DIRTY SECRET

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  “Got your text, babe. Sounds like a crazy day, but glad you’re getting some sleep. Call me tomorrow. I want to hear your voice.”

  “Allie.” I press my forehead against the cool glass of my hotel room window, closing my eyes to the glittering city lights below. “What’s going on?”

  She isn’t going to answer. It’s voicemail again.

  She hasn’t called me back since I left four days ago and she hasn’t texted me in two. Before everything blew up with Baxter, we were talking and texting and finding ways to see each other no matter how jacked our schedules were, so this isn’t about being busy.

  I take a breath and rub at the aching spot in the middle of my chest.

  “You’ll laugh at this, babe. I actually had to ask your brother if he’d heard from you. Oh man, it sucked. That dude is a stone-cold gloater. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him smile that big. He told me he talked to you around lunch and I kept waiting for the pissed to kick in, you know? But Christ, Allie, all I felt was relieved. Yeah, you’re dodging me and I don’t know why, but you’re okay. And that’s what matters.”

  I walk back to the bed and, more beat than I can remember, drop back onto the spread. “So, uhh, look, in case I don’t talk to you… Trevon uploaded the footage from your game. Congrats on the win. That play in the second with thirteen and twenty-three was badass. Your girls have the moves. Anyway, it was fun to watch.”

  Allie: Can we talk?

  Me: About to take off. Be at your place in six hours.

  Natalie

  I’m waiting on the stoop when Vaughn comes up the walk still dressed in his suit, a ball cap resting low enough that I can’t see his eyes until he’s standing in front of me. And then I wish I couldn’t because they’re as cold and hard as they were that first night he showed up here and one look has me pulling my coat closer around me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” I whisper, hating what I’m about to do and the way I’ve done everything up to this point.

  “I know.” He takes a long breath and lowers his big body onto the top stair. Knees wide, hands hanging in a loose fold between them, he waits until I sit beside him. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  What I want is to climb onto his lap and feel his arms tight around me. I want him to tell me not to worry because everything will be okay, that he’s got me, and he won’t let go.

  And my wanting those things is the problem.

  Hugging my knees, I tuck my cheek into my shoulder and meet his eyes.

  “I think everything coming to a head with Greg sort of brought what we were doing into perspective. This has gotten too serious for me.” I take a breath, trying to keep the dread spooling through my chest from choking me. “It’s not what I want.”

  It’s what I practiced saying with George. What sounded right when we came up with it. But now—God, nothing feels right about it at all.

  Vaughn’s jaw flexes twice, but his eyes stay locked with mine. All the things he lets me see shuttered away and out of reach. I don’t want to cry in front of him, but already I can feel the part of me holding the tears at bay beginning to crumble.

  “Say something,” I plead.

  He brushes a few strands of hair from my face, tucking them gently behind my ear. “It’s okay.” The back of one knuckle softly runs the line of my jaw, making me ache to lean closer. “You don’t date hockey players and I don’t date period, right?”

  The words are from that first night in Vancouver. Issued between the breathless, desperate kisses that started all this. And now he’s bringing them back. Not cruelly. Without animosity.

  I nod, and that brutal eye contact slips away, leaving me cold without it.

  Pushing to his feet, Vaughn slides his hands into his pockets and starts toward the street. “Take care, Natalie.”

  Vaughn

  I plug in my headphones and blast the volume before walking into the locker room the next afternoon.

  My don’t fuck with me vibe must be strong today because everyone keeps their distance as I gear up for practice.

  Good. Leave me alone.

  It’s what I need. What I want.

  Let me get through the next months so I can get the fuck out of this city, this state… And never see her again.

  Don’t think about it.

  Never hear her laugh.

  Don’t.

  Never taste her kiss.

  The flat of my hand meets the back of my stall and I drag a ragged breath in through my nose.

  Calm. The fuck. Down.

  It was only a matter of time before it ended. I knew it from the start.

  Except, this thing I thought I was prepared for feels like my chest has been ripped open and all the vital organs removed… but somehow I’m still fucking walking around, still expected to function like a living human being. Still expected to perform. To deliver.

  Hell, at least that part I can do.

  Easing my hand off the wall, I turn to go to practice—and find Baxter six feet away, arms crossed over his chest, an all-too-smug smirk on his face as he watches me. A beat passes and then finally I give him a jut of my chin because I don’t have anything else.

  His brows buckle, and I head for the ice.

  It’s the one place where I can shut out the noise. Where there’s a single job to do and no room for anything else.

  It’s what I need.

  So I push it, carving up the ice, demanding more drills until Coach forces me to go home.

  O’Brian blows up my phone for a while, and I get a message from Garcia, but I don’t want to talk. I just want to get through the hours until the next game so I can shut it off again.

  Eat.

  Sleep.

  Skate.

  Repeat.

  It’s a solid plan. At least it seems that way until I come out of the tunnel the next night. Wagner Arena is packed. Lights flashing, music blaring. My eyes zero in on Baxter’s seats.

  Natalie ought to be filling one. Smiling wide while she waits for her favorite fucking game to start. She ought to be laughing, looking carefree, so I can see for myself that this was the right thing. That she’s better off. And then maybe I can let her go.

