by S. R. Grey
With my heart hammering in my chest, I read the post and discover it’s about the recent Wolves trade. The thing that strikes me is that it’s not only well-written, but it’s been penned by someone who definitely knows hockey.
“But Cara knows hardly anything about the sport,” I whisper, feeling kind of dazed, and definitely betrayed. “Or so I thought.”
I can’t believe this is fucking happening.
I guess I can call off my investigating attorney.
I know the truth now—Cara is Mr. Hockeypants.
I’m stunned…and about a lot.
Not just that this is her secret identity, her fucking blog. But what about the other stuff?
The things she wrote about me, it hurts my heart.
And she’s been lying all along about her hockey knowledge. She’s always known more.
Hell, she’s one of the biggest hockey bloggers around, for fuck’s sake. Mr. Hockeypants is known for his…her…whatever expertise on the sport.
I look over at a woman I clearly don’t know at all and shake my head.
I just can’t even.
“Who are you?” I whisper. “Because you’re definitely not the person I thought you were.”
I feel sick, I feel betrayed, I feel like a damn fucking fool. Why would she keep all this from me?
Has everything that’s happened on the island been a lie?
Does she even fucking love me at all?
And that’s when my heart fissures open.
I know then that there’s only one thing left to do—get the hell away from Cara Milne.
Or whoever the hell she is.
Mr. Hockeypants Revealed
I wake up from the most restful sleep. But when I roll over, expecting to find Jaxon sleeping peacefully next to me, he’s not there.
Huh?
The space next to me is not only vacant but it’s cool, meaning he’s been gone for a while.
It’s weird that Jaxon is up so early. He usually lounges around in bed with me on lazy mornings like this, especially after nights like the one we just had.
Thinking maybe he’s close by, I stretch out and say rather loudly, “God, I love that man. And I sure do wish he were here so I could show him.”
I’m hoping maybe he’ll hear me and come back to bed.
But alas, crickets.
Oh, well.
I roll out of bed, slip on a short silky robe, and head downstairs, expecting to find Jaxon in the kitchen, probably making us breakfast.
But he’s not there either.
“Jaxon, are you around?” I call out.
Again, no response.
This is really weird.
A strange sense of dread washes over me, like something bad is up.
Carefully, I walk into the living room and notice that the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio are securely closed. That means Jaxon’s not down on the beach, nor is he out on the patio. We almost always leave the doors slightly ajar when we’re out.
I purse my lips and look around, and that’s when I notice two big bags over by the front door. They’re not just any bags, either; they’re suitcases that belong to Jaxon. I remember them from day one when he left them in the very same spot.
What the hell is going on?
Where is Jaxon? And, more importantly, what’s with the bags? Where is he going?
Neither of us is set to leave for another week or so. It’s so up in the air, we don’t even have airline tickets booked yet.
So what is this all about?
Suddenly, the front door swings open and Jaxon walks in. His phone is up to his ear and he’s obviously preoccupied. He doesn’t even see me, despite the fact I’m standing in the middle of the living room.
As he bends down and starts messing with his bags, I hear him saying to whoever’s on the other end, “Yes, and I need a ride to the airport as soon as possible.”
Why does he need to go to the airport?
I wonder if some sort of an emergency has come up back in Nevada. If so, why wouldn’t he have woken me up and told me so? I’d go with him. We’re together now, we’re a team. This is what couples do.
I suddenly have an overriding sense of dread that he hasn’t told me because this is about me.
But what did I do? I’ve been sleeping, for fuck’s sake. And things were fine last night, better than fine even.
“Jaxon,” I croak. “What’s going on?”
He spins around, his face an inscrutable mask.
Lowering the phone, he slips it into his jeans pocket.
Crossing his arms over his wide chest, the black material of his tee growing taut, he snipes, “Finally up, eh?”
I start to walk toward him but stop cold when he narrows his eyes at me. I’ve never seen his emerald greens so stormy…nor so tortured.
“What in the hell is happening?” I cry out.
“I’m leaving,” he says flatly.
“B-but why? Did something happen? Did I do something to upset you?”
He scoffs, “Ha. That may be the biggest understatement of this whole summer. Did you do something to upset me?” He laughs derisively. “I’d say yes the fuck so.”
Uncrossing his arms and reaching over to a stand by the door, he grabs something I didn’t see before—a tablet, my tablet.
And I know for a fact I didn’t leave it there.
Shit!
It all becomes clear then—he saw the blog post and suspects, rightly so, that I wrote it.
He knows I’m Mr. Hockeypants.
Fuck my life.
He wasn’t supposed to find out like this. I should have told him sooner.
And how could I have been so stupid last night?
I never powered down the tablet, I just slid it under the bed. Jaxon clearly found it there. And once it came to life, which it would have simply from someone tapping the screen, or even touching it inadvertently, the last page would pop up—the “administrative editor” mode of my Mr. Hockeypants blog, after I had finished writing and publishing my post.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck is right,” Jaxon snaps.
He turns the tablet my way so I can see the incriminating blog page and the mode it’s in.
