Absolving Ash

by Chantal Mer

  Taking a deep breath, I spew out as quickly as my mouth will form words, “He bid on me. We had breakfast the next morning. I’m catering his charity event on Valentine’s Day, and he apologized to me. Talk to you later. Bye.”

  As soon as I hang up, I turn off my phone because Sophie will be blowing it up. Once I finish with Isaiah, I’ll call her back.

  Maybe.

  I shake out my arms and crack my neck to one side then the other.

  Being in a rink is no big deal.

  Seeing Isaiah is no big deal.

  None of this is a big deal.

  I’ve got this.

  The frozen metal numbs my palm. When I pull open the door, the air inside the lobby isn’t much warmer than the air outside. Trophies from various youth hockey leagues glisten and crowd the cases. Water puddles on the rubber floor under the metal benches where skaters change into and out of their skates. The flat-screen televisions hanging in the snack bar area flicker with hockey highlights on one and figure skating on the other.

  The distinct odor of cold and sweat permeates the air. In the distance, the bass of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell thumps as laughter and the slicing of blades on ice filter through the air.

  My chest constricts as my heart thuds against it. I’m back to my days as a kid when my mom would drive me an hour each way, five days a week. First, so I could skate because, as she said, she knew it was my passion. And later, so I could play hockey because other than when the lake froze or we sprayed the park basketball court with water making our own rink, there was little chance to skate regularly.

  A shot of guilt clubs me, but before I can get the hell out of here, a firm hand clasps my shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming,” Isaiah says. His gorgeous dreads are pulled back with a hair tie, and his smile chases away the apprehension that was moments from smothering me.

  I don’t remember him being so handsome. Then again, it’s not like we had much interaction other than on the ice. And even then, it was more antagonizing than anything else. But the square of his jaw and the glimpse of his neck from beneath his scarf have my brain misfiring.

  When I don’t say anything, the right side of his mouth tips up, his fingers squeeze, and I swear the warmth of them—through my coat, and two layers of clothing—scorches my skin. I wet my chapped lips, and his eyes narrow.

  “Um… Uhh… I’m sorry you and Alejandro got off on the wrong foot.” I follow as he silently gestures for me to do so, and we move deeper into the facility. “I’m sure you two will be able to work things out. He’s an excellent chef and—”

  “He could be the greatest chef in Chicago, but I won’t work with him.” He says it with such vehemence that I’m seriously wondering what the heck happened between the two of them.

  I stop, pulling him to the cinder block wall to keep from blocking the walkway where kids of all ages waddle pass on their skates.

  “What happened, Isaiah? If Alejandro offended you in any way, you need to let me know, and I’ll take care of it.” The urge to shield him from any and all foes—even if one of those foes is my best friend—is compelling.

  And surprising.

  His eyes soften with his lips. “There’s nothing you can do to change Alejandro.” He begins walking toward the so-called kitchen area. “I don’t want to work with him.”

  Two strides and I’ve caught up with him. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  He spins on me, and I stop abruptly before colliding with him. “Because he’s not you.”

  Then, he turns and stalks down the narrow hall, leaving me frozen in place and blinking faster than the countdown clock on Iron Chef.

  What. The. Hell?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Isaiah

  Telling Ash that I want to be near him, with him, not Alejandro, has me breaking into a cold sweat and my heart doing palpitations. But Alejandro told me to be upfront with Ash, honest about what I want, so here we are. I’m almost through the entryway to the small kitchen area for the snack bar, and Ash is still standing in the hallway.

  Maybe I should have waited.

  Maybe I should have been more subtle.

  Maybe I should have been—

  “What does that mean?” Ash’s question is gruff and accusatory.

  Am I crazy for wanting to explore more with this man?

  Yes.

  Can we ever move past our history?

  I hope so.

  Trevor, a college kid who runs the snack bar during open-skate, scoots by with a bag of frozen French fries in his arms. “Hey, Isaiah. What’cha doing here so early?” He dumps the fries into the fryer. The sizzle of the grease drowns out the tension bouncing off the sexy man currently staring me down like a sentry on watch.

  “Trevor, this is Ash. He and his team will be catering our event since the other catering company dropped out.” I nod my head toward Ash. “Ash, this is Trevor. He runs the snack bar.”

  Trevor wipes his hand on the towel hanging from his front pocket before sticking it out to Ash. “Nice to meet you. Karen runs the snack bar, but if you have any questions or need help, let me know.”

  The sternness of Ash’s face eases, and he takes Trevor’s extended hand. “Good to meet you. Thanks.”

  “Trevor, I want a soft pretzel.” A small voice calls from the counter, and an even smaller nose and big brown eyes peek over.

  Trevor grins. “Did your mom say it was okay?”

  Little fingers wave a dollar bill over the counter as brown eyes bounce up and down.

  “Okay, then.” Trevor waves to us as he heads for the counter, talking to the little girl.

  Ash moves into my space, his big body crowding me. The easy grin he had with Trevor gone, replaced with an intensity I remember from our run-ins on the ice. “We need to talk.”

