Now she was here, right outside those doors, and he didn’t know what the fuck to say.
Maybe he never would.
“Clock’s ticking,” Dunn said.
“No shit.” Henny wrenched open the doors and headed out into the hallway. There she was, pacing at the end of it, her back to him.
Damn, he’d missed her.
She was dressed in a jet-black suit and white blouse, her skirt and heels showing off her toned legs. Her hair was tamed into some kind of complicated twisty thing at the nape of her neck, and all Henny could think about was how it would feel to slide his fingers into that hair, untie the knot, kiss her until they both ran out of air.
She looked good. Real good.
If Henny wasn’t so damned heartbroken, he might’ve been intimidated.
“Hey,” he said. “Dunn said you wanted to see me?” Real smooth, dickhead.
Bex turned to face him, her smile tentative. Forget kissing—she was so fucking beautiful, just looking at her knocked the wind out of him.
“Is this awkward?” She approached him slowly, fidgeting with her purse strap, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s awkward. I know. I just… I was so excited to tell you, and I wanted to call, but then I remembered you had a game tonight, and then I didn’t know if I should come in, so I called Eva from the parking lot and—”
“I’m—”
“She said if I hurried, I might catch you before the game, but now I see I’m totally interrupting and—”
“Bex.” He reached out to touch her, but then pulled back. He had no right. Not anymore. In the uncomfortable silence that followed, he said, “What’s with the suit?”
Bex lowered her eyes, her smile still so damn shy. “I finally took your advice. Met with your friend at Bluepoint today.”
“You serious? How’d it go?”
“My credit isn’t doing me any favors, but Miguel told me about a new investment program for local women business owners.” She met his eyes, her whole face coming to life as she spoke. “They pair up individual investors with women whose businesses directly benefit the community, either through job creation or business-to-business spending. They don’t always find a match, but given my circumstances and my presentation, he thought it was worth a shot. He was pretty impressed with the expansion and marketing plans.”
“Are you surprised?” Henny flashed a proud grin. Couldn’t help it. “You’ve got this one in the bag.”
“You think so?”
“I wouldn’t say no to you.” Not even now. Whatever you want, just fucking say it. The answer is yes. Friends? Not friends? A kidney? It’s yours.
A lifetime passed between them, neither of them speaking, the only sound coming from the locker room behind him: Kooz teaching the boys the latest Russian insults, Roscoe and Fahey kicking around a hacky sack, Kenton butchering a Men at Work song. All the familiar pre-game stuff Henny had come to know and depend on.
He adjusted his jersey over the pads again, not sure what else to say. What else she wanted from him. When she didn’t fill in the gaps, he said, “I should probably get back.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” She smiled again. Then, softly, “Henny, I just… Thank you. For always having my back. For encouraging me. For pushing me when I was too stubborn to push myself.”
“With Bluepoint?” He waited for her to say no, or better yet, to say nothing at all and simply throw herself into his arms, kiss away the arguments and all the bullshit that had come between them.
But Bex only nodded. “I feel like whatever happens now, at least I took action. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be doodling logos and obsessing over Yelp reviews.”
“No way. You would’ve made a move eventually.” Henny shook his head. “Jesus, Bex. You’re the smartest, most capable, most kickass woman I’ve ever known. I didn’t push you on Bluepoint because I thought you couldn’t handle the bar on your own. I did it because you were having a hard time after California, and I thought I could help. That will always be my first instinct when it comes to you.”
“I’m… I know.”
He waited for her to open up a vein, to tell him how she was truly feeling, to call him out on the things he’d said to her that night in her office. But all she said instead was, “I’ve been watching your games. You’re playing pretty tight lately.”
Henny nodded. “Had a little heart-to-heart with Gallagher and the suits. I fucked up a lot this season, but I’m done with that schoolyard bullshit. Time to get back to business, focus on the playoffs.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, well. Someone suggested I stop acting like—what was the term? Man-baby, I think?”
Bex laughed. She actually laughed. Henny had never wanted to hit the rewind button so hard in his life.
How the fuck did I screw this up so bad?
How was it possible that weeks ago he had his face between this woman’s gorgeous thighs, making love to her in every possible way, waking up with his hands in her hair, his cock pressing against her backside, his mouth on the soft skin of her neck, and now they were standing here afraid to touch each other, afraid to say any of the things that really mattered?
“You, ah, sticking around for the show?” he asked.
“Fee and I are double-teaming it at the pub tonight—trying out a mock pool tournament on that table of yours. Oh!” Her eyes widened. “I made something for you. Almost forgot.”
She picked up a poster board that’d been leaning against the wall behind her, flipping it so Henny could read it.
It was a big-ass sign covered in glitter stars and stickers shaped like hockey sticks. In the center she’d written a message in Tempest blue.
You GOT this, 19!
God, his fucking heart hurt.
“Maybe one of the wives can wave it around for you,” she said, handing it over.
