by Luis, Maria
The bus’s engine hums to life, then rolls forward without further delay. The guys fuck around behind us, talking about darts and puck bunnies and the seven-motherfucking-goals they scored tonight.
I tip my head back. “I’m not gonna tell Coach to bench you, kid. You’d only be more nervous when you came back.” It’d been that way for me. My first season with the Bruins had been an up-and-down relationship that could have been a showcase for a new TV show, When Jackson Carter Loses Everything. It’d resulted in me being traded to the Dallas Stars before, miracle of all miracles, the Bruins signed me back on after I got my ass in line. “You need to get the nerves out of your system while it’s preseason because if you pull this shit during an actual game, you’ll find yourself on the farm team so fast you won’t even know what happened. This is our year to win the Cup, and you’re either leading the pack with your line or you’re the anchor around our neck that we need to cut loose. Which one is it going to be?”
“I want to be a part of the pack, Cap.”
“Then go back to the hotel and find tonight’s game online. Analyze every time you screwed up and be prepared to tell me everythin’ you did wrong when we’re back at practice in two days.”
“But the guys are going out—”
“Not the rookies.” I gesture for him to vacate the seat. “Y’all don’t have the luxury of wings and beer and pussy until you’re not slowing us down on the ice and letting two shots on the net go unchecked.” I leave out mention of Harrison’s pity goal; the Mountain has been in the NHL longer than I have and I’m not about to call him to task. “Send me Kase.”
Grumbling, Kammer clambers to his feet. Throws me a glance as he turns for the back of the bus. “The guys are right,” he grunts, “you’re a fucking hard-ass.”
My reputation precedes me.
I almost grin.
“I play to win, kid.” I drop my foot to the floor and sit up. “And I accept nothing less from my team. If hockey isn’t on the brain twenty-four-seven, then you don’t want this bad enough—and I can guaran-goddamn-tee that someone else will want it more than you do.”
Almost resentfully, he snips, “I want it, Cap.”
“Then enjoy your night of watching clips and eating room service. I’ll be at the hotel’s bar if you’re feelin’ the need to vent about how I’m an asshole for not letting you party with the vets.”
His cheeks go red and he drops a fist on his vacated seat’s headrest. “I’ll get you Kase.”
“Good choice.”
As the bus barrels down the highway, toward the airport hotel where we’re staying, I manage to squeeze in a talk with Kase, our backup goalie, and two other rookies who played decent tonight but not great.
The rookies are the first to scurry off the bus when we pull up at the hotel.
Welcome to my life—Captain of the Blades, babysitter to the newbies, and all-around asshole when anyone gets in my way of what I crave most: the Stanley Cup.
As I step down onto the cement, the gravel crackling under the soles of my leather shoes, I can’t shake the fact that Holly never got on the bus with Carmen. Either she had plans afterward and took a cab or she simply wanted to avoid me after I gave her my peace offering on the plane.
I don’t let either option bother me.
Captain.
Babysitter.
Hard-ass.
Nowhere on that list is “husband.”
What she does in her spare time is not my business, and I’d be smart to do as I preach.
Eyes on the Cup.
Heart in the game.
But I’d be lying to myself if I said that I don’t search for her in the hotel lobby when I make my way inside. Or that, when I come up empty, disappointment sinks into my bones.
Lucky for me, it’s not the first time I’ve lied to myself—and after a year, I’ve gotten real good at smothering the truths deep down in the shadows of my soul.
Truth: letting Holly walk away is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Truth: I may have brought up divorce first but only because Holly had lost her spark, her luster, and I wasn’t enough anymore to rekindle her fire.
Lie: I’ve moved on.
10
Holly
It’s close to midnight by the time I make it back to the hotel with Carmen. After spending the last two hours at the bar with the Blades, pulling them to the side individually to get in our first round of personal interviews, I’m ready to hit the sack.
My feet hurt from standing.
My back aches from it being the dreaded time of the month again. Considering that I haven’t had sex since Jackson, I wish I could at least flip an OFF switch on the period bit. Since my body has never reacted well to birth control, my only savior is Midol and even that doesn’t do the trick most of the time.
Cramps ‘R Us, you’re the real devil incarnate.
All I want is a bed, some pillows to smash my face against, and a shower—not exactly in that order.
“How do you think we did without Adam tonight?” Carmen asks as we lug our equipment through the rotating front doors. “I know you usually don’t hop on sound.”
She’s right.
As Carter Photography has grown over the years, I’ve expanded my knowledge to more than photography. I can work a camera just as well as any other videographer and know how to edit footage and get the best shots. Sound, however, has never been a passion of mine. In comes Adam, our resident sound mixer.
“We did fine.” Shouldering my heavy backpack, I rearrange my grip on the equipment that wouldn’t fit in our bags—my tripod and light reflector—and duck my head as we enter the hotel’s lobby. “Plus, Adam would have been with us if he could.”
“You mean it’s not every day his wife gives birth to their first child?”
I grin at Carmen’s teasing. “Just think, maybe if Sports 24/7 had approached us months ago like they did for the rest of the team, we could have told Adam to strap up one last time to keep the little guys from zipping to ground zero.”
