by Elise Faber
“Yeah.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I don’t know the whole story yet, but I think she damn well does have us beat.”
“Me, too. So”—Brit pointed to the door—“go. Before you really fuck things up.”
Blane squeezed by her, thankful for the kick in the pants, though it hadn’t felt good. “Thanks, Bestie,” he said and tugged her ponytail.
She batted his hand away then punched his shoulder. “I’m still waiting for my half of the heart necklace.”
“You’re getting better with your chirps,” he retorted as she moved to sit beside Stefan again.
“Never let it be said that I don’t work on all aspects of my game.”
He snorted and hurried off the bus.
Pierre was talking to Coach Bernard. They broke off their conversation as he strode by.
“I’d hurry if I were you, son,” Pierre said.
Bernard nodded. “In Dr. Carter’s office, last I saw.”
Blane started running.
Twenty-Three
Mandy
* * *
Mandy took the iPad out of Gabe’s hands. “I’ll finish the reports. Go,” she urged when he started protesting. “Your mom is waiting.” With his job on the West Coast but his family on the East, Gabe didn’t get to see them much, and she knew he worried about his mom, who was recently widowed.
“I don’t like leav—”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just exhausted after today’s craziness.” Hours on the plane, followed by hours more on a bus.
But she’d been by Blane’s side, so it had been more of an adventure than a trial.
Until now.
Gabe bent to meet her eyes. “You sure that’s all it is?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms. “And it’s not the fact that Blane isn’t here?”
Yes. Yes, of course it damn well was. He’d all but declared himself to the team and then . . . forgot her. “He’s busy with the team,” she said, hating that he’d made her feel like this.
Like her dad used to.
“I’m good,” she said, shoving that feeling deep down and pushing Gabe out the door. “Seriously. I’ll just finish with these and then head back to meet Blane.”
Nice words, but would that actually happen?
Of course, it would. This was just a weird day with extenuating circumstances. With all the delays and the subsequent rushing around, they hadn’t had a chance to talk about what would happen following the game. Plus, they hadn’t been on a road trip together as a couple. There were bound to be quirks to work out.
A total misunderstanding.
That was it.
But she couldn’t put out of her head that—plans or not—he’d always come before.
Maybe Bernard had pulled him into a last minute meeting?
She bit her lip and started scrolling through the reports on the iPad, archiving some as old, healed injuries, marking others as priority cases, reading through and updating treatments that had been completed that evening.
A knock on the doorframe and Pierre popped his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but have you seen Dr. Carter?”
Mandy stood. “I sent him on”—she glanced at her watch—“maybe twenty minutes ago now? He had family in the building.”
“Okay.” A beat. “Will you pass along that I’m heading out of the country for two weeks? Terry will be here in my place.” Terrance Freidman was a former player, present assistant GM, and currently being groomed to take over GM duties from Pierre—who while a good owner and GM, had more business than sports experience.
Then there was the complication of him being Stefan’s dad.
“Will do,” she said. “Thank you again for the . . .” She shook her head. “I just really appreciate the funding for my requests and the new contract. And Blane,” she added. “Thank you for understanding.”
He nodded. “It’s good business. Nothing more. Happy, healthy players, happy staff. That part isn’t rocket science.”
“Pierre—”
“Sorry,” Bernard said when he came equal with the doorway and realized he’d interrupted. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but did you need a few minutes? The bus is loaded and the players are ready to go.”
Mandy’s stomach clenched. “Was—?”
“Blane?” Bernard glanced over, eyes softening. “Last I saw, he was leaving the locker room. I’m sure he’ll be over—”
“Of course,” she said and held up the iPad. “But don’t let me keep you from your meeting. Pierre, I’ll be sure to pass on your message to Dr. Carter. Thank you again. For everything.”
Pierre’s brows drew down, but he nodded and both men said their goodbyes before walking down the hall and disappearing out of sight. Her eyes flicked to the locker room door, currently wide open as the equipment staff hurried in and out.
They had to walk by the office she was in to exit the hall.
Just as the players had needed to.
Just as Blane had to.
So why wasn’t he there yet?
Sighing, she sank down into the chair and forced herself to focus. He would come or he wouldn’t. God knew she’d spent too much of her childhood waiting for her father to show up.
He rarely had.
The single good thing she’d learned from those experiences was that she couldn’t sit and wait. She had to do her. Had to live her life and not put everything on hold.
Like her mother had. Like she had for ages.
Well, not anymore.
Mandy was going to finish these reports, catch a car to the hotel, and then spend an hour in the tub with a book. She might even splurge on room service.
Yes. A twenty-dollar sandwich would make everything just perfect.
She sniffed.
“Dammit.” Huffing, she wiped the tears away and tried to keep her focus on the reports. This was her job, a job that she’d just been given a raise for and in that moment, she was bawling like a baby, not even able to finish some fucking reports.
