by Cindi Madsen
Chapter Forty-One
Hudson
I’d been gathering my hockey gear when I’d heard the knock at the door. My roommates had gone on a Gatorade run and the frantic pounding made me wonder if they’d loaded up with too many bags to get their keys in the door. Why make three trips from the car when you could almost do it in one successfully?
At least they’re back. We need to load up and get to the rink.
When I opened the door, though, it wasn’t Dane and Ryder. Whitney, the very last person I’d expected, stood on my doorstep. As soon as I got over my shock, I leaned in and kissed her. “Hey, baby.” She looked like the real her, but not. She had on the type of clothes I knew she preferred, and her blond hair hung down in waves, highlighting her pretty features, but her carefully guarded expression made it clear something wasn’t right. “Everything okay?”
She shook her head, over and over. “I don’t know. No. Maybe.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “I’m not sure. I’m trying not to freak out, and I don’t know what to do, and I was going to wait till after the game to talk to you, but then I couldn’t.”
I pulled her inside and wrapped my arms around her. I thought she must be shaking from the cold, although it was a fairly sunny day. November was rarely very warm, but it was probably in the mid-forties—I’d even opened up our windows to get some fresh air flowing in, trying to replace the funky smell that’d resulted from Ryder burning his eggs this morning.
At first, hugging Whitney was like embracing a statue, but then her arms came around me, and something about the entire thing scared me, even though I didn’t know why. I swear she muttered something about “One of the good ones,” but my shirt muffled it.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said.
I curled my fingers around her chin and tipped her head up so I could get a better read on her. I peered into her blue eyes, unobscured by glasses but glossy with either previously shed tears or forming ones. Yeah, I still have no idea.
She took a step back and my arms suddenly felt empty. “You know I cover the hockey games for the paper, but I’m actually working on more stories than just the sports section.”
“That’s great. That’s what you want, right?”
I think she attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “My editor’s name is Lindsay. Lindsay Rivera. Does that ring any bells?”
Hell yeah, it rang a lot of bells. Other than a few barely-girlfriends in high school, and the relationship that had crashed and burned when the neighbors found out their daughter was sleeping with the troublemaking foster kid next door, I’d only broken my one and done rule with one other girl. I wasn’t even sure you could call what Lindsay and I did dating, since we mostly hooked up after hockey parties. I’d liked her, though, and thought she was different from the usual girls I’d hooked up with, but I’d been clear about not being able to give her more.
“I’ll take that expression as a yes,” Whitney said, her words clipped.
“Yes. She and I hooked up for a couple of months last spring.” I could only imagine what horrible things she’d told Whitney about me. “I thought it was casual, but once she started calling and leaving me several messages a day, I realized she wanted more than I did.”
“But you couldn’t just nicely tell her that, could you?” Her tone set off a lot more bells, the kind that made warning, warning, warning flash through my head, and I struggled to find a good response. Problem was, there wasn’t one.
“What do you want me to say? I told you I don’t usually date.”
“So one day you might just forget to tell me that you’re done with me?” The way her voice pitched up at the end killed me, and I quickly grabbed both of her hands.
“No. You and I are different. You get the hockey thing. She said she did, but then she’d call like five times a day and be mad I hadn’t called back, even though she should’ve realized I’d gone right from classes to practice.”
“Would you call her needy, then?”
I knew exactly what she was getting at, and there was no way I was stepping on that landmine, even if I had thought Lindsay had been too needy. That prick Whitney had gone out with had told her she was clingy, and now she was thinking I’d do the same to her. “You can call me as often as you want. I’ll try to at least text you back when I’m running from school to practice. Or between reps at the weight room.”
Whitney pursed her lips together, her hesitance to say it would be enough making it clear she wasn’t sure it would be. Maybe all those times I’d fed girls the line about not being able to have a girlfriend during the season was closer to the truth than I’d realized. This was exactly what I was worried about happening when I’d agreed to this in the first place. It was proof that the instant things crossed into defined-relationship territory, it set in motion the push and pull that would gradually tear us to shreds.
All the strings only brought more ways to get tripped up and fail, even when I was trying to work with them.
Maybe it was stupid to even try.
I’d rather lose Whitney as a girlfriend than lose her from my life completely. She was one of the few people who knew the real me, and when life threatened to break me, I needed to be able to call her up and hear her voice. Needed her to make everything else quiet for a while. Maybe we could try again for real after April—March if we didn’t make it to the Frozen Four. An odd mix of wanting to be done with the season early and crushing disappointment over not being able to defend our title clashed through me, leaving a confused mess of disjointed thoughts in its wake.
I tightened my grip on Whitney’s hands and peered into her pretty face. “I suck, okay? I didn’t want to hurt Lindsay’s feelings, so I put off telling her I wanted out from…whatever we were doing, and then she found out in the worst way possible. I can’t change the past. I wish I could promise you more, but all I can promise is that I’ll try.”
She didn’t pull away, so I drew her to me and kissed her, trying to show her how much she meant to me. Unlike our other, passion-driven kisses, there was an edge of uncertainty in each press of our lips and cautious touch of our tongues.