Carmen doesn’t even bat an eye. “We’re talking about his sperm now, aren’t we?”
With the heavy weight on my back, I can’t even roll my shoulders in a shrug. “More like we’re talking about him deciding the wrong time to have sex. He should have waited for a full moon or the sign of a new zodiac or—”
“Waiting on an astrological sign to decide when to forego the condom? I know why I’m childless, but now it all makes sense for you.”
Jackson and I were always way too busy with our careers to even think about adding a baby into the mix. Still, I only laugh off Carmen’s comment, knowing that her teasing doesn’t come from a place of ill-will, as we wait for the elevator to ding! and open up its glossy, reflective doors.
Turning my back on the elevator, I skim my gaze over the lobby. For a cheapo airport hotel, this one isn’t too shabby. During my marriage, I stayed in countless throughout the country while I tagged along for game after game. It’s my first time visiting this one.
A beautiful fountain bubbles to life to my right, positioned beneath a skylight some four stories above. Stone benches sit around it, as though encouraging visitors to take a seat and bask in the tranquil sounds of the fountain. Beyond it, a floor-to-ceiling window awaits, overlooking a gorgeous pool that I noted when we first arrived. Now, in the darkness, fairy lights twinkle outside the window, and I can almost imagine late-night swimmers paddling about in the pool.
Off to my left is a restaurant, and beside it, a bar.
My grip tightens on the tripod as I note the single figure seated at the far end. With his back to me, there’s nothing particularly identifiable about him. Solid black T-shirt, backward ball-cap—solid black, too—gray sweatpants that could just as easily be from Walmart as they could be a designer brand.
I see nothing of his profile from where I stand.
And yet I know instinctively that it’s him—Jackson—and I must be crazy because the only thought cros
sing my mind as I stare at him is, He looks so lonely sitting there by himself.
“Holly?”
My shoulders flinch at Carmen’s inquiring tone. “Go up without me,” I hear myself say, even though internally I’m shouting, Stop what you’re doing! Nuh-uh, don’t do it, don’t you do it. I do it. “I need to . . .”—think!—“change my tampon.”
Oh. Good. Lord.
“You can’t wait until you get to your room?”
The elevator alerts its arrival with a ding! that sounds altogether more damning than me admitting, out loud, that seeing Jackson by himself at the bar twists at my insides in a way that I wish I could ignore.
“It’s real heavy this month.”
“At least you know you can’t be pregnant.”
I whip my head around to look at Carmen. “How would I be pregnant? I haven’t had sex since Jackson—”
“Let me rephrase,” she murmurs, a sly smile curving her lips, “at least you know that when you walk over to that bar and sit down next to that man you’re eyeing, you can’t have sex. We both know how you feel about getting it on when you’re on your period.”
I want to die of mortification, both because Carmen caught me staring at Jackson—though I guess I should feel thankful that she didn’t recognize him—and since she’s well-aware of the fact that when my period has taken up residency, my vagina gets a DO NOT DISTURB sign in the interim.
What can I say?
If I don’t want to be down there during this time of the month, I don’t want anyone else to be down there either.
When the elevator doors begin to slip shut, Carmen shoves an arm out to stop them. She walks backward into the brightly lit space, never taking her eyes off my face. “Do what you gotta do, girl,” she tells me after reaching forward to hit the floor button she needs. “No judgment here.”
“It’s nothing.”
The last thing I hear before the elevator doors close is, “Tell Jackson I say hi!”
11
Holly
Tell Jackson I say hi.
Dammit. I hate that Carmen knows me way too well. And that smug tone in her voice? Oh yeah, she knows exactly where my brain went when I spotted Jackson.
My shoulders slump, both from the weight of the bag strapped to my back, as well as with the internal battle I war with myself. I should go up to my room. Shower. Take out my contacts. Jump in bed in preparation for the 5 a.m. wake-up call we’ve all been handed in order to make our flight back to Boston.
My body will thank me for the sleep.
My damn cramps will weep with relief as soon as I retrieve my heating pad from my suitcase and put it to good use.
My feet, however, have different plans, and I find myself heading straight for Jackson. I try not to dwell on the fact that I could be heading into awkward territory—when was the last time either of us sought each other out for more than just a quick, business-worthy conversation?
Ages ago.
It honestly feels as though a time never existed where I could leap into his embrace and freely wrap my arms around his solid mass, my palms rubbing the hard muscles of his back.
Nerves collect in my belly like hundreds of butterflies set in a jar with the lid sealed tight. I feel their silky wings whispering against my skin, somehow ending up in my chest, pushing at my throat until I’m right there, standing just behind him, trying to think of something witty to say.
“Want some company?”
There’s no mirror along the bar, and he’s at a complete disadvantage.
I can see him, but he has nothing to go on besides my voice—and in that quiet place where my weaknesses live, I wonder if we’ve been strangers for so long that he doesn’t immediately recognize the sound of my voice anymore.
His ball-cap-covered head lifts and his shoulders visibly stiffen, and I worry that I’ve made a critical error in judgement. Crap, crap, crap. I silently order my feet to move, to hustle me back to the elevator where I can pretend that none of this happened. They’re rooted to the carpet where I stand.