“You’re that fucking Hockeypants dude?” he bellows.
“I am,” I confess, eyes flittering to anywhere but landing on him.
“Don’t look away from me,” he spits out.
He’s so angry. I knew this would happen. That’s why I lived in a bubble of denial, why I kept the truth from him. I would’ve told him eventually, but would it have gone any better than him finding out on his own?
I don’t think so, not anymore.
This was always a no-win situation for me.
And, really, it was for him too.
I sigh, and Jaxon’s anger dissipates to something far worse—hurt and confusion.
It tears my heart in two when he murmurs dejectedly, “But you’re not even a dude. I always thought he was a guy. I mean, the blog’s called Mr. Hockeypants, right? Why not name it Miss Hockeypants…or Ms. Hockeypants?”
I shake my head and answer him truthfully. “I don’t know. The name just kind of came to me one day.”
Angry Jaxon returns, like he’s just gotten hold of himself.
Disgusted, he murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.”
“But—“
“But nothing, Cara.” Tossing the tablet back onto the stand with an angry clatter, he says dryly, “I really don’t care…about the blog…about you…about any fucking thing.”
“Come on, you don’t mean that,” I quietly state, trying to sound soothing. “Just let me explain.”
Racing over to him, I try to touch his arm, but he jerks away like I’m attempting to burn him.
Shaking his head, he says, “No, Cara. Just leave me alone. I’m out of here. I booked a flight back to Las Vegas, and there’s a ride on the way to take me to the airport. It should be here any minute.”
He slides hi
s sunglasses on and begins fumbling with his bags again, preparing to go.
No, no, no.
I want to grab him, hold him, and apologize over and over again. But I have to respect that he needs space. So, reluctantly, I back away.
Still, I have to try.
“Jaxon, can we please talk about this?”
He looks up from his bags and laughs bitterly. “What’s there to say? I think the facts are pretty clear. You’ve been lying to me this whole summer about what you knew about hockey and, more importantly”—his voice rises—“about who the fuck you really are!”
“That’s why I lied!” I cry out. “I was afraid this would be your reaction. How was I supposed to casually tell you I’m your biggest nemesis?”
Straightening, he says, “Well, at least you admit that.”
“Jaxon, please. I wrote that stuff before I knew you.”
“You still wrote it, Cara.”
He has me there.
I figure that’s the end of any discussion, but then he blows out a breath, and concedes, “Fine. You want to talk about this? Let’s talk about it. Let’s discuss how you wrote for me to ‘put down the bong.’ I don’t even smoke weed, but do you know how many fucking people sent me fake bongs?”
“I didn’t mean it literally,” I say softly. “It was supposed to be tongue-in-cheek.”
Jaxon scoffs, “Tongue-in-cheek, my ass. That was libel, and you know it. Do you realize the trouble I could get into if I really went out to play a game impaired? Hockey is my job, Cara. Do you fucking get that?”
“I know and I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I am so, so sorry. I was wrong for writing that stuff. But I swear, Jaxon, I never meant to harm you. And I’ve learned a lot since then. I’d never do it again.”
He softens, which hurts even more, especially when he whispers, “Here all this time I thought you made me stronger. But really you were the one stabbing me in the back. What a fool I’ve been. I don’t even know who you are, Cara.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “I’m still me.”
“And who is that exactly? What else is behind your mask?”
“Nothing, I swear. There’s no one else, no other secrets. Everything else I ever told you was the truth.”
“The truth,” he chuffs. “Do you even know what that word means?”
I start to reply, but then a horn honks. It must be his ride.
“Jaxon…” I reach for his arm, desperate because nothing has been resolved. And he’s leaving, he’s really leaving.
“Please don’t go,” I beg. “Not yet. We can work this out, I know it. We have too much to lose. I love you. And I’m sorry I hurt you, I swear that I am. But more than anything, I promise to never hurt you again.”
Sloughing me off, he laughs bitterly.
“There’s no need to make a promise like that, Cara. Because believe me when I tell you that you will never have the chance to hurt me again.”
Turning away, he walks out of the house…and out of my life.
Hockey, the Only Thing Left
I return to Las Vegas and immerse myself in the only thing that has any meaning left to me—hockey.
I do nothing but train for the upcoming season. It helps a little to blur the memories of my time on the island…and the person who shall remain unnamed.
I run, lift weights, and skate like crazy. I’m at the Desert Sports Complex, the arena where the Wolves play and practice, so often that ownership gives me a set of keys.
I try to encourage the guys that live in town to come practice with me, but it’s a month before training camp starts and no one wants to burn themselves out.
Me, there’s no chance of that happening. All my anger at the-one-who-shall-remain-unnamed fuels me, and I suspect that won’t wane anytime soon.
“Cara,” I murmur.
Aw, fuck. I said her name. Out loud too.
Whatever.
I still can’t believe she’s Mr. Hockeypants. If she’d only leveled with me from the beginning, maybe I could’ve accepted it.
Maybe.
“But she didn’t even try,” I hiss under my breath.