The warmth of her body soaked into me and yet she still felt far away, like when you thought you’d caught a magical lightning bug, only to open your hand and see that you never had it at all.
I wanted to say something that would keep her within my grasp, but how could I promise the intimacy and future she wanted when I’d opened up more than I ever had before and it still wasn’t enough? When I couldn’t predict how hard it would be for us to handle all the time apart that classes and practices and away games and playoffs would bring?
The scrape of a key in the door shattered the silence and I let go of Whitney and stepped back, knowing she wouldn’t want my roommates to see us kissing.
They barged in with all the grace of newborn moose, and as predicted, they each had several bags in their hands. Then they both stopped and stared at Whitney.
She wiped her mouth—clearly not used to clandestine make out sessions, because that was a dead give away. “Hi,” she said, way too loud and way too bright. It made me smile, despite blowing our cover, because she couldn’t lie to save her life. My issues with my mom made it hard to trust anyone, and I liked that I wouldn’t have to worry about not knowing whether Whitney was keeping something from me.
If we even were a we. Damn roommates and their shitty timing.
“Hey,” Dane said. He hefted the bags filled with Gatorade bottles and other groceries onto the kitchen counter.
“I needed to ask a few follow up questions for one of my articles,” Whitney said. “But since you guys weren’t here, Hudson answered them all.”
“Questions that couldn’t wait for tonight?” Dane asked, and if I could’ve reached him, I would’ve smacked him upside the head and told him to shut the hell up.
“It’s for a different article. My editor decided she had to h
ave it this second, and when she says jump, I jump. Anyway…” Whitney backed toward the door, and it took everything in me to not grab her and beg her not to go yet.
Our cover was definitely blown, even if she didn’t know it, but if she wanted to cling to the illusion—if it would give her the confidence she needed to keep her job—I’d tell the guys to pretend they weren’t onto us. That was the least I could do.
“I’m sure you guys are getting ready for your big game tonight.” Whitney took another step toward the door. “I’ll let you get to it, but good luck, and I’ll be there to talk about all the details after.”
She didn’t even look at me before she darted out the door.
Chapter Forty-Two
Whitney
My head throbbed with unanswered questions and my knees didn’t want to carry my weight the way they were supposed to.
I made it two steps before deciding that I was going to have to go back. I’d wanted more assurances that Hudson wasn’t playing me—and that he wouldn’t hurt me—but I had kind of blindsided him.
I wanted to hold on to my disappointment and anger and show him I wasn’t a pushover, but he’d held me so tightly and kissed me so carefully. I didn’t know if his promise to try was enough, but I knew that I cared about him, and that he’d been given too few chances by people who should’ve been there for him. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake.
Plus, as much as it was going to suck, I had to tell him about the article I’d been working on for the Heights, so that whatever version came out on Monday didn’t completely catch him unaware and make him feel used. As if that wouldn’t be difficult enough, I’d have to follow it up with the confession about the note I’d seen on his fridge, and how I might’ve landed him and Dane in trouble, even if it was the final straw that broke us.
“Bro,” I heard as I spun around. For a second I wondered why Dane was calling me “bro” but then I realized his voice was carrying through the open window to the left of the door. “You did it! You slept with her!”
Wow, he was super excited about it. I supposed I should have been offended he assumed I’d slept with Hudson, when for all he knew we’d only done a little kissing. My skin heated as I thought about how much more embarrassing knocking on the door and confessing was about to be.
“I can’t believe you didn’t rub it in my face how wrong I was to doubt that you could hit that.”
I froze with my fist raised, seconds from knocking. Foreboding crept across my skin as I told myself that I’d heard that wrong.
“She was so uptight at first that I doubted she knew what sex was,” another voice said. Must’ve been Ryder, because I didn’t immediately recognize it. “Obviously you were right about her just needing a little loosening up—I hardly recognized her. So, how was she? Is there a freaky girl hiding under the surface?”
“Come on, you guys.” That was Hudson, the voice I’d know anywhere. I wanted him to say something that would make Dane and Ryder’s statements make sense, would make it clear I’d somehow misunderstood. “It’s not—”
“I didn’t think you’d pull it off when we first made the bet, and once I saw how much she hated you, I’d actually decided to drop it,” Dane said. “Guess your reputation and Lundqvist jersey are safe. I think I should get a discount on how much I owe you, though, because I gave you an extra push when you were ready to give up.”
The world tilted on its axis and the sound of blood rushing to my head drowned out every other noise. He’d made a bet that he could sleep with me, the uptight reporter who’d charged in and demanded everyone treat her professionally. It was all a big game—suddenly the way he’d pursued me despite how mean I was, and how many times I’d pushed him away, made sense.
It was the only thing that made sense, so I wasn’t sure why I’d been stupid enough to fall for it.
Now I’m just the butt of their joke. A locker room story they’ll repeat and laugh about.
I didn’t even remember walking to my car, but somehow I was inside, jamming my key into my ignition. I’d thought I’d been upset on my drive there, but now I knew that what I’d felt before was a speck of sorrow—completely harmless in comparison to it filling you from your head to your toes, so that every breath, every tiny movement, ached down to your bones and made you wonder if you could survive so much pain.
