by Cindi Madsen
I counted the cars in front of us. Five more and we’d be at the exit. “Would Lyla leave in the middle a game unless it was an emergency? Like say, something bad happened to her roommate who never showed up?”
Beck glanced at me. He was tenser than usual, too, but he appeared to be handling it better than I was. “Not usually. But an emergency for Lyla could be that she found out she got a B on a test and thought she had to go study that very second, or there could be a stray cat in need…” He smiled and shook his head, but then his expression turned serious again. “Although that scenario seems unlikely while she was at the game. She gets scary focused, though, and whatever she’s working on takes over and becomes an emergency.”
When the car in front of us didn’t move, even though the car in front of it had, Beck honked the horn. “Go already.”
We crawled forward a few inches and Beck glanced at his phone again. “Then she doesn’t answer her phone, which drives me crazy, because I start thinking of every bad thing that could’ve happened. And if it’s an actual emergency, I need to get to her, and these cars are all going so damn slow.”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t handling it as well as I’d thought. We finally reached the exit, and he punched the gas. We lurched out of the parking lot, and he took a sharp right onto a side street to get away from the busier roads.
“I never thought about all the things that could happen to a person in a day when you’re not around them,” I said. “Car crashes and muggings and crazy people with guns…”
Beck accelerated through a yellow light, and I braced a hand on the dashboard. “My mind has never done this to me before. I care about the guys on the team, of course, but they can take care of themselves. Not that Whitney can’t, but…”
“But you want to be there to protect her from everything at all times?” Beck asked.
“Yeah. Forcing her into a bubble and slapping a tracking device on her suddenly doesn’t seem like a crazy idea. What’s that all about?”
“I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it,” Beck said. “I didn’t handle it so well when it happened with Lyla, and if you bail out of the truck right now, the girls will gang up on me. They’re surprisingly scary when they combine their death glares.”
Despite the worry still digging at me, I laughed.
“You’ll see,” he said, and I realized I wanted to see. I wanted to know Whitney and the people who were important to her that well.
I’d spent too much of my childhood feeling like I didn’t have any control, and when I left home, I swore I’d never have to live that way again. If I controlled a situation, I could predict the outcome with fairly accurate certainty.
On the ice, I completed the plays. I conditioned and practiced, giving my all to compete at the level I did. Yeah, there were situations that arose, or mistakes made, but I learned from them, made the necessary changes, and then I was back in control. In school, I put in time and did what I needed to pass classes, even when I hated them and it required extra help.
With Whitney…I’d never fully be in control. It’d been that way from the beginning. Part of the reason I craved being with her was that I didn’t have to think about being in control. I could let go and just be myself, without being afraid it’d come back to bite me.
The uncertainty of how it would ultimately end scared me, though. If I went all in, it meant I had something to lose, and I might try my hardest and still fail. Because being me meant I screwed up a lot.
I didn’t tell people that I cared about them, either. I was sure Dane knew, but it wasn’t like we sat around talking about it. My mom made it hard to say aloud, and lately she rarely expressed anything but her disappointment that I wasn’t making it easy for her to marry her abusive ex. I thought I’d shown Whitney, but judging by our earlier conversation I hadn’t, not well enough. If she knew how I felt about her, she wouldn’t worry that I’d treat her the way I had girls in the past. I still didn’t know if I could give her everything she deserved, though. If I even had what it took to make a real relationship work—I’d certainly never seen or experienced one that hadn’t ended badly.
The thought of asking for relationship advice made me cringe, but I was desperate enough to do it anyway. “How do you make it work with hockey and school and everything else? I want to, but sometimes it feels like I’m barely hanging on as it is. I worry that I’ll try and fail, and then the only thing I’ll have accomplished is hurting both of us.”
Beck slowed as he made the turn that would take us to the apartment complex. “It’s one thing to realize you’re in love with a girl, but it’s another to discover you can’t live without her. When that happens, you just make it work, whatever it takes.”
The statement made the hair on my arms stand on end.
Truth was, I still equated caring with pain. But it was too late not to care, not to be involved, not to have whatever happened to her tied to me.
The thought of not having Whitney in my life… My lungs flattened, like they’d refuse to work if that ever happened.
I didn’t want to live without her.
I couldn’t live without her.
Earlier I’d thought I could get by with just her friendship, but fuck that. She was everything I wanted, end of story.
I was in love with her.
And as soon as I made sure she was okay, I was going to tell her.
Chapter Forty-Four
Hudson
Beck and I bolted out of the vehicle and started across the parking lot. “Both of their cars are here,” he said, and some of the tension drained from him and, in turn, me.
A flutter of white danced in front of my eyes and I glanced up. The day had been so warm and now it was snowing—that seemed to happen a lot at the beginning of the winter season. The warm came in with a cold front right on its heels.
Usually I considered snowstorms lucky, especially the ones that promised a couple of feet—as a kid it had meant outdoor hockey, and not even the lack of feeling in my fingers or toes could send me back indoors.