“Ugh.” Mandy used her palms to wipe her eyes then inhaled and released it slowly.
It sucked to be forgotten.
She could just leave it at that.
Shove away the hurt and focus on the indignation. She deserved to be remembered, for fuck’s sake. She was important. She was valuable.
This wouldn’t be like it had been with her dad.
No. She wouldn’t let it.
“Okay,” she whispered and blew out another breath. “Just—I’ll be okay.”
The reports came back into focus. She scrolled through them, making adjustments and notes, doing her job like a fucking adult, thank her very much.
She’d just saved the reports to the team’s cloud and stashed the iPad into her backpack when her phone buzzed. It took a minute for her to dig it out of the bottom of her bag, but when she saw the lock screen showed a text from Brit, her heart both leapt and dropped.
Because if she was being truthful, Brit was not the person she wanted to hear from.
And then the screen flashed with an incoming call from her mother.
Fuck. Her. Life.
“Okay, drama queen,” she muttered to herself. “Man up and answer the phone.” She gave herself one more second before swiping a finger across the screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“You’re in town and you don’t call?”
The gut punch was real.
Those were the words her mother used to say to her father, before he’d gotten hurt, before every single moment of her mother’s day had been dedicated to his care, his appointments, the exact fucking brand of socks or carrots or laundry detergent he preferred.
Her father had been a paraplegic and yet he’d still been able to control the women in his life.
Her mother. Her.
And this call felt like a fucking blast from the past, the perfect karmic reminder that she was letting a man determine her moods, affect her day, put her through the emotional wringer.
But Blane w
as different.
Or was he?
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d hoped to meet up with you, but there was an issue with the plane and—”
“I’m lonely, Amanda.”
She dropped her head to the table, felt like banging it repeatedly. “How’s tennis going?”
“The women are mean there.”
“Oh, did you—”
“And I don’t like sweating. It’s too hard.”
“What about the quilting class I signed you up for?”
Her mother pfted. “Did you know that you have to make sure all of the lines are perfectly straight before you sew? It’s impossible.”
“Mom, you can draw on eyeliner in a perfectly straight line the first time, every time. That seems like the perfect activity. Plus, no sweating.”
“I don’t like it.”
She imagined her mom sticking out her bottom lip, affecting the little girl persona she’d always taken with her dad.
Because, yes, her dad had been an alcoholic asshole who’d cheated and been his own biggest fan, but her mom wasn’t a fucking angel. She was needy, couldn’t make a decision before jumping back and forth a dozen times. She liked everything. She liked nothing. She couldn’t do a damned thing without a helping hand.
And so every few weeks, Mandy found herself in a conversation such as this.
Except, this time she’d done it to herself
She had thought that if she could only find her mother a hobby, then she would get busy and focus on someone else.
Her mom needed a project and that project needed to be far, far away from Mandy. She’d spent too long trying to be okay without her parents, with never being good enough or smart enough or exacting enough. Just because her father had died didn’t mean that she would take his place in micromanaging her mother’s life.
And yet, here she was, arranging sewing classes and tennis lessons.
She was seriously screwed up.
No. She didn’t want her mother to be unhappy. That made her a good person. But she couldn’t also open herself up to be hurt by her all over again. Hell, she’d spent as much time during her childhood chasing her father’s approval as her mother’s attention.
“How about the makeup classes?”
“You mean doing makeup for those gross old ladies at the home?” her mother asked, obviously affronted.
Fuck it.
Mandy banged her head against the table a couple of times for good measure.
“Mom. I’m tired, and I have a job to do.” She sighed. “I’m living my own life, okay? You need to find something to fill yours.”
“Baby, I want to—”
“To clarify, I’m not the piece to fill yours.” Mandy let her head fall back, keeping her eyes shut as she held the phone to her ear. “I can’t be your filler for dad, okay? It just hurts too much.”
Let her think that it was because she missed the old bastard, rather than the fact that she wasn’t willing to open that part of her heart up again.
Too much had happened.
“Well, I—” her mother sputtered.
Mandy had learned, growing up in a dysfunctional, co-dependent, booze-filled, angry, and resentful household meant that she had to embrace every means to protect herself.
Which meant cutting ties at some point.
For her own health and sanity, she needed to keep her mother at a distance.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
She hung up then read the text from Brit.
He’s an idiot. But not an idiot on purpose.
Mandy snorted, ready to write a reply when she felt it.
Or rather, him.
Twenty-Four
Blane
* * *
Her eyes were sad and rimmed with red.
Fuck.
“Sweetheart, I—” He took a step toward her, gut clenching when she put a palm up to stop him.
“Hold on.” Her shoulders rose and dropped on a sigh. “I need to say this.”
He stopped, nodded. “Okay.”
“You hurt me tonight. A lot,” she said then lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. “But I don’t think it’s exactly fair for me to be mad and hurt and miserable about it without you knowing why it affected me so much.”
