Rookie (Seattle Sharks Book 4)

by Samantha Whiskey

  “The Shark?” she gasped.

  I chuckled. “Yes,” I said. “Could you please add him to the approved visitor’s list?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, straightening in her chair. She was about my age, with a pretty smile and shining blue eyes.

  I tried not to notice how much friendlier her attitude had adjusted since dropping my non-boyfriend’s name.

  Smiling at John, I walked down the hallway, pausing outside of Mom’s room—as I did so often.

  Steeling my nerves, reinforcing the walls around my heart . . . just in case. She was blameless in all of this—a victim of a disease that didn’t discriminate—but I was constantly crushed when I saw her in pain. When I could tell my presence made her uncomfortable because she couldn’t quite place where she knew me from.

  “Hello,” I said as I walked into her room.

  She wasn’t painting at the window, but sketching at the small desk in the corner of her room.

  “Hello,” she said, barely looking up from her work.

  I took a peek over her shoulder and held back my gasp.

  The charcoal sketch was of me as a little girl, maybe six or seven when I’d went through my braids and ribbons phase.

  “That’s beautiful,” I said, choking back a sob as I sat in the seat a few feet away from her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I think I’ve finally gotten the eyes right.”

  She’d nailed them. Their slightly uneven shape, the width of the pupil—mine were almost always more dilated than normal.

  Her eyes. My eyes.

  “Have you sketched this before?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other.

  She nodded, staring at the piece. “Many times.” Her brow pinched. “I dream about her. This ornery little thing, racing across a frozen lake, her braids whipping in the wind.”

  “Sounds like a lovely dream.”

  “I think she’s me.” She set the charcoal down, sighing as she spun to face me.

  “I think you’re right,” I said, glancing from the picture to her. “I can see the resemblance.” Her eyes scanned my face, searching for that thread. I hurried to fill the silence. “How was your day?”

  Her eyebrows raised, an easy smile on her lips. “Wonderful,” she said. “They served a fantastic lunch. And the weather was nice enough for me to dig around in the garden today.”

  “Did you plant anything?”

  “A few more iris seeds,” she said. “You know how they’re my favorite.”

  I did know, so I nodded.

  “Then I had a nap,” she continued. “And I had that dream. That little girl . . . a swan princess on a frozen lake, and I woke to draw it while it was still fresh.”

  “Sounds like a perfect day,” I said.

  Such a rare treat, to see her looking so happy.

  So youthful, alive.

  When I’d returned home, she’d been a shell of the woman I knew. My father’s neglect and the lack of proper treatment had turned her into an ashy husk.

  Now she was filled with brightness.

  Something unwound inside me, a sort of loosed breath I hadn’t had in so many years.

  And even though she didn’t recognize me in this moment, I was happy.

  Because she was healthy and well and living the best life she could.

  Pride trickled into my blood—knowing I put her here—but it wasn’t enough to erase the guilt that I’d left her. For the care I hadn’t realized she wasn’t getting.

  I hoped I never saw my father again.

  I would likely slit his throat.

  “Oh.” Mom straightened in her chair, her hands flying to her hair as she looked over my shoulder toward her door. “John,” she said, a shy smile on her lips. “Who have you brought to see me?”

  I turned, noting John and the towering God of a man next to him.

  He came.

  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I worried he wouldn’t. That it would be too much to handle too soon.

  But there was Bentley Rogers, looking fine as ever in those jeans and Henley, his sleeves rolled up over his massive forearms, the shirt straining against his large chest.

  “A Shark,” John teased, ushering Bentley inside.

  “I’ve never met a Shark before,” she bantered right back at John, further assuring my thoughts of her care.

  He was so good to her.

  My mother pointed to the open chair between us by the window. “Please, take a seat. This is my friend—” Her words cut short when she pointed to me.

  “Chloe,” I said, offering my hand to Bentley.

  “And you are?” Mom asked after Bentley had released me.

  “Bentley,” he said, his voice cracking as he looked her over. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, a kind of cold fear, but that smile was as charming and strong as ever.

  My mom jolted in her seat, her eyes lighting up.

  “Bentley Rogers?” she gasped.

  My eyes flew wide, and Bentley locked on to mine, silently asking what to do. I nodded at him in a signal to go with the flow.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Shark. Rogers. Right, you play hockey.”

  My shoulders dropped a bit. I had hoped she might’ve been connecting the dots with so much history and love in the room, but it was just as nice for her to recognize him from the news. I’d often caught her watching the NHL package when the season was on, some old habits never die no matter if you remember them or not.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I do.”

  She whistled, her eyes trailing over his face, down his chest, and back up again. “You’ve grown up, too.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Those news cameras don’t do you justice,” she continued.

  A roller coaster—that’s what these moments were. Rising tides of hope and then the instant drop when reality sank home.

  I shouldn’t whine, it was a thousand times worse for Mom.