Considering I was about to tell the girl I was crazy about that I loved her, I needed all the luck I could get. Doubts drifted up, whispering to me that she was too good for me and that I wouldn’t be enough for her, but I shoved them back. I couldn’t even think about the possibility she wouldn’t give us a shot—I’d find a way to convince her I was worth the risk.
Beck knocked on the door.
Then we stood there and stared at it as snow dusted our heads and the sleeves of our jackets.
Beck leaned closer to the door. “Lyla?”
I knocked this time, although with all the adrenaline rushing through my body, it was more of a pounding, I’ll-bash-the-door-down-if-you-don’t-answer knock—honestly, I was considering it.
Finally the door cracked open. Lyla slipped outside, pulling the door shut behind her. She opened her mouth, but she only got out a “Hey,” before Beck pulled her into a hug.
“You scared the shit out of me. You were there and then you were gone, and then you didn’t answer your phone. Is everything okay? Is it Einstein?”
It took me a second to remember their cat’s name was Einstein, so I didn’t have to inform them that he’d, uh, passed a while ago.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d worry. But Whitney called and—” That was when she noticed me standing off to the side. I was about to push past them, but the spark of anger that lit her eyes made me freeze in place. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about Whitney,” I said. “She didn’t come to the game and I—”
“That’s rich coming from you.” She advanced on me, and Beck was right—she could be kind of scary. “I wanted to be wrong, and there at the end, I thought I was. But you turned out to be the biggest asshole of all. Even worse than Matt and Trevor combined, and that’s saying something.”
“What the hell, Lyla? I thought we were cool.”
Beck stepped between
us, one arm curling around Lyla and a flat palm to my chest. “Let’s just calm down before this gets out of control.”
I sucked in a deep breath of icy air, although it did little to cool the frustration and sense of urgency coursing through me. “I need to talk to Whitney. Is she in there?”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Lyla said. “Ever again.”
I was utterly confused and sure she was talking nonsense, yet I got this inkling I’d somehow ruined my chance with Whitney before I’d even taken it.
Panic took control of my body, but then I noticed the door hadn’t quite latched. “Whitney,” I called out. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“You need to leave,” Lyla said. She looked to Beck. “Trust me. He needs to leave. Now.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not leaving until I talk to her.” I didn’t want to have to try to get through Beck, but if it took a fight, I’d throw down.
The gap between the door and the frame widened and Whitney stepped outside. Her appearance punched me in the gut—her eyes were rimmed in red, and sorrow filled every line of her beautiful face. “It’s okay, Lyla,” she said. She lifted her chin, forcing a brave face. “I’ve got it.”
Why would she think she needed to put on a brave face for me? What the hell was going on?
Beck nudged Lyla toward the apartment with a hand on her back, but she dug in her heels. “No. I’m not leaving her here without backup.”
I knew I’d never get through this with the fired-up redhead glaring daggers at me, so I looked over her head to Beck, wordlessly begging for a chance—I had to make whatever this was right.
He gave a half-sigh, half-groan. “Babe, I need you to remember how much I love you right now.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, picked her up so that her feet no longer touched the ground, and kicked open the door.
As he carried her inside, she pushed against him, her eyes going wide. “Beckett Davenport, if you don’t put me down right—” The slam of the door cut off the rest of her words. Yeah, I was going to owe him big for that.
I turned my full attention to Whitney. I wanted to touch her—to pull her into my arms or reach for her hand—but she had her arms firmly folded across her chest, and her earlier stony expression remained in place.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did someone hurt you? Because just give me a name and I’ll make sure they regret it.”
She gave a mirthless laugh that transformed into a sob.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I took one giant step forward and wrapped her in a hug, but she shoved me away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Baby, what happened?”
She clenched her jaw. “You don’t get to call me ‘baby’ anymore. It’s as worthless as ‘sweetheart.’”
“That’s not true. Look, I know I didn’t handle our talk earlier today very well—in fact, I handled it all wrong. I told you that I’d try, but I’d never settle for that try bullshit in hockey. I came to tell you that I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll give it 110 percent.” This was it. I ramped up for those three words, wanting to put everything I was feeling into them.
“You don’t have to keep spouting off lines. You already won your bet.”
Everything inside me turned to ice. The word “bet” settled deeper, sending a crack through my frozen insides. “Look, I don’t know who told you about that, but you need to know—”
“No, you look.” She jabbed her finger hard into my chest. “I felt so guilty for weeks, and the only thing I was guilty of was doing my job. But you…I was so stupidly wrapped up in your act that I almost dropped a huge story. I even turned back to warn you about what the paper was going to print because of information I’d dug up, which was when I got to hear all about how no one thought you could sleep with the uptight reporter.” She sniffed and dragged the back of her finger under nose. “But you knew exactly what to say to charm me, didn’t you? You put in just enough time to make me feel like you cared, and you won your stupid bet.”
