by Maria Luis
From the way a tick pulses in his jaw and he tugs at his hair, it’s easy to see that he hates my question. In a low, gravelly tone, he answers me anyway: “I wanted to be alone. I wanted . . . Fuck, Zoe, I don’t—”
I refuse to let the tears stinging my eyes fall. “Just say it,” I whisper, “it’s fine.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Seeing Hannah, remembering everything with Aaron . . . ” His eyes slam shut. “I need more time. Right now with us, I just . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to take that leap. I thought I was, I”—his dark eyes open and hold me captive—“I care about you, Zo, I do, but I just need . . . ”
“Time.” The word sounds hollow. He’s had time. He’s had years. “You need time, and I don’t—” I inhale sharply, struggling against the hurt. “I need someone who’s willing to take that leap with me, Andre. I need someone who’s willing to let me shoulder the hurt with them as opposed to asking me for space. I hope that you find what you need.”
He steps forward, his hand wrapping around my wrist. “I’m sorry. You have to know that I didn’t realize—”
The feeling of his hand on mine is wonderful and awful all at once. “You weren’t ready for a relationship,” I finish for him, pulling away from his touch. “I heard you and I get it, but this time? This time I know what I want, Andre, and that’s to be more than friends with you. That’s what I want, and I’m not going to hide from it. Unless that’s something you can see yourself giving me, then I think . . . I think that maybe we should just stop.”
I wait. God, I wait for him to say that he wants a relationship with me, that maybe not today but that he will soon. He doesn’t. His expression shutters, taking on that icy mask that I loathe so much, and he steps back. Into his safety zone where women don’t pose a risk to his heart. Into his safety zone where he doesn’t have to expose himself to more hurt.
As much as it hurts, I get it, but that doesn’t mean I have to live with it. His insecurities. The pain he’s not willing to share. The fear he’s not willing to let me ease.
“Stop living like you’re stuck in the penalty box, Andre.” I swallow past the lump in my throat, hands curling into fists against my belly. “For once, just try to take the same risks off the ice as you do on it.”
With that, I gather my things and leave, thankful for the fact that I drove over last night. I hold myself together as I head home and pull into the driveway of my new apartment. I hold myself together as I climb the steps to my third-floor apartment. I hold myself together until I step inside and realize that the place is empty and devoid of life because I’ve spent every moment with Andre since I signed my lease.
That’s when my knees buckle and I slide to the floor, my back against the door.
I should have seen this coming.
I should have—but instead I let myself fall back in love with the one man who will never let his past go long enough to love me back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ANDRE
Zero Days Left…
She quit.
I slam my locker shut with more force than necessary. I can’t believe that Zoe quit on the last fucking day of her trial run with Golden Lights Media. It’s ridiculous, fucking ridiculous, and I am in such a foul mood that I’m—
“Dude, Beaumont, untwist your panties.”
Duke Harrison swaggers into view. His nickname, “The Mountain,” is pretty accurate. I’m big, but Harrison is the sort of big that reminds you of the Great Wall of China. Impenetrable. No wonder we put him in between the pipes.
“I’m not wearing panties,” I grunt, dropping to the bench so I can lace up my skates for our game against Tampa Bay.
“Your speedo, then,” Harrison quips. “They’re practically the same thing.”
The goddamn speedo.
Thinking of the speedo makes me think of Fame which makes me think of Zoe which makes the frustration bloom larger. Fuck. Hannah popping up unexpectedly was the very last thing I needed, especially when I was just about to tell Zoe how much I loved her. Yeah. Talk about a turn of events.
One moment I’m naked and in the arms of the woman I love, and in the next I’m arguing with the woman who stripped me of my human decency and turned me into something despicable. More importantly, I let the fear rock me back. The blinding worry that if I hit rock bottom with Hannah, then I could only imagine the shape I’d be in if Zoe left me.
And then she did.
Because you gave her no reason to stay, you dipshit.
