I glance over at Oliver’s laugh. It’s magnetic to me somehow. How his face becomes the sound. I can’t look away. He’s crouched beside one of the children and looks genuinely happy to be there. The little boy is enamored, that much is clear. Maybe I would be too if that laugh and bright stare were directed at me.
“Yep!” the little boy says, holding up his hand. “Jim.” He ticks off one finger. “Steve. And Winston.”
“Oh man. Do you feed them and help take care of them?”
The boy nods his bald head vigorously. “Mommy says I can be a vetry-narian when I grow up.”
“Oh yeah? For sure you can,” Oliver says. He plucks a jersey from the stack on his shoulder and checks the name. “Richards?” he asks, verifying the boy’s last name. The child nods, and Oliver stretches the jersey out in front of his little body. “What do you think? You want to be an honorary Trojan?”
“Yes, please!” the boy says, bouncing on his toes.
Oliver grins and helps fit the jersey over his head. Cameras assault the sweet exchange from all angles, but Oliver doesn’t seem to notice. He certainly doesn’t let it affect his interaction with the Richards boy. They’re an oasis, a brush of authenticity and peace in this fabricated scene. Oliver made it real. Deep longing wells within me to join their island, but I’d only break it. My own interactions with the kids made great photos but little else. Right now, I’m standing awkwardly next to a seven-year-old girl in a wheelchair, waiting for my turn with the hamster kid since my smile session with her is complete. Three down, two to go was my thought a second ago. It seems callous now, and I swallow a twinge of regret. I turn back to the girl to try again, but her gaze is glued to Oliver as well. Guess I can’t blame her.
Oliver adjusts to stand, and a flicker of pain skims over his face. Crap, his knee. His smile falters as he reaches beside him to brace his fists on the carpet beneath us. Without thinking, I step over and grip his arm to help him up. His gaze snaps to mine in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he forces a brief smile and mumbles a thanks. I don’t believe this one as much as the others. His bicep tightens in my hands when I tug, and my entire grip isn’t enough to connect around his thick upper arm. The scene must look ridiculous from the outside. Me, a tiny pop princess, trying to support the weight of a hockey gladiator twice my size. I don’t know how much I helped when he finally gets to his feet, but I catch the hiss of air he inhales. Instinctively, I glance at his knee as if I’ll see bone fragments jutting through his jeans.
With a weak smile, he thanks me again and moves toward the next child. He has a slight limp now, and his fist flexes at his side sending ripples of tense muscle up and down his arm. This time when he reaches the girl, he bends at the waist and rests his palms on his thighs to get as close to eyelevel as possible. But his smile for her? Still sincere.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, twisting off the cap of a water bottle back in the conference room.
The event has wrapped, and for some reason I feel exhausted. More than usual, anyway, and I’m not sure if it’s the weight of my sour mood from this morning or something more problematic—like my fascination with a certain hockey player. My brain is heavy with details of his every movement and interaction today. Somehow it’s become a sponge that soaked up each smile and frown and laugh and flex and expression… yes, “fascinated” is a good word. Obsessed is too dangerous. I try to convince myself I’m just curious about his foreign approach to the spotlight, but the small ember of panic that’s burning low in my gut suggests otherwise. Once we finish our snacks, my connection with Oliver Levesque will end. Forever. I will be that time he met Genevieve Fox. For some reason the thought of being reduced to a timestamp for him hurts more than the others.
“I’m fine,” he says with a quick smile. His gaze flickers over mine, almost shy, before he focuses back on the sports drink in his own hands. “Thank you for your help on the ice. I’m still not used to…” His voice fades out, and a muscle moves in his jaw.
Weakness.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” I take a swallow of water to lighten my question. Just making conversation. Small talk. I’m an expert at that. But when he lowers those brown eyes on me, there’s nothing small in his response. In fact, there’s nothing small about him period.
“Not really. Only sometimes after PT and training, but I’m working through it.”
I know. I want to say. I saw. It’s why I can’t seem to leave you alone.
Instead, “how long since your injury?” Even though I know the answer to that too. Everyone does.
“About eleven weeks. Seven since surgery.” He looks away again, and I fight the urge to ask more questions about it. That must be all he gets anymore, all he is. How he’s defined, assessed, and valued. He’s become his injury. No wonder he’s pushing so hard to overcome it. He’s nothing but an ACL tear now.
“How’s your family?” I ask. I read somewhere they’re close, even though he lives across the continent now.
I thank whatever article dropped that hint when his expression noticeably lifts.
“They’re doing well. I’m hoping to visit them in a few weeks. Once we’re further into my rehab.”
“They’re still in Quebec?”
He nods, training that heart-stopping smile on me. And stop me it does. I pull in a quick inhale at the effect. Don’t say goodbye. Don’t leave, my mind is pleading. I’ve known him for an hour and his light has become a craving.
“Northern Quebec. A little town you’ve never heard of. But my sister turns eighteen next month. I’d like to see her.”
“You have a sister?”
He laughs. “Four actually.”
“Four?” I gasp out.
“And two brothers.”
“Oh my gosh! There are seven of you? Your poor mother.”
