The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

I can’t breathe for a second, his image burned into my mind, and then I realize I’m on the ground, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  A hand extends as I come to, and I realize in my gawking glory, I must’ve bumped into one of the players as they made their way down the stairs. I place my hand in his, and it’s rough, calloused. Shielding the fluorescent lights from my eyes, I brace myself as he pulls me to standing. Our eyes don’t meet. In fact, he won’t even look at me.

  But I know it’s him.

  It’s Rhett.

  His gaze pierces past me, narrowed at something in the distance. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge me.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  “Ayla?” I recognize Shane from the other weekend, though he looks completely different in a white t-shirt and faded green chino shorts. His hair is soft and fluffy, free of product, and he doesn’t smell like the cologne aisle of Macy’s.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’s up?” Shane slides his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make conversation or if he’s actually asking me what I’m doing here.

  “Just meeting with Coach Harris about a few things.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the door once more on the off chance Rhett might be lingering outside, but there’s no trace of him.

  “Ah, I see.” His eyes rest on mine. “You doing okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “You still have my number?”

  I nod again, holding my breath and waiting for him to bring up the Facebook post.

  “Listen, if you ever want to-”

  “Ayla?” I turn toward the voice calling my name, and I see Coach Harris standing at the top of the stairs, decked out in a Spartans green tracksuit. It’s amazing that after meeting me once, at Bryce’s funeral, he recognizes me so easily.

  “Hi,” I turn away from Shane, quickly whispering an apology, and head toward Harris.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says, his expression stuck in shocked mode. The bags under his red-rimmed eyes tell me he’s still struggling with this, and maybe I should be the one comforting him. “I’ve got the conference room all set up.”

  He slips his meaty arm around my shoulder like I’m one of the guys, and we climb the remainder of the stairs and turn the corner, stopping at the end of the hall.

  “Go on in,” he says, right behind me.

  I take the seat next to the one at the head of the thirty-seat table and eye a pitcher of water.

  “Help yourself.” He pushes everything toward me, and I pour a glass of still water.

  There’s a quiet knock on the door behind me, and when I spin in my chair, I see a woman with kind hazel eyes and sleek black hair standing with a file folder pressed against her chest.

  “Charity,” Coach says. “Come on in.”

  She closes the door behind her and takes the seat across from me.

  “Ayla, Charity is our HR manager,” he says, plopping into his seat and exhaling. His hands fold in front of him as his gaze narrows on me.

  My eyes move to the folder, which I now notice has Bryce’s name scribbled on the tab in blue ink.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “This is Bryce’s file,” Charity says, tapping a pointed red nail on top of the dossier. “Were you aware that he designated 100% of his life insurance premium to you?”

  “Wait, what?” I ask.

  Her head bobs. “He did. Says so right here if you’d like to see.”

  My jaw loosens, and I can’t string together a sentence to save my life.

  “There’ll be some formalities,” she continues. “He didn’t list your Social Security Number, so you’ll have to jump through a few minor hoops before this can be paid out, but we wanted to let you know, he left you three million dollars.”

  What kind of single, twenty-six-year-old man needs a three-million-dollar life insurance policy?

  “Wow,” is all I can manage to squeak out. The room feels hot. I don’t tell them that I’ve spent the past twelve years believing the guy hated me. And not the kind of hate when you say you hate mushrooms or green olives on your pizza. I’m talking pure, genuine, unabashed hatred. This doesn’t add up. You don’t leave someone you hate three million dollars. “Are you sure?”

  Charity and Coach exchange looks, chuckling lightly.

  “Yes, Ayla,” she says, her voice smooth like honey and cool like an ocean breeze. She opens the folder, retrieves a piece of paper, and spins it so I can see.

  There it is, in what I assume is his sloppy handwriting ...

  Designated beneficiary – Ayla Lane Caldwell – 100%

  I didn’t even know he knew my middle name.

  “It says here that his last will and testament is on file at the Greenbrier Law Firm on the Lower East Side. You’ll probably want to reach out to them, when you’re ready, that is. Their number is listed here,” Charity says, pointing to a line on the paper before me. “I can write everything down for you.”

  I’ll be extremely shocked if Bryce has left me anything beyond this. This ... this is generous. This is too much. This is completely unnecessary, and I don’t even know if I want it.

  Is this his way of apologizing?

  I’d have taken a boring old brother-sister relationship over this money any day of the week.

  This makes no sense.

  Plus, I don’t even know what I’d do with three million dollars because up until now, I’d resolved that I’d be perfectly happy living the rest of my days as a starving artist, with nothing but the clothes on my back, the words in my head, and the occasional cup of hot tea to warm my insides.

  “Are you okay?” Charity asks, reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. She reads the shock broadcasting across my forehead.

  “I’m just a little shocked, to be honest.” I sit up tall and clear my throat. “We weren’t exactly close.”

  Coach sniffs, nodding. “Yeah. Kind of figured that. We never knew he had a sister. Only found out because of this.”

  “I never even met him.” I shake my head, soaking in the hush that falls over the room. “Anyway. You wanted to talk to me about a foundation?”