For no less than the hundredth time since Zoe walked out of my house, I deliberate on my next move. My next game play. Because I can’t let her out of my life. I did it once and that was my mistake, my fault, but I can’t do it again. She’s right—I need to start living my life with the same force that I do on the ice. I need to—
“You aiming for a stint in the sin bin tonight?” Harrison asks, not getting the hint that I want to be left alone. “Everyone is taking bets on whether you’ll beat your record PIM from last year.”
My gaze cuts to my teammate’s face. “My what?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “You know, your penalty minutes.”
“I know what the fuck PIM stands for,” I growl, “but what do you mean that everyone is taking bets?”
More with the shifting around. I’ve never seen The Mountain so uneasy. “Last year with Detroit, you racked up 131 minutes for the full season. You’re at that now, and the season isn’t even over. So the guys are betting whether tonight will be the night you tip past your record.”
Surprisingly, I almost want to laugh. It’d be the first time since Zoe walked out on me yesterday. “What’s the pot at?”
“Ten-k.”
I whistle. “High stakes.”
“I thought so,” Harrison says, chuckling. “For the record, I’ve got you penciled down for 131 minutes, even after tonight’s game.”
He doesn’t give the chance to reply, and maybe that’s a good thing because I don’t have the proper words for what I want to say. But once again, Zoe pops up front and center in my thoughts—particularly her comment about me living my life in the penalty box off the ice.
Dawn of a new day and all that, but looks like Harrison is about to become that much richer, if I have anything to say about it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
ZOE
Everyone is crowded around the bar at Vittoria during my shift. Yes, I said that—shift.
I quit Golden Lights Media. Probably shouldn’t have done that so impulsively. Make that Disastrous Mistake Number Five-Hundred, please, followed by every single one I’ve ever made with Andre Beaumont.
My gaze latches onto the TV again, where the Blades are up against Tampa Bay. I haven’t stopped to watch the game, too busy slinging cocktails and bringing food out to tables while Manny, the restaurant’s GM, watches me like a hawk.
I talked with my dad today. He was more than accepting of me coming to work at Vittoria, but he’d had something up his sleeve I never saw coming—he wanted me to work at his restaurant, but he wanted me to run the business’s PR.
Tonight, I’m only helping out the staff because we’re so jam-packed with customers that the extra help is needed.
I slide my hands down over my skirt, ultimately giving in to the draw that is hockey. If I hadn’t quit my job, if I hadn’t quit Andre, I’d be there now, watching him play up from the nosebleeds.
“Everything okay over here?” I ask Carol, the bartender I’d met from a few weeks ago.
She spares me a small smile as she stuffs tip money into her apron’s pocket. “Yeah, we’re good. Everyone is just on edge because of King Sin Bin.”
My heart stutters to a stop. “What do you mean?”
Carol lifts a shoulder. “Guy apparently hasn’t played so well in years, and he hasn’t even landed himself in the box once tonight.”
Good for him. Really, good for him.
I blink back the sudden stinging of tears. I’m glad he’s doing we
ll. Even if I feel like I might break apart any moment.
The buzzer announcing the end of the game sounds off on the TV, and I quickly check out the score. Blades win five to two. The camera pans to the Blades hoisting someone up, and to my surprise, it’s Andre. His helmet is off, and he’s laughing so hard that his eyes are nearly closed.
“That’s great,” I say out loud. Brilliant. Fan-fucking-tastic.
I think I need wine.
Turning on my heel, I head back toward the kitchen. I need to step away from everything, to get back into my groove, the same way Andre has done for himself in the span of twenty-four hours.
“You good, Zoe?” my dad asks from behind the grill. The restaurant has closed for the evening, though the bar is still open for another hour, so it’s only him and a few of the dishwasher guys left. Dad sent the servers home thirty minutes ago. “You look pissed.”
I laugh. “I’m good, Dad.”
“You sure? Shelby’s not around if you want to tell me how angry you are.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Sad?”
Yes, sad. I sigh, untying the apron from around my waist and dropping the fabric into the laundry basket. “It’ll be fine, but thanks.”