  Only that can’t happen because there are a couple of balding, middle-aged fucks occupying the space where she’s supposed to be.

  Natalie

  I’m perched at the very edge of my chair, remote clutched against my chest, still barely able to breathe as the commentators continue to discuss Vaughn’s game tonight using words like astounding, unprecedented, and terrifying.

  The last, in my opinion, being the most accurate.

  He was like a man on fire. Relentless. Laser sharp. Almost unnatural.

  And with every goal he scored, the look he leveled at the camera following him past the bench was downright chilling. I didn’t need the announcer comparing it to the almost playful winks he was throwing out a few weeks prior. I couldn’t miss the difference if I tried, and something tells me he knew I wouldn’t.

  A text alert comes up and I know it’s him.

  Vaughn: I’m a big fucking boy. Don’t skip the games.

  I stare at my phone, waiting to see if he’ll send anything else. And when it’s clear he isn’t going to, all that held breath leaks out on a cold laugh as I slump back into the overstuffed chair behind me.

  He thinks I didn’t go to the game because I was worried he couldn’t handle it?

  I laugh again. And then the tears start to fall, and I turn off the TV and lock up the house because no one is coming over.

  Two weeks later, I’ve made it to four of the five home games. There haven’t been any more texts. The only communication between us comes in that first lap when he skates out onto the ice. His eyes flick to mine as he skates by, and he gives me the slightest nod.

  And with Helene holding my hand, I smile like my heart isn’t breaking a little more every time I see him. Like I don’t think about him every night when I’m going to bed a
nd he isn’t on my mind before I even open my eyes in the morning. Like I don’t spend half my days wondering when it will stop feeling like this and the other half asking myself if I’ve made the worst decision of my life.

  After the third week, I’ve stopped crying. Mostly.

  I signed up to do a fall-prevention class for the elderly at the community center and picked up a few hours as a trainer for a girls varsity hockey team. I’m staying busy.

  Sean is off injured reserve. The guys have one of their longest road trips of the season, so at least I’m not counting down the minutes to some abbreviated head nod wondering if this will be the night I don’t get it. Vaughn’s game is as intense as ever, smart and focused. And the reporters haven’t asked about the rift between him and Greg in weeks. All they want to know is what he’s thinking about their chances at the Cup.

  By the end of the fourth week, the guys are back. They’ve had the last two days off and everyone is talking about tonight’s game against the Epics. Last time Vaughn faced off against his old team, it was clear there wasn’t any love lost between them and there had been a revolving door on the penalty box for both teams.

  Vaughn can handle himself, but this game’s got me anxious. And to make matters worse, there was some production emergency that had Julia flying out to LA an hour ago, and Helene is babysitting for her cousin. So unless I can find someone to come with me I’ll be watching alone. Which is why I’m cutting down the DePaul University neighborhood sidewalk congested with students and early commuters, crossing my fingers that George has a free night. Or at least a night she might be able to free up for me. She’s on a very short list of people who understand why I might be particularly invested in a certain grouchy player when I shouldn’t be paying attention to him at all.

  An old-fashioned bell rings overhead when I walk through The Bike Shop’s front door. The walls are exposed brick lined with oversized shelves to accommodate rows of bikes ranging from something a kid would get for her birthday to racing bikes that cost more than George’s car. It’s early March but there are still a few customers waiting up at the front counter, one with a frame over his shoulder and a wheel that’s nearly bent in half in his left hand. Ouch.

  George’s middle brother, Eli, glances up from the register as his customer signs for his purchase with his finger. “Yo, sis, gonna need you to cover the front.” His eyes twinkle with mischief as they meet mine. “My date just got here.”

  This guy.

  “How’s it going, Eli?” I ask as George pops up from the bike she’s working on in the back. While the front of the store is bright with a clean, sleek style—light pine floors with a dark weather runner leading from the door to the modern counter, high ceilings with recessed lighting—the service area is old-school concrete, bulbs hanging from wires and walls so thick with equipment, I couldn’t tell you if they’re brick or not. And of course, Awolnation blasting out of a portable speaker with as much grease on it as its owner.

  “You wish.” George laughs, throwing an elbow into her brother’s ribs as she rounds the counter, pulling a dirty rag from her back pocket to wipe her hands.

  Eli flashes me a wink. “For about ten years. Nat, when you going to throw me a bone?”

  Mmm. That would be a firm never. Eli’s a fun guy, but not one you want to date… or let any of your friends date either.

  George is wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and has the longer fall of her pixie-cut bangs pinned back from her eyes. She’s cute as hell in a totally careless way and even with her brother being within ten feet, two of the guys in line are openly staring at her.

  “Hey girl, what brings you over to my little neck of the woods?” she asks me, flashing a warm smile at the customer on his way out.

  “Julia had to bail on tonight’s game against the Epics. I know you probably have four cousins with birthdays, a great aunt celebrating retirement, and two baptisms—” She rolls her eyes with a laugh, but I’m probably not that far off. George has one of those enormous families that all live within a ten-mile radius and love hanging out. “But is there any way you can come with me to the game?” That awesome, bright-as-the-sun smile dims, so I hold up a hand. “The game. That’s it. No Five Hole after. Promise.”

