Because It's You (Carolina Rebels Book 2)

by Lindsay Paige

  “Why?”

  “My therapist thinks it would be a good idea.”

  Ha, I bet he convinced her it would be a good idea. He can be a manipulator and I don’t think his therapist can keep from falling for his ‘I’m healed from being a mean bastard with an addiction’ act.

  “Why?”

  “She wants me to improve my relationship with you. Kind of hard to do that when you ignore my calls ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “I’ll start answering your calls. Problem solved, and you don’t have to move all this way. Call a cab and get back to the airport. It’s late and considering I’m playing as shitty as I’m sure you’d like to tell me, sleep would be good for me, especially since I have to get my truck back at some point.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not going to answer my calls.”

  “Can you blame me?” I interrupt. “Look at all I’ve done for you after what you did to me! You still haven’t apologized to me, Dad, because you don’t think you should! Why the fuck would I want to deal with you more than I have to?”

  My father steps forward until we’re nose to nose. “Don’t you talk to me that way.”

  I step closer to him, my chest brushing against his. “Get the fuck out of my face, old man, or you’ll learn what it’s like to be knocked flat on your ass with one punch.”

  He takes a step back and starts laughing. “You’re going to be just like me, you know. There’s a reason for the phrase like father, like son. You may think you’re better than me, but you’re not. One of these days, you’ll find out when that pretty little blonde does something or says something and the next thing you know, you’ve clocked—”

  I grab him by the collar and throw him against the door with my forearm pressing into his neck. “The only person who brings out the inner bastard who is like you is you. So if anyone’s going to get clocked, it’s going to be you. Stay the hell away from me. Don’t show up to my house unannounced and uninvited again. Call all you want and if I want to speak to you, I will. Otherwise, you can fucking cry a river and deal with being ignored. I like my life just fine without you in it.

  “If you have issues with our relationship, that’s your problem. You created those issues, not me. I don’t have to help you solve them if I don’t want to, and I don’t want to because you can spew whatever shit you want, but I don’t believe you’ve changed one fucking bit. You still wish you could beat me. You still call me to berate me for whatever the hell you feel like berating me for that day. You still let your bastard side slip whenever I’ve pissed you off. You still accept my money instead of getting your fucking own. You. Haven’t. Changed.

  “Here’s the new plan,” I say, feeling so powerful right now. “You can call me once a week, and I’ll answer or I won’t. You don’t call my agent or anyone else to get up with me. You don’t show up or come here unless asked. You call me more than once a week or show up again and I’m cutting you off. No more money. No more support from me.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he breathes.

  “Try me.” I let go, enjoying that he gasps for breath. I pull out my phone and call him a cab myself.

  “After all I’ve done for you,” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “I don’t owe you a thanks for my success.” He pushed me to play and pushed me ridiculously hard to be successful, but if I didn’t love the game and want to make it professionally, I doubt I would’ve made it this far. Not to mention, all the other shit he’s done to me kind of counteracts what he’s done “for” me when it comes to hockey. “You can wait at the end of the driveway.” I give him a little push toward the steps and he glares, that crazy gaze back in his eyes. I refuse to acknowledge the shiver and ice that crawls up my spine.

  Thankfully, he goes without a fuss, but that raises alarm bells in my head. I can threaten my father all I want, yet I doubt I’ll ever be free of him. I sit on the steps and wait for the cab to pick him up. He doesn’t look back, wave, or shout a goodbye. He simply leaves. I take a deep breath. Exhaustion coats my body, and I wish I could go inside and fall into bed. First, I have to collect myself. Then, I need to find out if Elizabeth got home safely.

  Please god let her have gotten home safe and sound. I can’t handle any other outcome.

  WHEN I LEFT Marc’s, driving felt kind of weird and I didn’t feel like doing it, so I pulled over and waited for him to call me. My phone blaring startles me awake.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  “You make it home okay?” He sounds super stressed and worn out.

  “I’m parked at the end of your street. Is it safe to come back?”

  “I’ll come get you.” He hangs up before I can object and a few minutes later, he’s jogging up to the driver’s side door. I slide over while he takes the keys from me and cranks up the truck to drive us home. “Aren’t you freezing?”

  “I fell asleep, so guess not.” I wouldn’t have been able to doze off if I was too cold.

  We don’t speak for a little bit. Marc goes straight to his bedroom once we’re inside his house, undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt along the way. I wasn’t prepared to spend the night, so I have no clothes to wear. I sit on the edge of his bed to wait. His movements are jerky as he sheds his clothes and yanks on pajama pants and a long sleeved T-shirt. He disappears into his bathroom. A couple of minutes later, he reappears and stops short when he sees me.

  That’s when he finds me something similar to wear. Marc being quiet like this is starting to make me nervous. What happened while he was with his father? Where is his father? Is he here for a while to visit or only a few days or has he already left? Is Marc going to talk to me about it or keep it to himself?

  I come out of the bathroom and crawl into bed next to him. He immediately pulls me tight against him, throwing his arms around me and a leg over both of mine to tuck me in closer.

  “Marco,” he whispers.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and press my forehead to his chest. “Polo.”