  The low growl of his words causes a spike of adrenaline that heats my blood to boiling. Not the kind of boiling that is sated by a good fight and a hit into the boards. No, this boiling can only be sated by knowing the feel of the scruff of his beard against my skin and his enormous hands clutched around me.

  I nod because my synapses are misfiring, and words are not forming. When we reach Karen’s office, I call to Trevor that we’re using it, and he waves his assent.

  The door no sooner clicks shut, and he’s on me. Not on me the way I’d like, but crowding me. His lips a flat line, eyes gray and guarded. “What’s your game?”

  That has me playing defense. When I place my hands on his chest and push back, the hardened muscle under my palms has me wanting to wrap my hands around his jacket and pull him to me rather than push him away.

  He steps back, and I know with five inches and fifty pounds on me, he could just as easily have remained where he was. As attracted as I am to him, I’m pissed at his attitude.

  “There’s no game, Ash. I like you.” I move behind Karen’s desk, needing something substantial between us because, at the moment, I’m not sure if I want to punch him or jump him.

  He grunts and stumbles back like I’ve actually punched him. Hands fisted at his sides, he blinks. “Why?”

  The broken sound of his question chases away all anger and irritation. I want to hold him and tell him he’s not the man he fears he is. Instead, I flop into Karen’s desk chair. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

  His laugh is derisive and choked. “Because I blindsided you and ended your career, just as it was beginning.”

  “And I said unimaginable things to you about your sexuality and your dead sister.” The roughness of my words scratch my throat. “I would have done the same thing if you had been as crude about my sisters.”

  “You were in the hospital for a week because of me.” His voice raises and he punches his finger at me. “You could have had serious injuries, or worse, DIED.” He’s yelling, but I stay where I am and take his aggravation, his anger, his agony. “You were only twenty. And because of me, you lost your livelihood.” He sinks to the ground, remaining hunched on his heels.

&n
bsp; He hangs his head, and when it’s apparent he’s not going to say anything else, I speak. “You did me a favor.”

  He huffs a rueful laugh and won’t meet my eyes.

  I continue, “If I had stayed in the league, I would have continued to hide from who I really am, trying to prove myself to my dad, the fans, the world. That’s why I was the way I was. I figured if I could best the great Asher Delacroix, I’d prove that I’d earned my way into the league and wasn’t there just because of who my daddy was.” I take a breath and admit the one thing I’ve never said out loud to anyone. “I was jealous of the attention and admiration you received, even being out and gay, when my dad suffered so much. I was pissed that he and I had to work ten times harder than guys in the league with less talent.”

  When Ash lifts his head, his eyes are glassy but determined. “Your dad was one of the best players in the league, then and now.”

  “Too bad his skin was the wrong color.” I can’t hide the disdain, not that I want to. Not with Ash.

  “That’s why the work you do with your charity is so important. The sport is too homogeneous. There’s so much talent out there that’s not being tapped. Or we lose them to idiocy, ignorance, and intolerance of people who should know better.” He stands, his face fierce with his impassioned monologue, and my breath hitches at his intensity, his passion. “The work you’re doing with kids and communities who might not otherwise be exposed to hockey is one of the things that will prompt real and significant change.”

  We stare at each other.

  The air crackles.

  I’m not sure if it’s attraction, remorse, understanding, or all three, but I’m powerless to the grip his gaze has on me.

  Moments pass before I can say, “Thank you.”

  His back hits the closed door behind him. “Stop thanking me. You should be pissed. You should want nothing to do with me. You should hate me for the rest of your life.”

  Poor Ash.

  I stand and walk around the desk, careful not to make any quick or sudden movements. He’s too blinded by his guilt to see the man he’s become. “We can’t judge or be judged based on our lowest point.” In front of him, I intertwine my fingers with his. “If it makes you feel better, I hated you for the first year.”

  His mouth lifts, barely, as he tries to unlace his fingers from mine, but I firm my clasp. I like the feel of the roughness of his calluses combined with the strength of his fingers in mine. I like touching him. Like being with him.

  “What made you stop?” He was looking over my shoulder, focused on whatever is behind me, like it’s keeping him afloat.

  Good question.

  I think back to the time when I was angry with Ash. Angry with myself. Angry with the world. “My mom told me to stop acting like an entitled brat.”

  That gets a surprised chuckle from him. I like being the one to make him laugh.

  “She also told me that forgiveness is a selfish act.” When Ash’s eyes dart to mine, I refrain from laughing at his surprised look—the same look I probably had when my mother had said it to me. I keep going. “She said that hate only creates more hate. That if I kept hold of it, one day I’d never be able to let it go. Said forgiveness frees us, and we deserve to be free.” I lift my shoulder. “At the time, I was exhausted from the energy it took hating you and hating myself.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but when I shake my head, he closes it.

  “So, I began the process of forgiving.” Remembering how hard it was, I huff. “It’s not easy, and it’s a process, but once I decided I was going to do it, I stuck with it. And you know what?”

  Seemingly rapt on my every word, Ash shakes his head imperceivably.

  “I began to feel better. I had more energy. That’s when the concept of Hockey Included began. And before I knew it, I no longer hated you or myself.”

  His big shoulders, shoulders that had been carrying the weight of the last decade, slumped with his head. “I’ve tried.”