On autopilot, I drove home. Anger rose as I stormed up the stairs, and I grabbed on to it like a lifeline, letting it lift me above the fog of grief. It took over my body as I opened my laptop and pulled up the first scathing version of my article about athletes and everything they got away with. It drove me as my fingers moved across the keyboard. Every time I slowed to think, or to recall part of the research I’d done over the past six weeks, the raw ache in my chest threatened to take over and drag me back into torment.
So I typed faster, writing until my fingers and wrists throbbed and my eyes burned from staring at the screen. After this, I’d turn myself over to the depression and have my breakdown, but instead of only having an empty Kleenex box and an equally-empty ice cream container to show for it, I’d have this article finished.
That way Hudson would know that, while he might’ve won his demeaning bet with his jerk teammates, Whitney Porter wasn’t going down anymore without throwing a knockout punch of her own.
How was that for fucking sports reporting?
Chapter Forty-Three
Hudson
I was having the worst game of my life. No doubt karma was paying me back for not telling my roommates how wrong they were about everything that’d happened between me and Whitney.
Whitney, who wasn’t in the stands. I’d seen Lyla, but the seat next to her was empty.
Coach glared at me as I took my place on the bench. Next timeout, he was going to rip into me. I should be worried about it, but I glanced again up to where Whitney usually sat, frowning when she still wasn’t there—and now Lyla wasn’t there anymore, either.
What if she’s given up on us already? She’d been so upset about the Lindsay thing this afternoon, and I could tell my promise to try hadn’t been enough to ease her concerns. After she’d left, my mind had still been spinning on how to fix things, which was why I’d stood there like an idiot when my roommates congratulated me on a stupid bet I couldn’t care less about. It hadn’t been about that in weeks—really, it had never totally been about that, definitely not after the first time we’d had a real conversation.
I’d started to tell them that it wasn’t like that. That I cared about her, and they should shut their mouths and never talk about her that way again. But I couldn’t stop staring at the door she’d left through, the thought that she and I might already be over ripping me in two. Nothing else seemed to matter, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain it to guys who’d give me shit about how I’d finally fallen for a girl.
Then I’d have to explain that I’d already screwed it up and I didn’t know how to fix it, or if I even could. I did know that the thought of not having Whitney in my life made me completely miserable, to the point where not even hockey helped.
Not that I’d admit that last part out loud, but the first part was bad enough.
Who knew what meddling Dane would do then.
But when they started to make a joke about it tonight—and I was sure they would—I’d set them straight. Then I’d figure out my next step.
Sure enough, I got my ass chewed at the time out, but Coach sent me onto the ice again. Since I couldn’t do anything about Whitney right now, I decided to do what I’d always done and take out my anger on the ice and the opposing team. Why bother wearing pads if you weren’t going to use them, right?
…
I’d taken the fastest shower of my life so I could leave with Whitney—even if we staggered leaving to avoid suspicion. We’d meet at her car or her place or wherever we needed to so we could finish our talk from earlier, because I had a lot more to say.
“Did Whitney ever come in?” I asked Dane
and Ryder as I scanned the room—it wasn’t like she’d be hard to spot in a sea of dudes, but even after I made a pass, I couldn’t stop looking.
“Why?” Dane asked. “Were you planning on—” At my death glare, he snapped his jaw shut. Then his eyes widened. “You like her. Shit, bro, I didn’t know, or I never would’ve said all that stuff earlier.”
I waved it off because I didn’t have time for it right now. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk about it later. Have you seen her or not?”
“Nope. She hasn’t come in. Just some dude from the Globe.”
I looked to Ryder and he shook his head. “Haven’t seen her.”
I took out my phone and called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I spotted Beck across the room, also showered and dressed, and rushed over to him. “Hey, do you know what happened to Whitney?”
He hiked his duffle bag onto his shoulder and lifted his phone. “No. Lyla was here at the beginning of the game, but halfway through, I looked over and she was gone. I tried to call, but she didn’t answer.”
Horrible scenarios involving Whitney flashed through my head, of her in a car wreck, of her lying in a hospital bed. I told myself I was overreacting, but the images remained, causing my heart to pump faster and faster, each beat spreading the worry.
Beck looked at me, and worry must be contagious, because he caught it, too. “I’m sure the girls are fine,” he said, but it sounded hollow, the way you spoke in certainties when you were trying to convince yourself so you didn’t freak out. He looked at his phone again. “I’m going to head to their place now. I’ll call and let you know what I find out.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said. “Let me just grab my stuff. Two seconds.”
Beck nodded. “Okay.”’
Within ten minutes, we were in Beck’s Land Rover, waiting in the long line of cars to get out of the parking lot. Usually we left after everyone else, and I’d forgotten how difficult it could be to get out of here right after a game.
Anxiety like I hadn’t felt in years rose to the surface, reminding me just how much I hated feeling helpless and out of control. I drummed my fingers on my thigh, focusing on each tap. Whitney had become a huge part of my life in such a short time, and the thought of her being hurt and me not being there shredded my insides.