Jackson swivels on the barstool, his shoe hooking on the neighboring stool’s foot rung. His elbows land on the bar behind him, and his biceps curl and flex under the thin fabric of his T-shirt—the thin fabric which has lifted far enough to give me a glimpse of his skin and the beginnings of a happy trail.
When I jerk my gaze up, my cheeks flushed, there’s nothing in his expression to indicate that he feels the same chaotic pull that exists within me. And when he speaks in that gravel-pitch drawl of his, he’s as smooth and as unaffected as I’ve ever heard him.
“You lost, Holls?” His dark eyes flit to the elevator behind me. “Or are you needin’ some help with all your gear?”
I want to take that stool next to yours. I don’t want you to look so alone.
Sometimes talking doesn’t cut it and so I say nothing at all.
Instead, I set the tripod and light reflector down on the floor and suck back a pained moan when I slip the backpack from my shoulders and lower it next to the tripod. Unzipping the front pocket, I pull out my wallet and keep my gaze on the bar as I lift myself onto the stool.
“What’re you drinking?” I ask my ex-husband as I flag down the bartender. “Beam and Coke?”
It’s his usual—the same thing he’s been ordering since we met so many years ago.
“Just Coke tonight.”
Or was his usual.
I stave off a wave of disappointment that even his love for Beam and Coke has changed.
As Jackson turns on his stool, and as his knee grazes the outside of my left thigh, I smile brilliantly at the bartender when he stops to ask what I’m having. If Jackson had been drinking whiskey, I would have matched him with a cocktail to settle my nerves. As it is, I reach for a black beverage napkin and murmur, “Do you have any hot tea on hand? Green or jasmine? I’m not picky.”
The bartender slides me a small, flirty smile. “Can I see your ID, miss? Just gotta check to see that you’re of legal age.” He leans in, his blue eyes locked on my face and that flirtatious grin still playing at his lips. “Don’t need you stumbling your way back to your room after living so dangerously with your drink of choice.”
Living so dangerously.
He couldn’t be more accurate, especially given the way that Jackson straightens his back. With a growl that widens my gaze, he snaps, “She’s knocking on social security’s door, she’s so old. Get her the damn tea before she expires and we’re debatin’ between a coffin or cremation.”
The bartender glances from me to Jackson, and mutters, “Asshole,” before beating it down the length of the bar.
I don’t know whether to laugh or reprimand the man simmering beside me. “That was rude,” I finally settle on, figuring it’s the easy way out of a potentially awkward conversation.
Jackson wraps a hand around his glass, then tosses back half the soda like it’s straight whiskey instead. “He was staring at your tits.”
So much for avoiding the awkwardness.
I fold the napkin in half, then fold it again. “He was flirting.”
“I’m aware.”
I glance over at him, keenly cognizant of his surly tone. With his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled low to shield the upper part of his face, all I see is a clenched jaw and a set of full, pursed lips.
The bartender reappears, kettle in hand and tea cup sliding across the oak bar. “Your tea, miss. Do you want to pay now or open a tab—”
“Put it on mine.”
“Jackson—” I cut off because there’s no point in arguing. The bartender is already spinning in the opposite direction, away from us, and anything I’d say would be heard on deaf ears.
When Jackson wants to be an asshole, he’s top of the line.
I swear it’s the reason the Bruins were so hesitant about trading him to the Blades—it’s not every day that you come across a player like the man seated beside me who’s both admired and feared in the very same breath.
&n
bsp; Cupping the teacup with both hands, I breathe out a sigh of relief at the warmth radiating from the porcelain. Not as good as a heating pad directly on my stomach, but it’ll do for now. After a sip, I lower the cup. “Your team won and you’re sitting here brooding. Pretty sure Harrison didn’t stop bitching about you not being at the bar to one-up him in darts for almost an hour.”
Jackson shifts on the stool, his legs spreading wide.
His knee touching mine.
I suck in another mouthful of tea to distract myself with a safer, more reliable sort of heat that has nothing to do with ex-husbands.
“Harrison would be bitching even more if I were there to take him out in darts,” he murmurs, turning so that we’re no longer quite shoulder-to-shoulder. He props one forearm on the bar, while his free hand, still holding onto his half-full glass, rests on his right knee. “Did you get the footage you needed?”
“I did.” Grimacing, I shrug. “Well, mostly. I’ll need to meet with the rookies to kick off their storylines but since they weren’t—”
“I held them hostage.”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s tradition.” Casually, he brings his glass up to his mouth, then watches me over the rim. “No rookie goes out after the first game of preseason.”
Tradition?
Swiping my finger along the warm porcelain, I center my gaze on the cubes of ice floating in his soda. Much easier than looking him in the eye. “Can it really be considered a tradition when you’ve only just started it?”
He freezes mid-sip. Drops the soda back to his knee. I still see nothing of his eyes, thanks to the brim of his hat, but there’s no missing how his lips part, then press back together like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Then, “We’ve been doin’ it this way for three years now, Holls.”
Three years.
My stomach lurches at the implication riding his tone—three years was before our divorce, before our separation, which means he’s probably told me this before and I . . .