He laughs again and nods. “I know. She is a saint. Our house only has four bedrooms so it was a zoo. Fun, though.” A wistful look drifts over his face before he glances away.
“You miss them?”
He nods. “Don’t get me wrong, I like L.A. and my teammates, but…” He shakes off the rest of the thought. “Anyway, what about you?”
“I definitely don’t have six siblings,” I say with a smile.
“Any?”
I shake my head. “Just me. And my parents.” I blink away the rest of my thought as well. I’m sure my face doesn’t light up like his when I talk about family. What expression goes with “cordial?” That’s what he’d get. My parents are polite and in favor of their daughter being an international superstar to make them important. He’s an ACL tear, and I’m a marionette. Except, his wound will heal. Mine has festered since birth.
Panic returns at the stall in the conversation. The social clock ticks. He studies the bottle in his hands. I stare at my feet.
Don’t say goodbye.
“Oliver…” I stop speaking, my stomach twisting. “Um.” Don’t go.
I swallow a lump when he trains those warm brown eyes on me. People always say yes to me. Always. I hate it, and yet, suddenly I can’t stomach the prospect of any other answer from him.
“Are you doing anything this afternoon?” I hold my breath as the question tumbles out, cringing inwardly at the surprised look on his face. Surprise—and something else. It’s the something else that heightens the panic into dread.
“I don’t have plans, but…”
But. Of course there’s a but. I force a smile and even manage a small laugh. “Right, sorry. That came out of nowhere.” I wave my hand. “Okay, well, it was so great meeting you. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”
I turn away before he can see anything besides the nonchalance meant for him. The darkness is for me when I’m alone later. The emptiness.
No one smiles, lies, or hides like her.
“Genevieve, wait.”
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath to steady myself before facing him again. When I do, his expression is sincere, his gaze unfiltered and open.
“It’s just. I’ve been seeing someone. It’s not serious, but—”
“Of course! Really, no worries at all.” I smile again. So much smiling. Man, my cheeks hurt today. More than usual. These smiles are so hard.
He shakes his head, frustrated. “No, I mean. It’s not serious, but I owe her a conversation before I see someone else.”
My heart races. My stomach flutters.
His gaze searches mine. “I’ll talk to her tonight. Ask me again tomorrow?”
“Genevieve!”
I glance around nervously, fiddling with the trucker hat attempting to cover my distinctive red hair. The oversized sunglasses probably aren’t helping much either, but it’s something. Both are wasted efforts anyway when my mother’s involved. Leave it to Corinne Fox to blow any chance of a cover. Whereas I go out of my way to hide as much as possible, she loves the prestige of being a pseudo-celebrity. How many parents take on their child’s stage name? Corinne Hastings might be the first. My father stuck with Hastings, although Baxter, Ramos, and Fox kinda has a better ring to it. The law partners probably didn’t want to waste money on new signage just because Evan’s daughter was famous.
“Mom,” I hiss, sliding into a chair across from them. “Everyone’s looking.”
“So what? Let them look. You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie.” She fluffs her hair and tosses a discreet scan around the café, probably scoping it out to see if anyone important might be watching.
Meanwhile, my stomach pinches at her comment. I have nothing to be ashamed of? What does that mean? I stare at the menu, searching for an item that will draw the least input from my mother.
“You looked great out there on the ice today, Gen.”
“Thanks, Dad. It was fun.”
“Yes, most of the photos I saw were outstanding,” Mom says. “Definitely a good call on Selena’s part to do a lowkey event with children after last week’s disaster in Burlington. Although, remember to adjust your jeans while wearing a crop top, sweetie. Your stomach was looking a little flabby in a few of the photos, and I know you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
I swallow my retort. There’s no point arguing. Besides, she’s only voicing what everyone else thinks anyway. I’ve seen the comments. It’s my secret indulgence: scrolling through the cesspool when I fall into a particularly dark haze. The pain feeds on itself, craves more evidence to reinforce its vile truths. It feels good to let it thrive and seep into my pores. To feel something. My therapist calls it a downward spiral. Lately, I’ve been calling it my lunchbreak.
“Oh, honey, don’t look so glum. You know I think you’re beautiful. I’m not saying you need to change anything. I just want people to see the real you. And after the Burlington incident—”
“Corinne,” my father interrupts with a subtle shake of his head.
Mom sips her water and shifts in her chair. “Well, anyway. What’s done is done.” She flags a server. “Pinot grigio, Genny? You deserve a treat.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter. “And don’t call me that.”
“Really, Genevieve. Your attitude.” Her brows sink in disapproval as the server approaches. She puts in an order for the table without even asking us what we want. A cucumber plate without the aioli, BLT avocado toast without the toast. Also, can we get it with extra tomato and no bacon jam? A few other things, none of which sound appetizing right now. I rarely feel like eating when they’re around.
“Those children were just darling, weren’t they?” she continues. “Selena said they’ll be covering the event on all the hockey outlets too. Great exposure. A whole new audience for you, Genevieve. Although, it would have been better without that hockey player in the way.”