  He squeezes me once. He takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you didn’t go home.”

  “Couldn’t make it that far. Something felt off and honestly, I didn’t feel like it, so I pulled over to wait for you.”

  “I’m glad you did that, too. I was worried because it might not have been a shit ton of alcohol, but you’re a lightweight and had a decent buzz at the very least. I’m sorry I made you leave.”

  “It’s fine. I know why you did.” Marc said before that he wouldn’t want me near his dad, so it really isn’t that shocking that he sent me packing when he was caught by surprise with a visit from him. “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  I don’t press him. Mostly because it seems like he’s still processing things. Marc kisses the top of my head, his lips moving, but once again, nothing is said. Too curious for my own good, I let the question out.

  “What are you doing?” I lift my head to look at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep moving your lips, like you’re saying something, but you never actually say anything.”

  “Nothing,” he answers. I stare at him and wait because it’s not ‘nothing’. Marc closes the short distance between us and kisses me quickly just once. “Not tonight, Elizabeth,” he whispers. “Ask me when things are better.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “Let’s sleep.”

  I’m a breath away from telling him I love him. But telling him just to distract him, to make him happy again, and to take his mind off his troubles doesn’t seem quite right, even if it’s to also let him know that someone loves him for exactly who he is. Now is not the time. But what I can do is grab his face and kiss him senseless. My hands can roam over his chest and down to the space between our hips to resume what I started in the truck.

  That seems to be exactly what Marc needs because he rolls me onto my back, his hands moving over my body with such urgency that it feels like he has more than two hands. Add his mouth to the equation and I’m overwhelmed in the b
est way possible.

  “You,” Marc yanks my shirt off and pulls one of my breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue around my nipple. “Are perfect,” he moves to the other one. “For me.” He starts traveling lower. “So fucking happy to have you.”

  He could stop right there and I’d be happy.

  Of course, I’m still really happy when he continues to show me just how happy he is to have me.

  Marc never did tell me what happened with his dad, but he seems lighter, if that’s possible. Maybe there was some resolution. He must have left the state, too, because Marc hasn’t mentioned seeing him and he has been at my house when he can. He’s in St. Louis tonight for a game. I’m relieved and wishing he was here all at the same time. It’s Thursday. The anniversary of Roger’s death is Saturday. Marc has a home game Friday and an away game Sunday.

  The last thing he needs is a meltdown from me in between games. Granted, I’m hoping I don’t have a meltdown like usual, but I can’t promise there won’t be one. I’ve been trying to figure out how to handle it. Should I keep Marc in the dark? Avoid him to deal with whatever may happen on my own? Tell him to warn him, just in case? What do I do? I’m already on edge because I can’t figure it out.

  Marc: Date Saturday finally? I know I owe you one.

  Me: Shouldn’t you be focused on the game?

  Marc: Are you avoiding answering my question? Are we back to that? I have been missing uptight Elizabeth a little bit.

  Me: I read your mind and threw some of that your way because I knew you missed it. I’ll answer your question when I’m good and ready. Go focus on your game.

  See? He already knows something is up and I wasn’t even that bitchy to him. Maybe what I need to do is lie. Tell him it’s an all-girls weekend with Stella and Stephanie. Or maybe he’ll forget about the date. Maybe he’ll be too busy with work. It feels wrong to plan to be without Marc. I’ll play it by ear. That sounds like the better plan.

  I don’t watch or listen to the game because it’s just too much right now. However, I do get an update that they lose two to one. This is their fourth loss in a row. I doubt it’s any consolation that it wasn’t a huge loss. A loss is a loss, and when they’re stacked up, that one detail is probably the only one that matters.

  Marc calls me, but I don’t answer. I’ll say I was already asleep.

  Sylvia calls me the next day, but I don’t answer her either. My excuse will be that I was running errands and forgot to return the call.

  Marc texts me, but I don’t respond. My excuse will be the same as with Sylvia’s. He’s wanting to know how my day is. Such a simple question, but the answer is anything but. I’d rather not answer than lie to him. Or tell him the truth when it’s only hours before a game. I don’t even know the truth.

  This is starting to feel like old times. Hiding away in my house while thinking too much. I crawl into bed early, the sheets cold and the space lonely. I should text Marc and tell him to come over, but...but I can’t seem to get myself to do that. Instead of banging my head against the wall with frustration, I go to sleep.

  The first thing I notice when I wake up is that I don’t feel the dread I normally feel. That could be a good sign, right? With a deep breath, I get dressed and drive to the cemetery. I no longer feel the need to spend all day there, so that’s an improvement, too. I’ll definitely see Marc later and talk to him. Things are feeling pretty good until I take my usual seat next to the hard, cold stone. Things are much more complicated than usual.

  Normally, I’m hopelessly sad and missing him. This time, however, I remember more what our last year was like and there’s anger mixed in. There’s more negative emotions than the good ones, as I usually am only thinking of our best times. It’s like for the first time in six years, there’s a heavy dose of reality surrounding me when it comes to Roger and I’ll be damned if I know what to do with it.