After another long and punishing silence, she finally leaned in close, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. Henny closed his eyes as her lips lingered, warm and soft, the haze of her sweet scent making him dizzy, his damn heart betraying him with every thud.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet with tears. “Play your ass off tonight, jerkface. Okay?”
Henny took Bex’s advice. He played his ass off, pushing himself harder and faster with each play, taking no fucking prisoners as the front line dominated the ice. There was nothing violent or dirty about it—the whole team was simply on point tonight, like they’d all taken a shot of adrenaline in the collective ass. Their passing game was flawless. Kooz and his defense shut down every single goal attempt. By the start of the third, it was clear that the Nashville Tomcats had already given up.
In the end, they mopped the floor with those boys, shutting them out seven to zero. Henny’d even nailed a hat trick, and when the crowd roared their appreciation, Henny waved at them. Acknowledged it. Thanked them. For a minute there, he started to remember why he loved this game so damn much. Not because of the screaming fans, but because of how he and the boys had come together as a team, playing their tightest game of the season, playing hard, playing clean. They’d had a job to do, and they’d gone out there and gotten it done.
He’d actually had fun.
But when Henny scanned the crowd, his gaze settled on an empty seat. Bex wasn’t in the stands, banging on the glass with her glittery sign. He’d left the sign in the locker room. She wouldn’t be waiting for him in the hallway tonight to give him a congratulatory hug, or pouring him a beer at Laurie’s, or making her cure-all nachos, or waiting for him in his bed, as eager to hear about the game as she was to feel him inside her. She wouldn’t be cheering for him during the playoffs, or watching the boys dig in and fight for the cup.
Sure, maybe they could try to talk it out. Get back to paling around again. But even if they managed to salvage their friendship, it would never be the same. There would always be this awkward space in the middle of everything, the black mark on their otherwise unblemished history that they jus
t didn’t talk about anymore.
Henny skated off the ice, heading into the locker room ahead of the team, staring at that sign until the sparkly letters all blurred together.
In all the ways that counted, he’d fucking lost her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Considering the intense night on the ice and an equally grueling post-game workout, Henny should’ve been exhausted. But hours after he’d showered and gone home for the night, he still couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t unwind. Couldn’t forget.
Standing in the middle of his kitchen with a bison mug full of whiskey, he looked around at… absolutely nothing.
What the hell am I doing in this place?
Bex had been right—his house needed her touch. Without her, it felt cold, fake, like one of those model homes with cardboard appliances and plastic food in the fridge. A decorator had picked out his furniture, set it all up like something out of a magazine. He’d hardly touched any of it. The only time he’d ever really noticed anything in this place was when Bex pointed it out.
When she touched it.
When she made the coffee, he noticed the high-end digital coffee maker, the way she ground the beans and measured it just so. When she cooked dinner, he noticed the way she shook the veggies in the pan he never used, humming as she brought everything to the perfect sizzle. And when she whispered his name in bed, wrapping her legs around his hips, begging him to touch her, to kiss her, he noticed his pillow, the way her hair fanned out, the warmth of her skin seeping into the sheets.
He’d paid for this place in cash. Paid that decorator to make it look nice. Paid a housekeeper to clean it up once a week.
But it had never once been his home. Not until Bex showed up.
She was everywhere now, inescapable. In his head. In his heart. In the damn mug in his hand. Her game signs were all tacked up in the workout room in the basement, her scent still filled his bedroom, her shampoo still sat on the shower ledge. He should’ve tossed it all out, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to let her go.
I’m completely fucked.
Ever since he was a kid, Henny had been telling himself the same thing, over and over and over: when shit starts to go south—with women, with friends, with work—it’s better to walk away unscathed than to stay in the fight and risk getting hurt. For decades he’d convinced himself he’d been doing just that—living life on his own terms, keeping people at a distance, avoiding drama, walking away before anyone got a chance to walk out on him.
But that was some bullshit, right there. All those walls he’d put up, all that attitude—none of that had ever saved him from getting hurt. All it had done was prevent him from being loved.
But Bex? She saw through it. Didn’t care how hard he pushed, how cold he got, how stupid he was acting. All the macho bullshit talk in the world, and that woman still loved him. He knew it now. He’d seen it in her eyes a thousand times since that tequila-induced wakeup call.
He’d seen it in her eyes even tonight. Even when he’d been doing his damnedest to hold back. To keep her at that safe, untouchable distance.
Now, he picked up the sign she’d given him, propped it against the wall.
You GOT this, 19!
He’d given her an ultimatum—all or nothing—and she’d said goodbye. But she hadn’t really bailed after all. Hadn’t stopped loving him. Even after everything Henny had said, everything he’d done, all the mistakes he’d made, Bex had left the door open.
So now?
He could kick that door closed for good, walk away before he bled out completely. Spend the rest of his life trying to forget her.
You GOT this, 19!
Or he could tear that damn door off the hinges, march across the threshold, and surrender his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fifteen minutes till closing.
Close enough.