The tear that rolled down her cheek made me hate myself.
“But you know what? It’s all good. Now I don’t have to feel bad about everything that’s going to come out in my article. I don’t have to feel bad that I saw that note on your fridge with the information for the guy who provides tests for money—oh, and everyone who bought the tests is going to go down. I’m going to shine a big old spotlight on the hockey team and everything they think they deserve just because they had one winning season, from grades they don’t earn to breaking girls’ hearts for entertainment.”
At the painful scrape in her voice, my self-loathing intensified, coating me from the inside out. “Yes, I made a stupid bet, and that makes me an asshole—I won’t deny that. But that was before I knew you, and the reason I made it in the first place was because I wanted to get to know you.”
“Oh, is this the part where I’m supposed to be flattered? Where I drop my story and my panties?”
“I spilled my guts to you,” I said. “I’ve told you things I’ve never even told Dane.”
“Yeah, guess you should’ve said ‘off the record’ from the beginning. Next time you play a reporter, you’ll know.” She started to turn, and I reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her back to me.
“I don’t give a fuck about the story. Write whatever you need to. Just tell me how to fix this.” My breaths came on top of each other, but I couldn’t get any oxygen to my lungs, and I felt dizzy from the lack of it. Everything I wanted was slipping through my fingers, and it only made me realize what I was losing.
I had one move left. Reveal the truth and see if it had a shot at repairing the damage—see if love was as magical as all the poems, stories, and songs claimed. “Whitney, I love you.”
She jerked her hand free and slapped me, the sharp noise echoing through the night. Tears shone in her eyes. “How dare you! Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
She shook her head and then darted into her apartment, slamming the door behind her. I heard the deadbolt slide home and all those cracks that had formed earlier spread, until everything inside me crumbled apart.
Every ounce of air drained from my lungs, spilling out of my mouth in a white puff of air, there one moment and gone the next. I’d done enough all right. Whitney was one of the few good things that’d come into my life, and I’d lost her.
Even worse, I deserved to.
Chapter Forty-Five
Whitney
I moved my neck from side to side, wincing at the crack. I’d been at the newspaper office every spare second, from after my classes until the rest of the campus had turned into a ghost town.
I brought up my article for one last read-through. The plan had been to put it in Monday’s edition, but admittedly I hadn’t been in the best place on Sunday. Or Monday. Or even Tuesday.
Today was Wednesday, and honestly, my heart still bled agony every time I thought about Hudson Decker. AKA, all the time, considering I was writing an article involving the hockey team he happened to belong to.
There was a good possibility I wouldn’t ever be okay again, but I tried not to think about it, because talk about downright depressing.
I reached the bottom of the article I could practically recite from memory and pushed my fingers to my forehead, rubbing my thumbs over my throbbing temples. Was it too harsh? Had I used journalistic integrity?
Debatable.
I closed my eyes and released a long breath. After my confrontation with Hudson, I’d gone into the apartment and crumpled against the door. The second my butt hit the floor, I gave into the tears that I’d forced myself to hold back while talking to him.
Lyla sat next to me, looped one arm over my shoulders, and told Beck to get the ice cream. She helped me off the floor, and by the time we made it back to the couch, Beck was there with a carton, an apologetic look on his face.
What with the crying jags, it took several minutes to rehash what had happened—luckily Lyla had filled Beck in on the
bet, so I didn’t have to force those words out one more time. Each time I said or thought the word “bet” another string of my heart unwound, and much more unwinding and it’d fall apart completely.
When I’d finished, Beck had said, “Whitney, I’m not taking his side, I swear, and if I’d known about the—” He cut himself off at my wince. “Then I wouldn’t have left you alone out there.”
“See,” Lyla said, and they’d exchanged exasperated looks.
“But you should’ve seen him.” Beck’s gaze had moved back to me. “He was a wreck when he thought something might’ve happened to you.”
“He’s a good actor,” I’d retorted, because if anyone knew how intensely Hudson could fool someone, it’d be the girl who’d fallen in love with him while he’d slept with her to win a bet.
Beck had insisted that he’d known Hudson long enough to tell when he was sincere, and that no one could fake that kind of worry, and now his insistence entered my head again. When he’d said it the other night, hope—glorious yet dangerous hope—had risen to the surface. I’d wanted him to be right, even though I’d been burned enough times to make me doubt all guys’ sincerity.
So I’d admitted the thing I’d held back during my retelling. My hand had trembled as I’d raised it to my mouth and more tears—just like the ones currently clotting my throat—formed.
Even Lyla had softened the tiniest bit toward Hudson when I told them that he’d said he loved me. “He told you that he loved you?” she’d asked, and the look she and Beck exchanged spoke of understanding instead of opposition.
That memory of him saying those words had seared itself into my brain. Hudson’s face at that moment flashed behind my eyes, the way it’d done at least a hundred times since, quickly followed by how broken he’d looked after I’d slapped him.