  She bites her lip, thinking it through.

  “I’m supposed to help my Aunt Lydia move into her apartment. But there are like fifteen of us planning to go over. She won’t mind if I come by tomorrow instead. And if you want to go out with Rux and Greg after, don’t skip on my account. One of them can give you a ride and I’ll head out after the game.”

  “I’m not up for hanging out with the team,” I say with a look I don’t need to explain.

  Mouth pulled to the side, she nods. Then after grumbling something about the players ruining a perfect game, she grabs my hand.

  “Come on upstairs with me so I can clean up, and then we can go.” We head toward the back of the shop to the stairwell that accesses the apartment she shares with her brothers. “Eli, you’re in charge while I’m gone but don’t even think about touching that Cannondale I’ve got on the rack.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he calls back, and then just before we hit the stairs, he adds, “No such promises about Nat, though!”

  The game is rough, the contact charged and excessive. Vaughn’s been in the box once already and Rux twice. The Epics are a solid team, but they’ve got a few guys—like Daryl Hoffman and Rick Gunther—looking for trouble and somehow managing to avoid the worst of the calls. It’s getting heated, and I’m glad I’ve got George beside me for this one.

  Flying out of her seat, she bellows, “Cheap shot, Gunther, you Epic douchebag! And where’s the call, huh? Get your eyes checked, Montgomery!”

  George is exactly the kind of distraction I need.

  She had a beer in my hand before we sat down and when Vaughn skated past for that first lap, giving me the subtle nod I’d been agonizing over whether I’d see, she gave my hand a squeeze and started talking about the time in college when half the girls on our team got some stomach bug before a bus trip.

  But nothing can distract me from the escalating tension on the ice by the third period. The game’s 2-2 and Hoffman has been getting into it with everyone. He and Vaughn almost came to blows at the end of the second, and now he’s tied up with Greg, helmet to helmet. The whistle blows, and Greg shoves him off, turning to skate away—as Hoffman throws the first punch.

  Vaughn

  The swing is bullshit, glancing off Baxter’s pads and barely budging the guy. Hoffman’s an asshole with a short fuse and a grudge against most everyone in the league. He scores like a motherfucker, but he doesn’t have the sense to know when to back down. Case in point, the fact that he’s still coming after Baxter with Ruxton Meyers closing in fast.

  My pulse jacks. Everyone can feel what’s coming.

  Another shove at Baxter’s back, but this time the guy doesn’t let it go. Rounding on Hoffman, Baxter shoves the guy, calling him a pussy while Rux holds off another Epics player.

  Natalie’s up, hands clenched together. Worry etched across her face because this is a volatile mix. But Baxter is a fucking smart player. He’s not going to let some shithead goad him into a fight that could get him a turn in the sin bin or worse, tossed from the game. So instead of pushing for the fight brewing in Hoffman’s eyes, he gives him a final shove and lines up to face off.

  Smart.

  The puck drops and it’s on. Brutal, intense. Baxter gets control. He’s faster than Hoffman, outmaneuvering him at every turn. I see the play open up. Baxter burns down the ice. A flick of the wrist and he wings the puck to Rux for a one-timer into the net. The arena goes wild. But Hoffman isn’t done. He flies up behind Baxter, stick raised in both hands as he fucking checks the back of Greg’s head into the boards.

  What happens next is like a series of stills flashing through my consciousness.

  I’m vaulting onto the ice.

  My gloves and stick bouncing behind me.

>   Impact.

  Players flooding the ice.

  Hoffman rounding on me as I pull him off Baxter. Blood spraying from his mouth when my fist connects.

  Impact.

  Kneeling beside Baxter as he tries to coordinate his arms and legs to get up. Fails. And goes still.

  Panic slicing through me as I find her in the crowd, those big blue eyes wild with fear.

  Impact.

  Mouthing the words… “It’s going to be okay.”

  Chapter 20

  Natalie

  “Natalie, you’ve seen him hurt before,” George reminds me, rubbing a comforting hand over my arm as we huddle together outside the hospital waiting room. “Concussions are no joke, but your brother has an all-star team of medical professionals behind him. They take this stuff seriously. He takes it seriously. He’ll do the right things. He’ll be careful. And then he’ll be fine.”

  I nod. I know she’s right. But seeing my big beast of a brother down on the ice like that—it terrified me.

  Vaughn texted me from the locker room that Greg was awake and already raising hell when they’d loaded him into the ambulance. I spent the drive over getting updates from Julia and passing them on to my mother. It wasn’t until George and I actually got to the hospital that I found out there was another player on his way in.

  Vaughn.

  He’d shaken off the barrage of punches during the brawl back at the game. I knew he’d been cut, but he seemed okay skating off the ice. And he hadn’t mentioned being hurt in his text. But would he?

  George groans beside me.

  “What?” I look up, but all I see is Quinn O’Brian. He’s still wearing his suit from after the game, and he’s carrying a couple of coffees our way.