Blane reached out a hand. “Can you at least let me hold you while you tell me? I can’t stand that look on your face, can’t stand knowing I hurt you, unintentionally or not, without trying to at least make you feel better.”
Mandy froze.
Then her shoulders crumpled and she began sobbing.
Those tears were like acid to his soul. He strode forward and took her into his arms, knowing she hadn’t okayed it but not able to let her cry alone.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured over and over again.
She buried her nose in his chest. “It’s not you exactly. I—I just—” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “I talked to my mother and then with you not being here, all of the shit from my past is super fresh. I was scared to date you because you’re a hockey player and my dad was one, and he was a total asshole.” Her words rushed together, and Blane struggled to follow. “He drank so much, but that part wasn’t even the worst. It’s like he got off on these mindfuck games.”
Her hair was in her face, so he brushed it back, cupped one cheek. “Like what?”
“Like he’d promise to come home and then wouldn’t”—brown eyes locked on his—“but it wasn’t that he forgot to come home or something. He’d get a kick out of making us wait and wait and wait. Sometimes he’d call and say he was coming, for my mom to change into a certain outfit, and then he’d turn around and head out to a bar.”
He couldn’t help the frown that pulled his brows together, but he hesitated to ask—
“I know that sounds like I’m just mad because he got caught up with the team or the rink or something, but I would literally watch his car pull in to the driveway. He’d wait until my mom rushed to open the door, and then he’d just stare at her a moment before driving away.”
“Fuck,” Blane muttered.
The Roger Shallows he and the rest of the world knew was a charismatic and gifted player. He’d color commented many a game after his career-ending injury, had always come off as upbeat and fun to be around.
Hell, there hadn’t even been a rumor of being difficult floating around locker rooms.
Everyone loved the guy.
“I know,” Mandy said. “And then later it would be because she wasn’t wearing the exact outfit he asked for or that he left because I didn’t get straight A’s or eat my food right or—”
She broke off. “It was never enough. No matter how good my mom and I were, it was never enough.”
He tilted her face up. “And after?”
Her expression tightened. “Worse than before. He wasn’t playing but would disappear for days at a time, blow off doctor’s appointments he demanded my mom set up. And he drank”—her laugh was brittle—“fuck, I’m surprised he wasn’t a pickle for as much as he drank.”
“Shit, Mandy,” he said. “I had no idea.”
She swallowed. “No one does. I mean, the only good thing really is that he never brought us around the team, so a lot of people don’t know that I’m his daughter, and I don’t have to pretend much.”
Her fingers traced a button on his shirt as he asked, “Is your mom better now that he’s—?”
“Gone?” she asked. “No. Of course not, because she was as bad as he was in a lot of ways. She’d be furious with me when he left, yell at me, hit me, and tell me it was my fault, that I wasn’t perfect enough, pretty enough, whatever.” A shake of her head. “I tried for a long time to live up to those expectations, but who could? No matter what I did, there was always something I was doing wrong.”
He touched her cheek. “I understand now why you didn’t want to date me.”
“Well,” she said, her words quiet. “That, and it was a convenient excuse in a lot of ways. You’re pretty scary.”
> “No,” he said fiercely, understanding fully now what Brit had been trying to tell him on the bus.
Mandy was maybe the toughest woman he knew, and he knew a lot of strong women—his mother and best friend included. But Mandy had not just endured and carried on and succeeded in a world that was typically male-dominated. That alone would have garnered his respect.
Knowing her past just made that admiration for her grow so much more than he thought possible.
She was the woman he loved, but also an incredible woman in her own right.
“No,” he said again when she opened her mouth. “I mean, I get the scary, yes. I know it’s frightening to put yourself out there.” He brought her hand to his heart. “But this beats for you. I know I’m just a normal guy who had two parents who loved each other, who was picked on at school occasionally, who may have had his heart stomped on a few times. I know I’ve been so, so lucky, sweetheart. I haven’t had to endure what—” His throat tightened and fuck, his eyes stung. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But I also feel so incredibly lucky to have you in my life.”
“Blane . . .”
“And I hate that—”
She kissed him gently. “Thank you. For being angry, for caring that I was hurt.” Her eyes went serious. “But I need you to understand that what happened tonight can never happen again. I can’t be someone’s afterthought, can’t wait around wondering if you might turn up. It might be completely unreasonable, but I just can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t consider me a priority.” Her lips pressed flat. “Logically, I understand that it has nothing to do with mind games with you, but I’m messed up, Blane, and tonight my mind started going to this really dark place, and I just—”
“I get it,” he said. “And it’s not unreasonable or unfair. Forgetting about you was unforgivable, even without knowing what happened to you.”
Her gaze dropped to where her palm still rested on his chest. “I’m sorry.”
He gripped her face in his palms. “Tell me again why in the fuck you’re apologizing? You were upset, shared why it hurt you so badly, and are asking for what you need. Isn’t that called adult communication?”