A lot of empty hotel rooms. And, fine, maybe this is sort of like somebody crying about how their diamond shoes are too tight. Boo-fucking-hoo, right? But great money aside, this life does take a toll, physically and mentally. And, as it turns out, emotionally.
“Yeah, it’s not an easy adjustment,” Garrett admits.
“Did you and Wellsy have any problems when you first joined the league?”
“Of course. Being on the road all the time puts a strain on a relationship.”
My index finger traces the label of my beer. “How do you unstrain it?”
He shrugs. “I can’t give you an exact answer. My only advice? Spend time together as often as you can. Go on as many adventures as you—”
“Adventures?”
“Yes. I mean, Wellsy and I barely left the house for the first few months. We’d be so tired and just sit around and watch Netflix like a pair of zombies. It wasn’t good for us, and I don’t think it’s good for any relationship, to be honest. We were cooped up at home. She’d be strumming her guitar and I’d be dead on the couch, and yeah, sometimes it’s nice just knowing that she’s there, sharing the same space as you.”
I know exactly what he means. If I’m watching TV, and Grace is studying at our dining room table, I often look her way and smile at the little crease of concentration in her forehead. Sometimes I’m tempted to go over there and kiss that tiny groove, smooth it out with my lips. But I leave her to her work, smiling to myself and simply enjoying the fact that she’s near me.
“But other times you feel so apart, even though you’re together,” Garrett continues. He takes another sip of beer. “That’s when you need to inject some excitement into the relationship. Go for a walk. Explore a new neighborhood, try a new restaurant. Just keep making memories and sharing experiences. Good or bad, they bring you closer together.”
“We do adventurous things,” I protest.
“Like what?”
I wink. “Roleplaying, for one.”
“Nice. But I’m not talking about sex. Sex doesn’t hurt, obviously, but…it’s a matter of making her a priority. Showing her that hockey isn’t your entire world, even when it feels like it is. And if all else fails, a week in the Caribbean does wonders.”
“Dude, when do we have time for that? We barely have a night or two off, let alone a week.”
“You can make do. We’ve got two nights off next week for New Year’s Eve,” he reminds me. “There’re lots of places to go close to home.”
“Really. In New England. In the winter.”
“Dude,” he mimics. “Open up Airbnb. You’ll find tons of little ski lodges and hotels, all within a few hours’ drive.”
“True.” And Grace does like to ski…
I think it over. We have that break coming up, followed by another long stretch of away games. I definitely want—no, need to spend some quality time with my girl before the next road trip. I’m afraid if I don’t, the distance between us will only continue to grow. Until eventually it’ll be too far to bridge.
I’m still stressing about it when we part ways upstairs a half hour later. Luckily, I’ve crashed from the high of the game and now I’m exhausted, so I know I’ll pass out the second my head touches the pillow. We have an early flight to Phoenix tomorrow.
“See you tomorrow,” Garrett says before disappearing around the corner. The entire team has rooms on the same floor, but G’s is on the other side of the elevator bank from mine.
“Later, bro.”
I slide my keycard o
ut of my back pocket and pass it over the door handle, which releases with a click. My first sense that something’s wrong? Walking into darkness. I clearly remember leaving the lights on when I went to meet Garrett. Now, shadows engulf me, raising the little hairs at the back of my neck.
The next warning bell is the soft rustling sound on the bed.
Wait. Am I in the wrong room? But no, that’s impossible. I used my own keycard to get in—
“C’mon, superstar. Don’t keep me waiting all night,” coos a throaty female voice.
I almost jump out of my skin. What in the actual fuck?
A hit of adrenaline surges in my veins as I slap the wall to flick the switch. A burst of light fills the room, clearly illuminating the naked woman sprawled on my king-sized bed like she’s posing for a pinup calendar. She’s got one arm crooked behind her head, dark hair cascading over her shoulder and fanned across my pillow. Tits and legs and the curve of an ass assault my vision before I force my gaze to her face. I recognize it instantly.
It’s the chick from the lobby.
“What the hell!” I growl. “How did you get in here?”
My midnight intruder is completely unbothered by the anger coloring my tone. “I have my ways,” she says coyly.
I can’t even believe this shit is happening right now.
I rub my suddenly pounding temples. “Okay. Look. I don’t know you, lady. Whatever you thought you were gonna get out of this, it ain’t happening. It’s time for you to go.”
Her lips curl into an exaggerated pout. “You can’t be serious,” she whines. “I’m your biggest fan. I just want to show you my appreciation.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.” I cross my arms. “You gonna leave on your own or do I need to call security?”
A smug glint flashes in her eyes. “I don’t think leaving your bed is an option, honey.”
To my sheer disbelief, she lifts her head slightly to show me the arm she’d been leaning against. Or rather, the wrist that’s handcuffed to the bedpost.