Trainwrecks & Back Checks: A Slapshot Novel (Slapshot Series Book 6)

by Heather C. Myers

  It was odd to hear those words come out of Morgan’s mouth because Morgan was not a sentimental guy. There were rumors when he was younger, he had this whirlwind relationship with a girl who was ten years younger than he was and he had to leave her because he signed with Florida. The relationship was still new so it wasn’t as though he felt comfortable asking her to move to Florida with him but he hadn’t been the same since then - at least not when it came to women. I didn’t think he had any sort of stable relationship, which he didn’t seem to have any problem with. And now that he was back here, I wasn’t sure if he had attempted to look her up or if he thought it was better to stay away. Who knew if he still had any fucking feelings left for her or if she was the love of his life who managed to get away. Only Morgan could know that.

  Quite frankly, Morgan’s love life was not any of my business just like my love life wasn’t any of his. However, he seemed genuinely interested in my wellbeing, which wasn’t all that surprising. Morgan was an asshole but he was loyal to a fault.

  “I just...” I said and shook my head. I wasn’t comfortable sharing, at least, not yet. “I’m pissed about what happened tonight.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I snapped my head in Morgan’s direction, my eyes filled with surprise. Morgan looked at me with blue eyes; he had this look about him that was both indifferent and knowing at the same time. Like he didn’t care but he knew what was going on in my head.

  It was some eerie shit, if I was being honest, but there was some good to it. I didn’t have to communicate too much if he could see it. Then again, I didn’t like him calling me on shit I’d rather not have anyone know about either.

  “This is some straight female problem.” He sat up in bed, suddenly intrigued. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” I asked. I had no problem giving him attitude, especially when he was being a pain in my fucking ass.

  “Fucking tell me what your problem is,” he said. “I know you’ve gotten yourself a girl. That shit spreads like fucking wildfire. You know that. But there’s more to it. To be honest, I thought you were just fucking her. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You actually fucking like her.”

  I wanted to deny it but that would be a lie. And juvenile. Instead, I curled my fingers into fists and stared at him. Morgan was a smart guy; I hoped he would be able to read my face and know he better walk a thin line before he opened his fucking mouth.

  “Jesus, man.” Morgan let out a slow breath. “You fucking know better than to pull that kind of shit. You can fuck with a girl all you want, just don’t fall for one.” He placed his hands over his face and stared up at the ceiling.

  His words probably would have pissed me off if I didn’t see the pain in his eyes. It wasn’t like I could read that shit, or that I went looking for it, or anything like that. But Morgan was typically a closed-off guy. I didn’t know if he realized he had his walls down or if he was doing it on purpose so I could see what he had gone through and what he experienced.

  Not that that would, in any way, change my opinion about Chloe. Just because Morgan had a bad fucking experience with love didn’t mean I would. He just hadn’t found the right person yet. Or maybe he had and the fucker let her go.

  That was his issue to deal with, not mine.

  “I thought you understood that,” he continued, dropping his hands and looking back at me. “These younger guys don’t realize –“

  “I think you don’t realize,” I said, cutting him off, “that it’s not all about dicks and pussies. You think fucking is going to keep you warm at night when you’re in your fifties? Sixties?” I looked away. I didn’t like where this conversation was going. It made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t the type of person to stand up for relationships. I could give a shit about them. But something inside of me made me want to defend my fake relationship with Chloe.

  Except, I didn’t think it was completely fake. Not anymore. Not when it was obvious that feelings were involved now.

  “I like this woman,” I told him. It was the first time I said the words out loud. Even to my own ears, they sounded different. Foreign, almost. But I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. “And yeah, she has a shit-ton of baggage. But she’s gone through a lot and I’m worried about her. That’s my fucking problem, okay?”

  Morgan was silent for a minute. I wasn’t sure how I felt about his silence, considering his hands were over his chest, his fingers locked together, and he stared at me with his intense gaze that seemed to see through all the bullshit.

  “When you say baggage, do you mean kids?” he asked finally.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head, throwing my hand out as though I wanted to dismiss this entire conversation because this asshole couldn’t take it seriously. It was my fault, too, for trusting him with this shit anyway.

  “Okay, Art, okay.” Morgan sat up and stared straight at me. “I don’t know how to handle feelings. When I was younger, like twenty-nine, I did the dumbest thing I have ever done in my life, and there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t fucking regret it. When I see fuckers like Underwood, Ryan, hell – even Xander fucking Vane has a damn girlfriend – I dismiss that shit because I’m pissed that they’re not as stupid as I was. And I know, that makes me a huge prick. I get it but…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “What did you do?” I finally asked.

  Morgan looked like he wasn’t going to say anything. I couldn’t fucking blame him. These feelings and shit were already making it hard on having a legitimate conversation with him because I didn’t know how to communicate with him. I didn’t know how to communicate at all. I was sure he felt the same way. He probably didn’t have anyone to talk to about this, just like I sure as shit didn’t have anyone to talk to about this. It would have just been easier to ignore these feelings. It would have just been easier to pretend they didn’t exist, that these feelings didn’t actually matter.