“Wrap it up, Logan.” Bex clicked off the neon Big Laurie’s sign over the bar. “Last call was an hour ago.”
“Need any help cleaning up?”
“Just need you to get on home so I can do the same.”
He tossed back the last of his whiskey sour, then pulled out his wallet, counting out exact change. “Four bucks, right?”
“Four-fifty.” I should charge him double. Bex sighed. “You know what? Never mind. On the house.”
“Yeah? Cool.” Scooping up all of his dollar bills and shoving them back into his wallet—of course—he said, “For the record? I wouldn’t let my fiancée close a bar by herself.”
“Then don’t propose to a bartender. Problem solved.”
“Bex, that guy—what’s his name? Henry? He’s no good for you. You need a man who—”
“The only thing I need right now is for this man—a.k.a. you—to turn around and walk out that door.” She jerked her head toward the exit. “Good night, Logan.”
“I could wait for—”
“Good night, Logan.”
God. Were all men seriously that dense?
Finally, the lunkhead zipped up his coat and scooted out of there, leaving her alone for the first time all day.
She washed out his glass by hand, then set it in the drying rack with the others, checking that she hadn’t left any stray glassware or dishes around. She moved on to the beer taps, wiping them down with care, then the liquor bottles, checking the nozzles and turning them all face-forward. The floor had already been mopped, the grill turned off and cleaned, all the water rings polished from the bar.
Closing had always been Bex’s favorite part of the night. There was something cathartic and deeply satisfying about working alone in the quiet pub, restoring order from chaos.
Keeping thoughts of Henny at bay.
Seeing him tonight before the game had been one of the hardest moments of her life. She’d gone in there wanting to say so many things—I’m sorry. I’m in love with you. Can we hit the reset button on this?—but in the end, all of her carefully rehearsed speeches had abandoned her.
No, there would be no second chance at love for Bex and Henny. Best she could do now was accept it and move forward, hoping that eventually they’d be able to rebuild some semblance of friendship.
Her throat tightened, but she swallowed her sadness. She had work to do. Then she’d head home for the night, slip into her bed, and drift off to dreamland.
Alone.
Bex shut off the main lights over the bar area, then moved on to the pool table room, picking up a couple of cues the players had left on the table. She was about to slide them back into the wall rack when she heard the front door whoosh open.
“Logan, you are seriously pissing me off.” Brandishing a pool cue, she spun around on her heel. “I swear I’m going to call the cops if—”
“Tell me something, beautiful.” He stepped out of the shadows, offering a familiar smile that melted her heart, his ocean-blue eyes warm and soft and utterly, completely home. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer in this place?”
“Henny,” she gasped. Her mouth went dry, heart leaping up into her throat. “I thought… what are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. And I’m thirsty.”
“You… oh. Right. Well, last call was—”
“Bex.” Henny sighed. “I don’t give a fuck about the beer.” He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping her face, his smile faltering. “I, uh… I couldn’t… Seeing you today… And then you were gone, and I didn’t…” He shook his head, blowing out a breath, then held up a gift bag stuffed with tissue paper. “Here. It’s a jersey.”
“Spoiler alert.”
He smiled. “Sorry.”
Bex set the cue on the pool table and peeked inside the bag, spotting the Tempest blue and silver. “Let me guess. Your numbers?”
“Better late than never, right?”
She pulled the jersey out of the bag and held it up in front of her chest, blinking back tears. Had it only been a couple of months ago that he’d joked about this? That he’d asked her to burn K
ooz’s jersey, never to wear another man’s numbers again?
“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat raw and tight. “It’s now officially my favorite jersey.”
“Shit. It’s not about the jersey, either. I’m totally screwing this up. Again.” Henny ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in every direction. She wanted to touch it. To feel it between her thighs. To let it tickle her nose, her lips, her cheeks as he kissed her goodnight. Good morning. And everything in between…
“This is nuts,” Henny continued. “Can we get a do-over here? Because I’m pretty sure I just fucked up the best thing in my life. You’re my best friend, Bex. I never wanted to hurt you. And I definitely don’t want to lose you.”
She sucked in a breath, lowering her eyes. Her body trembled. Hope? Fear? Love? It was all there, roiling inside her, urging her to bolt for the door. No more complications. No more overanalyzing. No more painfully awkward conversations or accidental morning-afters. Just freedom. Just Bex.
Just run.
But Bex didn’t run. Instead, she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin. Looked him in the eyes.
And then she told the truth.
“I used to know everything about you, Hen. I could predict your moods, read your thoughts, finish your sentences. But I don’t know where you’re at anymore—not with me or anything else. And that scares the hell out of me.”
Nodding, he touched her cheek, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. After going so long without it, his gentle caress made her shiver. Three or four times he took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut again.
Bex didn’t push him to explain. She was beginning to understand the difference between backing down out of fear, and simply leaving a little space. Time. Room to breathe.
Down to Puck (Buffalo Tempest Hockey Book 2) Page 19