  Coach squares his shoulders. “Yes, we’d like to set up a charity in Bryce’s name, maybe offer hockey lessons to underprivileged youths or scholarships. Not quite sure which direction we want to go, but we thought we’d let you decide.”

  “Oh, um.” I’ve never spearheaded anything that didn’t involve a computer, Microsoft Word, thousands of sentences, and innumerable hours of alone time with the door locked.

  “If you’re up for it, we’d love for you to be the CEO of the organization,” Harris says.

  I’ve never been a team player, preferring to do everything on my own. Guess that’s why I’m the writer and Bryce was the athlete.

  My jaw hangs, but nothing comes out. My gaze moves between the two of them, and while this sounds like the last thing I want to do with my spare time, I can’t tell them no. I can’t walk in here, walk out with my cool three mil, and not give back to the legacy of the man who so bizarrely set me up for the rest of my life.

  “Sure,” I say with a breathy smile.

  Harris and Charity smile, like I’ve just made their days.

  “Just so you know, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” I say.

  Harris pulls his phone from his pocket, pressing his chin against his chest as he thumbs through his contacts. Ripping a piece of paper from a notepad a second later, he scribbles down a name and number for me.

  “This is the team attorney,” he says. “He’ll help you file any necessary paperwork.” He jots down a second name and number. “And this is a buddy of mine who does a lot of philanthropic work. Anything else you need, you let me know. I’d really like to get the team involved as much as possible, so anytime you need the guys, they’re all yours.”

  I rise, unsteady on my feet, and Charity hands me a copy of Bryce’s life
insurance information.

  “Thank you.” I turn to show myself out, passing a mirror in the hallway.

  I sure don’t look like a millionaire.

  And I don’t want to act like one either.

  My hands tremble as my new reality sends shockwaves straight through me.

  I need a cocktail and a good, hard pinch, because so far this feels like a dream I could wake up from at any moment.

  The second I hit the pavement outside, I call Bostyn and ask her where I can find the stiffest drinks in all of Manhattan, and she tells me to meet her at The Prescott Club at nine o’clock tonight.

  Chapter Five

  Rhett

  This place is dead, but that’s exactly why I came here. No one in their right mind drinks on a Monday night.

  I like this bar.

  They know me here.

  No one gawks or stares.

  They don’t allow patrons to snap pictures.

  And I know when I’m ordering top shelf liquor, I’m actually getting top shelf liquor.

  “Another one?” the bartender asks, rapping on the wooden counter in front of me. He’s hunched over, lips tight as he tries not to judge me.

  “I’m good.” I lift my crystal tumbler, giving proof that the glass is only half empty. Fitting.

  “Anything else I can get you?” he asks with his sad little eyes. He knows.

  He’s read the articles.

  He’s heard the news.

  Everybody’s heard the fucking news.

  “Yeah,” I chuff. “Can you tell those fucking girls down there to keep it down?”

  He turns in their direction, and their annoying little giggles waft our way like high-pitched pollution. Seven empty bar stools separate us, but even an ocean wouldn’t be enough at this point.

  “Can’t do that, Rhett. I’m sorry.” The bartender lifts a white rag, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust on the counter. “They’re paying customers, and they’re not making too much noise. You want to go to the back room, get away for a bit?”

  I huff. No, I don’t want to go to the back fucking room.

  I don’t want to sit in a red-carpeted VIP lounge all by myself like a goddamned, self-important loser.

  I toss back the remainder of my drink, sliding the empty glass his way, and he nods in silent understanding.

  The girls haven’t stopped chatting since they sat down. They’re talking about flowers. Engagement rings. Dresses.

  Fuck my life.

  “An old fashioned, please.” A dark-haired beauty with red lips takes a seat two spots down from me. She places a little black clutch on the bar and brushes her bangs from her eyes, revealing two pools of hazel lined in black.

  “That’s a man’s drink.” It takes a moment for me to realize I’m the asshole speaking those words.

  She whips her attention toward me. “Excuse me?”

  “An old fashioned,” I say. “What are you, an eighty-year-old man?”

  She exhales, rolling her pretty eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes. The second she looks away, I steal a chance to take in the rest of her. Tight, curved body wrapped in head-to-toe black. Sexy heels that come to a point at the toe. Her breasts spill from her top just enough to make a man’s gaze linger a bit too long. She must be meeting someone for drinks. No one comes to a bar dressed like that just because.

  A second later, she’s pulling her phone out, pressing the power button and groaning at the blank screen. When the bartender returns with her drink, I hear her ask if he has a phone charger, but he gives an apologetic “no.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, she focuses on the wall of liquor bottles ahead. She’s choosing to ignore me, and maybe I deserve it, but I’m not going to apologize. She’s drinking a man’s drink. Whiskey. Bitters. Sugar. All she needs is a Cuban cigar and she’s my grandfather reincarnated.

  “You’re not the first person to tell me I drink like a man.” Her voice is dry, her tone sardonic. She’s still staring ahead when she swirls her spoon in her drink before taking a sip. “You’re lucky I’m not doing Jäger bombs tonight.”

  She laughs—at herself I presume.