He rubs his chin. “Have I mentioned how happy I am to have you working with me, kid? Always thought you’d do well here. I know you miss your mom . . . ”
I really do. First thing I did last night was call her and book a flight to visit Detroit next month. I don’t mind Boston, I actually really like it, but I miss my mom’s hugs and her sly wit.
“Thanks for giving me a few days off next month so I can see her,” I say. “It means a lot to me.”
Looking awkward, Dad comes around the grill, wiping his hands off on a towel. Without giving me a chance to move away, he wraps a hand around my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. “I don’t say this enough, Zoe, but I love you. I wish . . . I wish I had seen you more when you were growing up, but I’m glad to have you here now. Anytime you want to visit your mom is okay with me.” He chucks me under the chin. “Now, don’t look so pissed, kid. It’ll give you wrinkles.”
I laugh. Same old Fred Mackenzie.
Some things never change.
The sound of catcalling from the front of the house catches our attention, and with a single glance, we’re sweeping in to the dining area, expecting a fire.
No fire.
Instead, everyone has their eyes trained on the TV, and the moment I walk in, multiple arms point in my direction before pointing crazily at the TV.
“What the fuck is going on?” Dad mutters, striding forward.
“Language,” I reply rather uselessly.
Because the minute I step close to the TV behind the bar, I’m the one cursing. Oh. My. God. It’s Andre and . . . I clap my hand over my mouth to keep the ridiculous giggles under wraps.
He’s wearing nothing but a speedo—the same speedo he wore from the Fame interview—and . . . his nipples are pierced. Both of them are pierced.
“Take the subtitles off!” someone shouts. “I want to know what the hell he’s saying!”
Carol fumbles for the remote and does as requested. Then, Andre’s rumbly Canadian accent greets my ears, and my toes curl in my non-slip kitchen shoes.
“I was recently told that I’m mean.” He holds up a hand, chuckling to himself. “Not everyone rush to my defense at once now. I get it. I know it’s true. I’ve been a mean, cold-hearted bastard for a long time. I treated women like shit. I treated my teammates not much better. Hell, I’m pretty sure that every single one of you in this room has imagined me dead at some point or another.”
This time, laughter echoes, and the camera pans to the journalists laughing quietly to themselves.
“Don’t worry,” Andre continues, “I get it. Thing is, it took a special person to tell this to my face. A special person to force me out of my comfort zone and put on this damn speedo for a magazine interview.” He pauses, his lips curling up in a sexy grin. “Anyone in here see it yet? They’ve got me strutting around to Justin Bieber. Fucking great stuff—also, I apologize for the language. Baby steps, eh?” His audience laughs again, clearly charmed by a man who never plays the charming card. “Anyway, this special someone didn’t let me get away with anything. She called me out on my shit. She forced me to realize that I’ve been miserable for way too long because I chose to be.”
Is he really . . .?
“Let me tell you all something,” Andre says on the TV. “Get out your notepads or your recorders or whatever it is that you stalk me with. Up until a month ago, I planned for this to be my last season. I’ve experienced a lot of heartache in the last few years, for reasons I won’t disclose, and I wanted nothing more than to plant my ass on a beach somewhere and drink myself into oblivion.”
“Are you really retiring?” one voice calls out.
“What about your contract?” another one shouts.
Andre waves them all away, his metal nipple piercings twinkling under the florescent lights. “Yeah, that’s not happening any more. Sorry to everyone who thought they were getting rid of me. Because for the first time since I can remember, I’m going to live. Hockey is what I live for, but I live for something—someone—else, too.” His dark eyes focus on the camera, and I swear, I can feel him staring at me as though we’re in the same room.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low, “if you’re watching this, and I hope to hell that you couldn’t resist doing so, I’m ready to live for you too. I’m standing here open, fucking vulnerable in nothing but a bathing suit and piercings. I’m yours. Now and forever. The only time I’m landing in the sin bin after this is on the ice—but off of it? Not a chance.”
