“Lemonade, if they have it. Or orange.”
I could probably walk there just as fast, but I make a speedy trip there and back, returning with a jumbo Slurpee.
“That’s so nice of you.” She sips through the straw. “Mmm. So good.”
I make a quick call to cancel our dinner reservation, then ask her, “Anything else I can do?”
“No. I just need to rest until I feel better. I know how it goes. In a while, it’ll settle down, but I’ll have a killer headache and need to sleep.”
“Oh man. Okay, I can do that. Do you feel like eating?”
“Not really. You go ahead, though.”
“I’ll order pizza. I can heat some up for you later, if you feel up to it.”
“Okay.”
Christ, I hate seeing her like this. She’s clearly miserable, and miserable because she’s miserable, frustrated that she can’t control this. I wish I could do more to make her feel better. At least I can be here with her and make sure she’s okay.
“How about a back rub?” I offer.
Her eyes open. “Really?”
“Sure.”
She rolls over. I ease her loose T-shirt up to reveal the curve of her back. No bra. (I already noticed that, to be honest.)
I slide my hand up and down her back, slow and gentle, over and over.
“That’s so nice,” she whispers. “Thank you.”
I keep rubbing for a while, fighting back a stubborn erection. This is not the time to molest her. Then I tug her shirt back down and tuck a soft blanket around her. I hang out, eating pizza, drinking a beer, watching TV. She snoozes on the couch. I keep an eye on her.
Not my typical Friday night. But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
* * *
—
It’s back to the grind, and with the All Star break done, all sights are set on making the playoffs. We have a home game Saturday against Philadelphia, and Sunday I head over to Heather’s to tackle some of the vegetation that’s taking over her yard.
“You don’t have to do this,” Heather protests when I arrive.
“I know. Just thought I could help out.” I find her garden tools in the small shed out back and set about trimming and weeding. She comes out to help, and I know it’s because she feels guilty that I’m doing this. Owen is “helping” too, although he gets in trouble when he pulls up some kind of flower that apparently isn’t a weed.
“Is Everly your girlfriend?” Owen asks me.
I shoot him a startled glance. “Uh…yeah, I guess she is.”
“I saw pictures of you together online,” Heather comments, not looking at me. “You hadn’t even said anything about seeing someone.”
“It’s pretty new,” I admit.
“Moving quickly.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re getting married next week,” I joke.
“Are you serious about her?”
I’m taken aback by the question. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Oh.” She yanks a weed out of the ground. “I see. You haven’t had a girlfriend since you moved here.”
“Nope.”
She says nothing, moving away to pull more weeds. I keep trimming the shrub, tossing branches to the ground. “Hey, Owen. You could pile up these branches for me.”
Heather asks me to stay for dinner, but I’m sweaty and itchy. Something scratched my arms and it’s turning red. “I better head home and shower,” I say, frowning at the scratches.
“You probably have plans with your new girlfriend,” she says with a smile.
“Uh, not tonight. We have a practice in the morning.”
“You played great in that game against Ottawa. I watched it on Saturday night.”
“Thanks. I felt really good that whole trip. Got a little banged up, though.” I ruefully rub my hip, which was turning shades of blue when I got dressed earlier.
“You should have rested today.”
“Actually, it was good to move around. It felt stiff earlier, but it’s loosened up a bit now.” I pull my keys out of my jeans pocket. “Hey, Owen! Come give me a hug!”
He bounces over, gives me a tight squeeze, then disappears. I grin. “Bye, Heather.”
“Let me know when you have a night off you can come for dinner. I’ll roast a chicken—you love that.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Sounds good.”
I drive home, once again with that uncomfortable feeling that Heather is coming to rely on me too much. Maybe “rely” isn’t the right word. She’s always asked me to stay for meals as a thank-you for helping her or taking out Owen, but lately she seems disappointed when I say no. Could be I’m imagining things. We’re just friends.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come over to help clean up the yard.
But I can’t just drop out of their lives. I want to be in their lives. I have to be in their lives.
Chapter 20
Everly
I was so mortified that Wyatt saw me having a panic attack. I didn’t want to answer the door, but I had to.
But he was so understanding. He didn’t freak out about it. He went and got me a Slurpee. He gave me the best back rub. He asked me what else he could do for me. When I tried to tell him how stupid I felt that I had these, he just shrugged and said, “It’s not like you can control it.”
Which is so true. Also something that frustrates me, because yes, I like to control things.