“Who didn’t try?” a deep male voice responds.
Huh, what?
I just left the ice from a skate, and I’m in the locker room, alone, or so I thought.
I spin around and find one of my teammates, Dylan Culderway, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Dylan is one of our top line defensemen, and a guy I really respect. So I’m cool with him hearing me voicing my meandering thoughts.
Still, I’m kind of surprised and end up saying the first thing that pops into my head.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
Aw, shit, that didn’t come out right. He has as much right to be here as I do.
But he takes it well.
Chuckling, he says, “Nice to see you too, Holland.”
“Hell, you know I didn’t mean it like that, Culderway.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
I take a seat on the bench and rake my hands through my sweaty hair.
Dylan comes over and sits next to me, and again I try to explain my snippy comment.
“I just didn’t expect to see you—or anyone, really—in here today.”
“Hey, I told you no worries.” He laughs. “I get it, you were surprised. Anyway, the reason why I stopped by is that I left a stick in here the other day.” He gestures to a hockey stick leaning against the wall. “I like to practice with that one when I’m at home.”
I nod in understanding.
Like a lot of us do, Dylan keeps a net in his basement to flick pucks into for practice. You can never get enough slapshot reps in. Not to mention, it’s fucking fun.
And that gives me an idea…
“You’ve been practicing much lately?” I ask Dylan.
I’m hoping maybe I’ve finally found someone I can skate with here at the arena. I didn’t bother him sooner because I know his wife, Chloe, is pregnant. I figured he was too busy with her for extra ice time. But I guess I was wrong.
“You mean here at the arena?” he clarifies.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Shrugging, he says, “I’ve been coming in a little bit, yeah. Just to stay sharp, you know?”
I suggest then that since he’s a defenseman and I’m offense, maybe we could run a few on-ice drills together.
“Some one-on-one work would be helpful to us both, eh?”
“Sure, that’d be great,” he replies.
“Fantastic, awesome,” I say, happy to finally have a practice partner.
Knowing that I won’t be out on the ice all alone all the time makes me feel better than I have in a while. Plus, it’s true that some one-on-one work will benefit us both.
Dylan and I then spend some time catching up on what we’ve been up to all summer. I try to keep the conversation focused on him by inquiring about Chloe.
“How’s she feeling? She’s due in the fall, right?” I say, putting on my super-interested face.
“She is,” Dylan replies. “And she’s feeling fantastic. Thanks for asking, Jaxon.”
“Yeah, sure, sure. That’s great, man.”
“Yeah, it is. We’re really excited for the baby.”
I laugh, and Dylan says, “Hey, what’s so funny?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “I just was thinking how it’s crazy that I got to meet Chloe before anyone even knew you two were dating.”
“Ah, yes, you sure did.”
Dylan’s a private guy, but I once caught him and Chloe at this very arena. They were, of all things, making out on the ice. Like literally sucking face on the blue line. It was in the early days of their relationship. They sure have come a long way since then. They’re in love and working on building a family.
I sigh, thinking how that was something I was hoping for for me and Cara.
Too bad it will never happen now.
And that totally sucks because for as much as I hate Cara, I still fucking love her.
Damn it!
Dylan, watching me wincing—that’s how much this shit still hurts—says, “Hey, is everything okay, man?”
I blow out a breath. “I guess so, more or less.”
“That doesn’t sound too convincing. Does this have anything to do with who you were talking about when I walked into the locker room?”
I admit, “Yeah, it kind of does.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I almost say no, but if there’s anyone to confide in, it’s Dylan. He’s the guy everyone goes to for advice. Well, either him or Nolan Solvenson, another player on our team. But since Dylan is here, and there’s a shit ton of crazy weighing on my mind, I may as well open up to him. Lord knows it can’t hurt.
“Actually, I could use some advice,” I say.
“So, shoot.”
I take a deep breath, exhale, and go on, “Did you know I was down at Noel’s beach house for most of the summer?”
“I did hear something about that,” he says.
I snort. “Of course you did. The hockey grapevine is rife with gossip.”
“Not about everything,” Dylan replies. “I only heard that you were down at the beach house, nothing more than that.”
“Ah, well, my friend, there is so much more. The day I arrived, someone was already there.”
He cocks a brow. “Let me guess, the person already there was a woman?”
“You got it.” I say, smiling a rare smile. Yeah, it feels kind of good to tell my tale.
“Anyway,” I go on, “her name is Cara. She’s friends with Noel’s sister.”
“Ah, got it. So wires got crossed with Noel and Noelle and that’s how you both ended up down there at the same time?”
“Pretty much,” I reply. “But it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was good…then it was really good. And then it was fucking fantastic.” I sigh. “But it all fucking fell apart.”
He looks lost after that synopsis, so I explain more coherently. I tell him all about Cara and the good times we had. I detail how we bickered like crazy, but then hooked up.
“I bet that was hot,” he remarks.
“It was, but it was more than just lust, man. I may have sort of fallen for her.”
“Sort of fallen for her?” Dylan raises a brow. “Did you fall for her or not, Jaxon?”