  But I couldn’t do that. Not when Chloe occupied my thoughts constantly. Not when I felt myself reaching for the phone, looking for any excuse to hear her voice.

  I had never felt this way before. I had no idea what to do with myself.

  “I let her go,” he finally said. I couldn’t describe the tone of his voice if I wanted to. “I was going back to Florida. We had met that summer. And I let her go.” He shook his head, pressing his lips tightly together. “She was so fucking young, man. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know anything. I was a fucking moron. All I knew at the time was that I didn’t want to let her go. I wanted to have her come to Florida with me because I couldn’t fucking get enough of her. It was one of those crazy love stories you read about in books or you see on fucking television. I know it’s cheesy, but it’s the truth.”

  “I believe you,” I told him. I wasn’t sure why but I thought it was important that he knew that.

  “I fuck other girls to forget about her,” he continued. I hadn’t expected him to get so deep though I did appreciate it. It felt good, knowing someone else was going through the same stuff I was going through. “I can’t stomach being with anyone else if I’m not with her. It doesn’t work like that with me. Why even try, when I already had the best and lost it?”

  “You’re back here,” I pointed out, my voice wary. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t overstepping my bounds, that I was still minding my place. “You’re back in California. Can you reach out to her?”

  “And say what?” he asked. “You going to call your girl? If she’s your girl, why even hesitate?”

  He was getting defensive. Even though it made me bristle, I understood why he was getting that way.

  “She’s not really my girl,” I said. I didn’t know why I trusted him with that piece of information. I wasn’t sure how he would respond, or even how to explain it. Now that I opened my mouth, there was nothing I could fucking do about it. So I told him everything.

  And surprisingly enough, he listened. He didn’t make faces, he di
dn’t make his wiseass comments. He just listened. And I didn’t realize how much I needed someone just to listen to me until he did.

  When I finally finished, I stopped my pacing and finally turned to look at him. He had his head tilted to the side and his brows were furrowed over his eyes.

  “Sounds like you got involved in some shit,” he said. “If you want my advice, I really have nothing to tell you. The only thing you need to know is if she’s worth it. Whether you guys are really fucking or not, is she worth all the shit you’re going through?”

  “Of course she is,” I snapped.

  Fuck, now I was getting defensive.

  Morgan’s lips curled into a smirk. “Then all this shit isn’t fake,” he said. “And all this shit is worth it. Do something about it. Don’t be like me and let her slip through your fingers.”

  Fuck Morgan and his good advice bullshit.

  It was fucking hard for me to sleep that night.

  15

  Chloe

  I didn’t see Tim the next day or the day after that.

  Harper invited me to watch Game Three and Game Four with the girls at her place. She and Zachary Ryan had finally moved into a small condo together in Newport Beach, right on the Balboa Peninsula, and she was having a House Warming Party for all the girlfriends and wives. There was nothing more I wanted than to say yes. I wanted to go and hang out with them and know about them and immerse myself in this new subculture that I would never be able to truly understand otherwise.

  But I couldn’t. Not with the bruises on my face. Not when it hurt to walk.

  An officer drove me to Kaiser, which was a couple of miles south of the police station. In the car, I told him everything, how I believed my so-called rescuer was behind the attack, how I had been to the station that morning and filed a police report because Tim was not obeying our restraining order. I gave him all of the information I had on Tim, and when the officer realized who I was talking about, I noticed sympathy flash in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

  Like this was going to be impossible to solve. To completely get rid of.

  I wanted to cry when I saw that look. But I didn’t. I bit my bottom lip until I could taste blood and threw my eyes out the window, trying to ignore the sympathetic stare, trying to ignore how impossible this whole thing was going to be.

  I took a breath and then another. I found myself counting down from five slowly. The pain was also a good distraction, as sick as that might sound. At least it was something to focus on that wasn’t Tim.

  The ER discharged me a few hours later. I was bruised and cut up but there was nothing wrong with my ribs, nothing wrong with my lungs, and I wasn’t bleeding internally. The blood I spit up was from cuts in my mouth. They did suggest I stay home for the rest of the week, just so I could have time to heal. I was more concerned about finding makeup that would cover my swollen face, but at least I didn’t have to worry about that now.

  That night, I made myself hot cocoa and watched the Gulls lose Game Three. I looked at my phone and wanted to reach out and text Art but I held back. He probably wasn’t even thinking of me right now. He was with his team and that was where his focus should be. I didn’t want to distract him, even if it was a simple text telling him I was sorry his team lost.

  I crawled into bed, turned out the light, and took a deep breath. I had already checked to make sure all of my doors were locked – which they were. The police knew about him because I filed two police reports naming him as the suspect in the same day so, if I needed help, I could just call 911 and help would be dispatched to me immediately.

  At least, that was what the officer said.