  Though, she was happier than I’d ever seen her, and her old spitfire personality had slowly returned to her these last weeks.

  That helped hold my heart together.

  “You watch the games?” he asked, leaning his elbows on his knees to catch every word she uttered.

  Which was plenty once she got started on hockey.

  I watched the pair of them, laughing and talking, easy as it ever was. Mom had always adored him, it was Father who was a prick to him.

  The exchange, how tender Bentley was with her, how carefully he chose his words as to not confuse her timelines, only made me fall harder for that man. I wasn’t sure it was possible to love him more, but I did.

  Wholly.

  Fully.

  Completely.

  Gone.

  He’d always owned my heart, but seeing him now, spending these past weeks with him—even in secret—the man claimed my soul.

  My cell vibrated in my pocket, and since the two were in a deep discussion about why Ontario was the absolute worst, I fished it out.

  I’ll be there next week.

  We should meet.

  Talk things out.

  All at once the good feelings were sucked from the room, a vacuum swallowing any and all happiness. I bolted from my chair, the anger boiling inside me too much to take sitting down.

  Bentley’s brow furrowed as he looked up at me.

  Mom just tilted her head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, the adrenaline making me breathless. “Excuse me for a moment please.” I hurried out of the room, Mom already back to chattering away by the time I made it to the hallway.

  The phone trembled in my hand, the fear coursing through my veins like he might pop out from the around the corner.

  I’d ignored his threats, texts, and emails this entire time.

  Saved them, but ignored them.

  And I’d been in denial about the Ontario game in our house.

  But time was up.

  And as so many things in my life were going right�
��mom being healthy and happy, Bentley . . . having the little stolen moments that I did—I was so done with being afraid.

  My fingers flew across the keys.

  I will meet you.

  And we will discuss the end of us.

  How you’re going to leave me alone.

  For good.

  No more threats.

  The little bouncing balls seemed to do their thing forever until finally the message came through.

  Can’t wait.

  That’s it.

  Can’t wait.

  The cold dread scooped up my insides and splattered them against my bones.

  My ex was manipulative, persuasive, and completely emotionally abusive. He’d never flat-out hit me, but he didn’t need to. There were ways to touch and bruise without the stark violence of slaps or punches. And he’d done enough damage to my mind that I’d barely stepped out of line when I was with him.

  It took the news of my father leaving my mother to rot, to shake me awake.

  To return my senses.

  To find myself again.

  Having the power and will to leave him and never look back.

  And now he was coming here. With all the power in the world to ruin me if he chose it.

  I wouldn’t let him.

  I would sit with him. And we’d discuss things rationally.

  He didn’t want me anymore, had no use of me, he just hated that I’d left.

  I would make this right.

  And when he was finally gone from my life, I’d be free to—

  “Hey,” Bentley said, stepping out of the door and leaving it opened. “Chloe.” His eyes widened when he took in my face. What he saw there, I wasn’t sure, but he cupped my cheek. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  So warm, his light spread into me, soaking through my skin and soothing my erratic heart.

  I held my hand over his, closing my eyes against the truth. If I told him—Bentley wouldn’t hesitate to go after him, on the ice or not.

  And that would be bad for Bent.

  I wouldn’t do that to him.

  Not when Coach was finally starting to see him for the asset he was.

  “Chloe,” he said again, my name a plea on his lips.

  I opened my eyes, smiling softly at him. “I’ll explain another time, okay?” My voice was soft as I stepped closer to him, needing to drink him in while I could.

  But he didn’t respond.

  “I promise. When the time is right, I’ll explain what this”—I motioned to my face, which was likely rooted in fear—“is all about.”

  He wetted his lips, the heat between us crackling and begging. “All right. It’s always your choice. But I’m here.” He moved our hands to his chest, right over his heart. “I’m right here, Chloe. For you. For whatever you need of me.”

  My heart beats for yours.

  His eyes screamed the words.

  Three little words—words he’d heard before—were on the tip of my tongue.

  I parted my lips, my heart racing with the declaration—

  “You’ve always taken such good care of my Chloe.” Mom’s voice sounded from inside her room, startling us both. We turned to see her smiling from her seat and pointing at Bentley. “I knew you were the one. Since you were a kid. No one could handle my Chloe like you did. No one made her laugh like that either.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve always loved you, Bentley Rogers. I’m so glad you married my daughter.”

  Tears coated my eyes, her memories of the past getting tangled with a future she always assumed would happen but never did. But she remembered, in that moment, she saw us.

  “I’ll always take care of her,” Bentley said, glancing down at me. “Don’t you ever worry about that.”

  He hugged me fast and comforting, just enough time for me to pull myself together before rushing into the room to speak to my mom . . . as her daughter, not a stranger.

  And as he gave me the space to do so, I knew how damn lucky I was to have a man like him in my life.

  Now, if I could get everything else sorted, maybe, just maybe, I’d get my happily ever after, after all.