  “I’m lucky?” I ask. Girl has some nerve. Anyway, Jäger bombs remind me of Bryce, and the last thing I want to think about right now is that bastard.

  “I make bad decisions when I drink Jäger.” She pulls in another tiny sip, then stares into her glass. “At least that’s what people tell me. I don’t usually remember.”

  “Convenient.”

  Her body swivels toward me, her elbow resting on the bar and her fingers wrapped lightly around her tumbler. “Nothing about my life is convenient.”

  “I’m not trying to talk to you about your life.” I snort. That’s women for you. They take a perfectly good conversation about liquor and twist it into something deeper, more meaningful.

  Fuck deep.

  Fuck meaningful.

  I’d fuck her if I could, but she’ll probably want to lie in my arms when it’s all over and tell me her life story, and quite frankly, I’m not interested.

  “How about you not twist my words?” She takes a sip, her hazel eyes locked on me like a silent challenge. They’re bewitching, her eyes. I’m drawn in, and I can’t look away. “And while you’re not twisting my words, how about you not jump to conclusions either?”

  She’s bold. I like that. And I respect that in a girl-from-the-bar-I’d-consider-fucking-if-she-weren’t-so-smart-mouthed.

  I finally turn away, and we marinate in silence, nothing but the sound of giggling girls wafting our way from the opposite end of the bar.

  “God, they’re annoying,” she says to me, speaking under her breath. She leans a little closer, but keeps a careful distance at the same time.

  The bartender returns with my forgotten drink, and then moves to the girl, leaning over the bar to tell her that her friend called, isn’t coming because something came up, and will get a hold of her tomorrow.

  She got stood up.

  Who the hell stands up a pretty girl like that? And she was dressed like she was down to fuck, too.

  Oh, well.

  His loss is my gain.

  An inch of liquor remains in her glass, and I watch her toss the rest back like she’s in a hurry to get the hell out of here.

  Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe she’s feeling embarrassed or her pretty little ego is bruising in real time, but I can’t let her go. Not yet. Not until I’ve had my fun.

  I rise from my seat, and the ground beneath my feet tilts. I’m not sure how many drinks I’ve had now—probably too many—but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m going in for the kill. I want this girl. I want her against the wall. I want her in my bed. I want to fuck her until I can’t feel a damn thing and she can’t walk straight, and then I want her out of my life because that’s the kind of sorry bastard I need to be from now on.

  Commitment is for losers.

  Hearts and flowers are for assholes.

  Truth, above all else, is the only thing that matters from here on out.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, a slight chuckle in her tone when she sees me taking the bar stool next to her.

  “I’m Rhett,” I say, elbow on the bar and eyes glued on hers. And in my truthful, drunken stupor, I add, “And I’m going to take you home tonight.”

  “Worst. Pick up line. Ever.”

  “Do I look like I care?” I huff.

  “No. You look like a man who’s never had to try to get laid in his life,” she says, eyes rolling.

  “Fair point.”

  “You don’t even know my name,” she adds, the corners of her mouth pulling up. I have her undivided attention, and the fact that she didn’t throw her drink in my face is promising.

  “Care to tell it to me?” I ask.

  Her lips press together, fighting a smile, and she seems amused, entertained by this. Nothing about the way she looks at me tells me she’s star struck, which is yet another reason this woman is undeniably fuckable.


  “Ayla,” she says carefully after a good, hard pause. Her hazel eyes squint in my direction, like she’s trying to figure me out.

  Good luck.

  She rises, gathering her things.

  “Where are you going?” I stand, confused, because clearly a second ago this was going pretty fucking well.

  “Home.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re drunk. Like, really drunk.” She seems annoyed by that fact. “And you just offended me by assuming I was that easy.”

  I laugh, following her toward the exit. The giggling girls stop chatting and stare in our direction, but I don’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let them see what they could experience if they stopped planning their Pinterest weddings for two point six seconds and found themselves a real man. An honest man. One who won’t bullshit about the fact that the only thing he gives a damn about is sex.

  I place my hand on her shoulder to stop her, and her body freezes. I shouldn’t have touched her because now I look like a goddamned creep and she looks a little bit horrified.

  This got dark, fast.

  My mouth opens, and I’m on the verge of apologizing, but I’m not the kind of man who’s ever really been sorry for anything, so I stop myself.

  Removing my hand from her, I straighten my shoulders and take a half of a step back. In the span of a couple of seconds, I see the two of us in bed, sweaty and spent. It could’ve been hot. And I sure as fuck could’ve used the release. But now my chance is shot to hell, so ...

  “Do you need help? Or anything?” she steps closer to me, keeping her voice down.

  “What? Jesus. No.”

  “You’re really drunk and you’re coming onto complete strangers at some random bar. I think you need help.”

  This isn’t some random bar, but I don’t have the mental stamina to sit here and defend it to her.

  “It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” is all I tell her. It’s all she needs to know, and I refuse to elaborate if she asks. I’m not in the habit of making excuses, but in this case, after the last several days I’ve endured, I’m making an exception.

  Her rosebud mouth bunches in one corner as she studies me. “You need me to take you home?”