  Of course, he couldn’t tell me if anything would actually happen to Tim. It hadn’t made me feel any better when he admitted that it was going to be hard to put Tim away. At least he believed me. That meant something.

  Sleep came hard and quick, and before I knew it, I was waking up the next morning. There was no game today, and since the doctor wrote me a note to get me off work the rest of the week, there was really nothing for me to do except binge watch more television – which I was fine with.

  A few hours into my day, around eleven am when I was on my seventh Eggo and my third episode of The Punisher, my phone rang. I picked it up when I saw Art’s number, trying to figure out just what the hell I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I hadn’t prepared for this. I hadn’t realized he was going to do something as crazy as calling me.

  I sucked in a deep breath. I blew it out through my mouth. I rolled my shoulders back, paused Frank Castle, and answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, kid,” he said and I felt the butterflies in my stomach start to bump into each other like they were undone simply by the sound of his voice. Just because of how he called me kid, like it was the same thing as calling me honey or baby. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I decided I wouldn’t tell him what happened to me yesterday. I didn’t want to worry him or distract him. I didn’t want anything to throw off his game. The Gulls were down by one game. They really needed to come back to Orange County with a win and tie the series back up.

  “You’re lying,” came his response.

  I glared at nothing in particular. “And how would you even know that?” I asked.

  “You talk different when something is bugging you,” he responded.

  I nearly growled. I didn’t understand how he noticed these things. Art was the sort of guy who was quiet and minded his own business. He didn’t typically notice things - at least, that was the impression I got from him. The only exception to that was when he saw the roses on my porch and helped me dispose of them. And when he noticed I had come home early from work. And...

  I guess everything that had to do with me.

  I was the exception.

  “So?” he asked. He still had that aggravating tone that I wanted to slap out of his mouth. It was decidedly knowing and pushy and I wanted to tell him he had no business telling me what to do. Except he really wasn’t doing that. He was just concerned about me. He noticed that something was bugging me, and I appreciated that. Even when I was with Tim, he either didn’t give a shit or didn’t bother to really look, to really know about me.

  Art, on the other hand... I wasn’t even officially with Art and yet, he could look at me - actually, he wasn’t even looking at me. This was done over the phone. - and he could understand that something was wrong. No matter how small, he knew something was on my nerves. And I found I really liked being noticed.

  “I just miss you,” I told him honestly. I didn’t know what else to say. I knew I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him about Tim. I actually hoped I’d be able to hold off until maybe even the Stanley Cup finals. But these bruises had a mind of their own. They definitely wouldn’t heal by the time he got back and I knew we would see each other. He was staying with me, it seemed. Not that I minded.

  This whole thing was weird. Different. We knew each other for a couple of weeks now and yet my house felt empty without him. His presence somehow made me feel...

  I shook my head. I didn’t need to get sucked down that trail of thought again. I knew how he made me feel.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t said too much. I knew there was something going on between us, something more than just pretending. I knew we danced on a thin line of what was appropriate and what wasn’t appropriate. I knew his kisses seared my lips and I stayed up thinking about the way it might feel if his lips were on other parts of my body, what it might feel like if his skin was on my skin, what it might feel like if he was inside of me.

  I closed my eyes and cleared my throat. It had gone dry quickly. I needed him to say something, anything. I needed to know that I hadn’t said too much.

  “I miss you too, kid,” came his response.

  My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t know what I was expecting from him, but it wasn’t that. And
yet, it was the exact response I wanted.

  “What are your plans for today?” I asked. My voice came out raw, and I had to clear my throat so I could be heard better. It was just another effect he had on me.

  “We had morning skate earlier and then I ate breakfast,” he replied. There was a slight pause and I knew he had something he was going to say, something important, even if I didn’t know what that was. “Are you sure you’re okay, kid? You don’t sound... like your normal self.”

  I almost smiled at that. I took it as a compliment that he was able to distinguish between how I normally sounded and how I didn’t, but I hated lying to him even though I was doing it to protect him. Even though I needed to do it in order to ensure he didn’t get distracted. They needed to win Game Four. That was all there was to it. They needed to come back with a win.

  “I just have a lot on my mind,” I replied. This wasn’t actually a lie. I did have a lot on my mind. “This whole thing between us... it’s unexpected.”

  A beat. “In a good way?” he questioned. I could detect a slight hesitancy in his voice as well. Like he knew what he wanted to hear but he wasn’t sure if he would get the response he was looking for.

  I wish I knew what he wanted to hear. I wish I knew how he felt.

  “In a good, surprising way,” I clarified. “You... you helped me, Art. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

  I could picture him so clearly in my mind; he would look away from me, his shoulders would stiffen, and he would snort. He would shift his weight and finally look back at me and even though his entire body language reeked of discomfort, there would be slight appreciation in that tawny gaze of his. Like he genuinely cared about what I said and how he made me feel but the fact that he was getting complimented wasn’t something he was used to so he didn’t quite know how to react to it.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, trying to make his voice come across as nonchalant and indifferent, like he didn’t care.