  Chapter 15

  Bentley

  “Here is your copy of the newly itemized bill based off the cocktail,” the receptionist said, handing Chloe three pieces of paper, stapled together.

  Chloe blew out a long breath as she read and registered each dollar sign on the bill.

  I tried not to read over her shoulder, knowing if she wanted me to see it, she would show me. But from the crease between her brows and the slight panic in her eyes, the bill was astronomical.

  “All right,” Chloe said, finishing up her scan of the papers. She quickly signed the last form.

  “So, this is all good to continue auto-pay, correct?” The receptionist was talking to Chloe but kept flashing glances at me, that familiar excited look in her eyes.

  Normally I would turn up the charm, smile back, ask if she wanted a photo—fans meant everything to me—but this was the wrong place, wrong time.

  I was still reeling from seeing Chloe’s mom, the fact that she’d recognized me in three different ways—one from my career, one for the boy I used to be, and one for the future she always thought I’d have.

  A sledgehammer to the chest. That’s what it felt like when she said she was happy I married her daughter.

  I’d always planned on that, but life had other plans.

  And the more time I spent with Chloe, the more I saw her struggle with the money and the strain of putting her mom in this place.

  Hard not to wonder if being with me really was worth the risk for her.

  “Yes, thank you,” Chloe finally answered, then flashed a smile at John who had walked with us—chatting about her mom—as we headed to sort this out.

  “Awesome,” the girl said. “We’ll adjust this and then we’ll see you soon, right?”

  “I’ll be back in a couple days,” she said, doing her best to keep that smile on her lips, but I could see the worry cracking her eyes as she turned away and headed toward the exit.

  She stopped just outside the building, her heavy sigh twisting my gut as she glanced up at me.

  “Thank you for that,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For showing up. For putting that smile on her face.” Chloe grinned. “I’m so happy she recognized you. It means so much to me.”

  I swallowed the thick knot in my throat. “Me too,” I said.

  A silence fell between us, one that was too tense, too strained for us.

  “Will you come to my house?” I asked, almost a whisper.

  “I would really like that,” she said like she was afraid I wasn’t going to offer.

  I grazed my finger down her cheek.

  “See you soon,” I said, and turned to walk to my car.

  Sinking behind the wheel, I gripped the thing harder than necessary while I drove.

  My stomach twisting with guilt like I’d swallowed sharp bits of metal.

  Chloe had told me what her mom was like before she got her in this place. Had described in detail, mainly because I think she needed to get it off her chest because she felt responsible—even though it was in no way her fault. She’d talked about how she was practically a zombie, barely speaking, barely eating, lost in the recess of her clouded mind. Never connecting the dots to find her own happiness.

  The woman I saw today was nothing like what she described. She was more like the woman I remembered from my past—only changed slightly. Her coloring was great, including the blush on her cheeks as I teased and laughed with her. The paintings in her room reflected a happy artist, a certain contentment in each colorful canvas. Her body was full and healthy looking, like she enjoyed eating again.

  Chloe’s mom was thriving.

  And it was because of the excellent care and medicines the facility provided.

  My knuckles went white as I took the exit that would lead to my home—Chloe a few cars behind me.

 
A throbbing, aching hole opened in the center of my chest as a certainty snaked through my soul.

  I was not worth the risk of Chloe losing her job. The money she needed to take care of her mother, the proof that the place was the absolute best for her health.

  I loved Chloe more than I’d ever loved anything on this earth.

  My heart beats for yours.

  The words whispered from somewhere deep inside me, my heart battling against my brain.

  But there was no use.

  I would never wreck Chloe.

  I’d let myself burn first.

  “Was it too much?” Chloe asked, sitting on the same chaise I’d fucked her on a few weeks ago. The memory was one I’d put in the permanent bank, knowing it was my awakening after a decade of being in a fog.

  “What?” I asked, blinking out of my haze from where I sat on the couch, away from her. Needing the distance. Not trusting myself to touch her and not claim her.

  “Seeing my mom like that,” she said, wringing her hands, her eyes noting the distance between us. “I understand if it was too much—”

  “I said it wasn’t,” I cut her off, sharper than I’d intended. My soul was shredding knowing what I had to do.

  Cold crept into her beautiful hazel eyes.

  Ice crystalized over the silent seconds that hung between us.

  Something shifted in her eyes and she stood, getting a few feet away before I bolted toward her.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  She paused, glaring at me. “Was it because I didn’t tell you who texted me?” She asked. “I can tell you now, if it’s that important to you. I just wanted to handle it on my—

  “I don’t care about that,” I said, though I sure as hell wanted to know what she was hiding.

  What haunted her.

  What scared her.

  I wanted to know and crush it.

  But on her terms, not mine.

  “Then what?” she demanded.

  She couldn’t understand. How sick I was. How I had to take the risk out of the equation. Make sure she was secure, protected, provided for.

  After a few moments, her frustrated expression smoothed into a calm sort of sadness, and she turned to leave again.