I glare over at her, patience running thin. “That ‘hockey player’? It was his turf. If anything, I was in his way.”
She waves her hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. The least they could’ve done was pair you with a bigger name. What about that Lyle Sorenson?”
“Kyle Sorenson. And he retired two years ago.”
She shrugs. “Well, whatever. I’m just saying, who’s ever even heard of Oliver whatever? He’s just a kid himself. A nobody.”
“Uh, he’s my age and he pretty much carried the team to the Stanley Cup finals last year. He was a finalist for the Vezina trophy as a rookie.”
Her eyes widen at my heated response, and I suck in a breath to soothe the burn.
Do not engage. Do not engage.
“Sweetie, no need to get upset. I’m sure he’s a nice boy. I’m just saying it should’ve been someone who could work a camera at least. Really, the way he tripped over himself and couldn’t get back up? Do you have any idea how silly it looked for you to be helping him? You really shouldn’t have done that. He must have people for that.”
I slam my napkin on the table. “That’s enough!”
“Genevieve…”
“No, I’m so sick of this. He didn’t trip, Mother. He had his knee shattered just a few weeks ago and bent down to help that kid anyway because guess what—he actually cares. He wasn’t worried about how it might look or if it would hurt him. What you saw was a person who wasn’t concerned about appearances and didn’t make something about him. Did it ever occur to you that not everything needs to be about me either?”
She presses a fist to her chest, staring at me in horror. My father studies his empty plate like it might absorb his essence if he wishes hard enough. “Come now, I was only concerned for your safety. What if he’d brought you down with him? Can you imagine?”
“Oh save it. It had nothing to do with my safety. It never has anything to do with what’s good for me. It’s about what’s good for you! I’m going to the bathroom.”
I push up from the table and do my best to maintain a calm pace as I move toward the back of the restaurant. My features remain schooled, my gate casual with each trained step. Plenty of heads turn, but no one sees. I won’t let them. They’ll never know my insides are splintering. That beneath this painted façade is a fractured girl who can never break. No one will ever know what silent tears sound like in the safety of a locked bathroom stall.
CHAPTER 2
Fail me not like I fail you
In that place where shadows breed light
Bleed light
Feed light
Need light to burn bright until blinded eyes will look away
And the girl in the spotlight can dissolve back
Into the shadows from where she came
GENEVIEVE
I didn’t have to ask Oliver again. He did, the next day, and now two days after the meet-and-greet, he’s walking up my drive. I watch him approach like a little girl waiting for birthday party guests. Well, how I imagine it would be for most little girls. I rarely knew the guests at my parties.
He’s not limping today, so I’m hoping that means he’s having a good day with his knee. I don’t like the thought of Oliver in pain. Nothing should ever wipe that addictive smile from his face. He’s also better-dressed than I expected, and his button-down shirt and jeans work well for him. Extremely well. In fact, without the team gear he could easily pass for one of the models or actors I’m much more accustomed to seeing on my property.
Something is rolled in his left hand, probably the swimsuit I told him to bring so we could take advantage of this unusually warm December day. His right holds a bottle of wine. I scoot away from the door when he mounts the large stone staircase so it’s not obvious I’ve been hovering. When he rings the intercom, I wait a few seconds to answer for the sake of decorum.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. A cloud lifts around me with his smile. Color filters in.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Did you have any trouble with security? Sorry about that, but it’s a necessary evil.”
“No. They found me on the list and let me through without an issue.”
“Good.”
I like this position. Me, a step above so we
’re almost eyelevel, but I quickly wave him inside.
“Thanks for coming. Maybe it’s strange for a first date, but this is the only way we can have privacy. Any time I’m out, well, you know.”
He nods and follows me through the foyer. His eyes widen with each step, and I swallow the urge to speak. Glitz, glamour, ostentatious displays—this is what I am. Better he know that up front.
“Oh, here,” he says as we approach the kitchen. He hands me the wine bottle, and I also resist the urge to check the label. It doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t want any of the usual crap to matter with him.
I glance over at his sudden chuckle.
“The thing is, I don’t actually drink, but feel free to open it for yourself if you want. I wasn’t sure what else to bring, sorry.”
Surprised, I study him for more clues. “You don’t drink? Ever?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just a personal preference.”
“Religious reasons?”
“Health reasons. And... I’ve watched too many of my teammates mess up their lives from partying over the years. I can’t afford that.”
I place the bottle on the counter. “Yeah, I imagine the stakes are pretty high for you.”
“Extremely.”
He looks away, and I want to know more. Everything. But I’m not sure how to ask. Instead, I clear my throat.
“I’ll order in if you’re hungry. I don’t really cook. Usually, there’s staff here for that, but I sent everyone except security home to give us privacy.”
A smile flickers over his lips.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, the smile growing. “Nothing. It’s just, all we’ve done is apologize to each other since I arrived.”
I think back over our interactions.
Sorry about security.
Sorry this is a weird first date.
Sorry I brought you wine I won’t drink.
Sorry my staff isn’t here to make you food.
My own smile slips out. “Good point.” Also, a dangerous trajectory. “So let’s go swimming.”
Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3) Page 2