  The stubble of his cheek scratches my palm as I cup his face with my free hand. “Have you, or have you been hiding?”

  This time when he tries to release my fingers, I let him. My stomach spins when he places his hand over the one on his cheek and leans into it. “There’s no hiding from what I’ve done.”

  This big beast of a man has a soul filled with gentleness and compassion, but accepting care and concern is near impossible for him.

  “Ash?”

  “Yes?”

  Cupping his other cheek, I close the space between us. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  His eyes dart to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “Why?”

  My lips are a breath from his. I whisper, “Because I want to.”

  And then, our mouths are one.

  I lick, taste, and nip. His hesitation lasts for a second, maybe two, before he’s participating, and the soft gentleness is upended. Ash kisses like he played hockey, with power, skill, and grace. Our tongues collide and the jolt of the connection threatens to send me into a tailspin. If not for Ash’s hands clutched to my hips, pulling me to him and his long, hard shaft, I would have fallen from my rubberlike legs.

  My hands move from his face to his shoulders and under his coat. There are too many layers, too much between us. I want skin. His skin and mine. Preferably against each other, touching. For extended periods of time.

  His pecs jump under my palms, and I bunch the soft fabric of his sweater in my fist only to be met by another layer of clothing. Why do I live in a climate that requires so many layers of clothes for three-fourths of the year? When I growl my dissatisfaction, Ash’s lips—still on mine—turn up, and a low rumble vibrates.

  Breathless, I pull back to be smacked with the most beautiful sight.

  Ash—flushed cheeks, bright smile, and blazing eyes—is laughing. His muscles—but for the one very impressive one—are relaxed, and there is an ease I’ve only seen when he gets caught up talking about his cooking.

  His hands locked behind me, I lean back and look up. “Are you laughing at me?”

  His bottom lip hides between his teeth. “Maybe.”

  I push at him, but he keeps me locked in his arms. And for the record, I’m not complaining. Being held by Ash, sharing his heat, his breath, is one of my new favorite places to be.

  Placing a kiss on my forehead, he releases his hold and smooths out his sweater. “You should probably show me the facility and what you envision.”

  His business tone is a cold shower I didn’t ask for. Now that I’ve had a taste of him, all I can think about is more, more, more. “Are we going to talk about what just happened?”

  “I get the feeling you’ll insist on it.” That his lips quirk even as he maintains the business tone, makes my heart pitter-patter.

  I follow him out the door and take the lead when he stands back and waves me forward. “You can’t let things fester. It’s not good for the soul.”

  “So, I’m learning.” The smile in his voice warms me and gives me hope.

  An hour later, Ash has seen where we’ll be holding the dinners. We’ve discussed my vision and the vision of the board and Ash has made several suggestions that will improve the flow and efficiency of the event.

  The rink is quiet, as it usually is this time of day, after open-skate and before the after-school clubs and teams begin. Although we’ve just spent an hour and a half together, I don’t want our time to end.

  “Let’s skate,” I suggest.

  The relaxed, unburdened Ash disappears. My words hang in the air, heavy and floundering. “I have to get back to the restaurant.”

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Long Change is Ash’s safe place. The place where he hides.

  Maybe I’m a dick. Maybe I’m selfish, but I’m not going to let him hide from this. From me. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid—” When his eyes meet mine, he stops. I don’t know what he sees in them, and I don’t care either. He puff
s out his cheeks, then examines me like he’s determining whether I’m trustworthy or not. “I haven’t been on the ice since that night.”

  My brain is trying, spinning the words around and around, but it’s unable to process what he said. “What night?”

  His brows raise, then scrunch, and his mouth looks like he’s chewing on a puck. “The night I attacked you.”

  “How is that possible? Don’t you love skating?” My shock is palpable.

  “I do.” One of his lumberjack-like shoulders lifts, and his thumb begins banging on his thigh.

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  “Yes,” he answers without looking at me.

  I grab his hand and yank him toward the skate rental. “It’s time you skate, then.”

  “Isaiah…”

  “Don’t argue with me.” I turn on him, and I know it’s unfair, manipulative, but I say it anyway. “You owe me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ash

  You owe me.

  The three words gut me. But the warmth of his hand in mine as he pulls me to the skate rental eases the sting. The smirk on Isaiah’s face says he knows I can’t refuse his demand.

  There’s no one at the desk, but that doesn’t stop Isaiah. In a fluid motion, he hops over. “What size?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “You’re lucky Rollin Brice used to skate here. He insisted we carry gargantuan sizes.” When he heads to the recesses of the space, I catch a peek at his muscular ass encased in a pair of pants that have been tailored to perfectly showcase the spectacular sight.

  I shake my head and divert my attention. What the hell am I doing?

  First, I kiss him—and damn, but was it a kiss. I haven’t been that turned on since… Hell, I can’t remember. Of all the people on this floating rock, and Isaiah Fucking Blake is the guy I can’t get enough of.

  Skates clunking on the beat-up wooden planks rattle me. Isaiah rounds the counter, a pair of skates hanging over his shoulder, and grabs my hand. Snagging my skates, I forget to pull away from his reach, and follow.