  I loved him, I really did, but we had problems. Most couples have a few. It seemed like with us, we didn’t just have issues scattered here and there throughout our relationship. No, those problems were like freaking fireballs hailing down. They were big enough to take us out, and they came in multiples. God, I was on the verge of leaving him when he died. Things were that bad. There are all sorts of things I conveniently decided not to think about after he died.

  An unexpected sob racks my chest. I almost wish I had my façade of a memory instead of this crap. This is Marc’s fault. He had to come in and make life better, which shone a light on the ugly past. I reach into my coat pocket for my phone to text him.

  Me: Marco.

  The weight of the rest of what he doesn’t know is a huge, heavy burden on my chest and I need to get it off. I need to tell someone what no one else knows. Not even Scott and Sylvia. Someone needs to know the full story and I need it to be Marc.

  Me: Marco.

  Me: Marco.

  Me: Marco.

  God, why isn’t he answering? I don’t think they had practice today, but then, I wouldn’t know because I ignored him yesterday. As an afterthought, I text him the address and hope he’ll show up before I burst. Am I really going to tell Marc everything?

  Why isn’t there a way to unsend a text message?

  For what feels like forever, I wish Marc was here and wish I never texted him.

  “Polo.”

  I look up to see Marc a few rows over. I scramble to my feet and rush over. The cemetery is big, but not so big that he couldn’t easily spot me. He catches me, holding me tight.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay.” He sets me down on my feet, but doesn’t let me go. I enjoy the feel of his arms around me for a few minutes before leading him over to Roger’s stone where we take a seat. Marc is behind me, cradling me between his arms and legs with my back resting against his chest.

  The stone is simple with only his name and the dates. Roger’s parents left this decision to me and I didn’t want to add anything else. They would probably like something more, something like son and brother and such, but I couldn’t seem to make the decisions to add those things.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, but I don’t know where to start and I’m scared about what you’ll think.”

  He finds my hands and laces his fingers with mine. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Backstory first, or blurt out the major part?”

  “Whichever you want.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed, take a deep breath, and quietly say, “Stephanie and Stella are actually my kids; Scott and Sylvia adopted them.” My body is as solid as a rock while I brace myself for whatever reaction Marc will have for the bomb I just dropped on him.

  He’s quiet for a few seconds and then, “No wonder Stella didn’t like me. She got that shit from you.”

  A laugh pops from my mouth before I can help myself. “Marc.” His name comes out as a bit of a whine.

  He kisses my neck quickly. “What? You needed to laugh, so I made you. Tell me what happened so I can wrap my mind around it.”

  I take a few moments to enjoy how light this feels because it won’t last long.

  “Roger never wanted kids. That was the one thing we consistently and majorly disagreed on because I did want them. I still do,” I softly add. “But Roger didn’t want to be a father. He didn’t want to raise kids, teach them the game he loved, or teach them how to be a good person. He was totally against it, so much so that he always wanted a vasectomy, but I always talked him out of it. Or, asked him to wait to get one.

  “When I told him I was pregnant, he was in disbelief because we were extremely careful. Way more than any other married couple, especially at our age. It took him less than five minutes to suggest that we let his brother and his wife adopt our kid. No matter what I did or said, Roger wasn’t having it. He didn’t want the baby.

  “But I did. That started a lot of tension with us. We were already fighting some, but it got worse. He had no reason except that he simply didn’t want to be a father, which was
supposed to be good enough, and it would’ve been if I didn’t want to be a mom. Roger spent all his time trying to convince me to give our baby to Scott and Sylvia while I tried to convince him that he should want it as much as I did. When I learned I was having twins, that’s when the shit hit the fan. Roger was even more adamant. He couldn’t fathom one kid, much less two, and he felt like that was even more reason to let his brother adopt them.”

  Marc squeezes my hands. “Wait. Why did he think that Scott and Sylvia would so easily adopt the babies?”

  Right. “They’d been trying to have kids for years without success. That made it a perfect reason in Roger’s eyes to hand over our babies because they were desperate to have kids, couldn’t have them, and we weren’t desperate like them. The idea sounded nice. Giving a gift like that to people as good as Scott and Sylvia...” My voice trails off.

  “But?” Marc pushes quietly.

  “I didn’t want to do it and it pissed Roger off. For me, something good was happening to us, but for him, I was ruining everything while robbing his brother of something he wanted more than anything. The arguing and the fighting got so bad that I almost left him. I went to that game hoping we could talk things out once and for all, but if he couldn’t accept that I was keeping the girls, then I was going to leave him. We got into an argument that morning and I told him that. I think that’s one reason why he was so agitated during the game. He never was, but that day, he was in everyone’s faces, starting fights, and not being himself. I was hoping that was a weird sign that we were going to work things out, but....”

  “He died,” Marc fills in and I nod.

  My voice drops even lower as I remember with such crystal clarity what I was like afterward. “It ruined me. I felt guilty for thinking about leaving him. It seemed crazy that we were arguing like we were. And I missed him so much. I already had a solid seven months worth of missing who he normally was with me and then he died and I didn’t even get the Roger who argued with me all the time. I didn’t leave the house. I couldn’t get out of bed. Sylvia had to make sure I was eating and taking care of myself by basically coming over and helping me.