I don’t even realize that I’m crying until Carol is shoving beverage napkins in my hand and telling me to pull myself together.
“If you love me at all,” Andre adds, “meet me. I’ll text you where so we don’t have you know who stalking us down. I love you, and I fucking hope I’ll see you there.”
I don’t wait for the clip to end. I run. I run for my phone, which I left in the beverage station.
He can’t text me fast enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ANDRE
Let me tell you, wearing a speedo in public is embarrassing. Getting my nipples pierced at the butt crack of dawn at a random tattoo shop is also embarrassing. Appearing in front of millions of people like this on national TV?
Embarrassing.
What’s not embarrassing is the way my heart threatens to beat out of my chest on my drive home after the game. What’s not embarrassing is the way my hands turn slick with nerves, anticipation, worry that Zoe won’t be there waiting for me when I arrive. What’s not embarrassing is the way I rehearse my speech so that I can tell her how I feel—if she’s even there. If she even heard me on TV.
All of that emotion proves that I’m living. It’s real.
She’s waiting for me on my front stoop when I pull up to my house, and, fuck it, I’m not embarrassed about the not-quite-sob of happiness that clutches my chest.
I throw the car into park and jump out within seconds.
It’s dark out, but streetlamps provide all the illumination I need to see her face.
To see that tears have carved their way down her cheeks.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Zo,” I whisper brokenly. “I’m so fucking sorry.” I edge closer, uncertain if she’ll be receptive to a hug. “Please don’t cry.”
At that, she gives me a watery smile. “Where’s your speedo?” she asks.
I flick the button of my jeans. “Under here. Didn’t want to be arrested for public indecency.”
Her gaze goes to my chest. “And your nipple rings? Have they turned you into the Joker yet?”
I laugh loudly. “I’ll be honest, my nipples are hurting like a damn bitch right now. But I once heard you mention that they’d look good on me . . . ”
“So, you went and got them?”
“A man named Twinkle did them for me,” I tell her. “He had so many tattoos that I couldn’t even tell where his mouth was, but he had a voice like an angel.”
It’s her turn to laugh. She claps a hand over her mouth, her shoulders bouncing with mirth.
“Laugh it up,” I say, chuckling along with her. “I’ll love you anyway.”
That stems her laughter, and . . . this is my chance. I swallow past the nerves, running my sweaty hands against my shirt. “Zoe, I’m sorry for what happened. I don’t have . . . ” I hold my hands up. “There isn’t an excuse for what I did. You walked into my life and turned everything upside down. You started as a friend, yes, but you quickly became my best friend. The only person I sought out regularly. The only person that I allowed to catch a glimpse behind my emotional walls. But I still didn’t tell you everything.”
“Andre—”
I shake my head. I need to get this out, for her, for us. “Not telling you about my past with Hannah is a regret that I had even then. But the thing was, you pushed all the hatred away. Being with you, in whatever capacity, allowed me to just live. I didn’t want to drag her into our relationship. By the time I learned that Aaron had even existed, I was in too deep with you. I didn’t just want a friendship with you. I wanted more; I always wanted more.”
I take a risk and step close to her. Light slips across her features, and I brave a touch to her cheek. To my surprise, she nuzzles my hand, clasping it and keeping it close.
“That day that I found out Aaron was my son . . . I needed you. I wanted to lose myself in your warmth. I wanted to lose myself in the feeling of you. You were right, I did use you, but I wanted to remember what it felt like to be loved.”
Her breath crashes against my palm. “Andre, it’s okay. We don’t have to—”
She needs to hear this. If we’re ever going to move forward, together, it needs to be out in the open. “I didn’t look back after that night because I knew you loved me, Zoe. I knew it, just like you told me the other day, and as much as I craved it, I also feared it. The hate was festering and I . . . Fuck, Zo, I knew right then and there that we needed to stop. No contact. You loved me and I was a shell of a man, using you to feel alive again. That wasn’t fair.”