I don’t tell many people I have them. Definitely not co-workers. So many people still look down on any mental illness as a sign of weakness. I know I should be open about it, to break the stigma, but I’m not one to draw attention to myself. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to do that.
But Wyatt knows and he doesn’t seem to think any less of me for it.
Tonight is the Condors’ game against Calgary, and Wyatt and his friend Baz Chadha are doing an interview for CBC for Hockey for All. We’re going out with Baz and his agent for drinks after the game. And it’s Valentine’s Day. Wyatt hasn’t said anything about that, and I’m not going to. It’s kind of a silly, made-up holiday.
I watch the game from Dad’s box on the press level. I don’t go to many games, but I’ve been watching them on TV—okay, I’ve been watching Wyatt on TV—so I figured not only would I get to see the game live, and then meet up with Wyatt and Baz after, I’d get to spend time with Dad.
I arrive while the warm-up is going on. Dad’s already there, along with Théo and Scott. I meet Théo’s eyes as I greet them, both of us remembering the troubling discussion the other night. Dad looks sharp in his suit and tie. I guess I’ll see how sharp his mind is tonight. My stomach is tight with anxiety.
Théo and Scott are also wearing suits, and since I’m sitting up here with them, I dressed up a bit too—black trousers, a fitted black turtleneck, and high-heeled boots. I hang my fluffy ivory faux-fur jacket over the back of my chair and set my purse on the floor beneath the counter.
I lean on the counter to peer way down at the ice, immediately searching out Wyatt. He’s feeding pucks to Jimmy to shoot at the net, one after another. I smile.
We haven’t told anyone that we’re dating for real. Mom and Dad still think it’s just a PR thing. I asked Lacey not to say anything to Théo about our conversation where I spilled my guts about Gage, warning her that nobody else in my family knows that sordid story and I want to keep it that way.
Everyone thinks I’m perfect. The perfect daughter. The perfect student, when I was in high school and college. The perfect director of the Foundation. They don’t need to know that the reason I try so hard to be perfect is because I know I’m the exact opposite.
I listen to Théo, Scott, and Dad talking hockey business. The trade deadline is Monday, so everyone is focused on that. I know Théo has been working long hours, involved in t
op secret discussions with other teams, trying to strategically make the best deals possible. It’s like putting together a puzzle—trying to get the best player possible while staying within the salary cap, mindful of the players on the team he wants to keep and how much that will cost.
If anyone’s up for it, it’s Théo. He’s super smart and analytical, and I think Dad made one of his best decisions ever hiring him as GM. Lots of people think he’s too young, but I think his analytics background, plus being a former hockey player, make him perfect for the job. He made some amazing deals over the summer, and already the team is doing better than they ever have.
“I don’t know,” Théo says. “Boston hasn’t done much for Jackman since they got him in December. He’s only suited up for one game.”
“But he’s got a lot of potential,” Scott says. “He’s young.”
Théo shakes his head.
“You can never have enough defensive depth in the playoffs,” Dad says in his distinctive craggy voice. “And Jackman is on a cheap deal that expires after this season, so there’s no risk in getting him.”
I watch Théo’s face, because I have no idea if Dad’s statement makes sense or not, but Théo nods. “That’s true.”
Hmm.
The warm-up is ending, so I pull out my phone to check social media. Taylor has sent a hilarious Snapchat picture of Byron sprawled on his back on the floor, sleeping.
I scroll through Twitter, check out a few hashtags I follow, laugh at @dog_rates.
I need a dog.
What? I’m too neurotic to have a dog. But it would be nice…
“Want a drink, Everly?” Théo asks, standing.
“Um, sure. I’ll have a vodka and cranberry.”
Scott goes with him, and I’m alone with Dad. As usual, it feels stupid to bring up memory problems when he seems fine. “Dad?”
“Yeah?” He turns affectionate eyes on me.
“I love you.”
He blinks in surprise. Then he smiles, his face crinkling up. “I love you too, sweet girl.”
I study him, his legendary crystal blue eyes, his tanned face, his thinning gray hair. My heart squeezes with love and I reach out and grab his hand briefly, smiling back at him.
I want to ask him about the money, to see for myself if he knows what I’m talking about, but it’s not the time or place. Théo and Scott return with drinks for all of us and I take mine and set it on the counter.
Pierre Lalonde, GM of the Flames, sticks his head in the door. “Hey, Bob, how are you?”
“Pierre!” Dad stands and greets his colleague (adversary?) with a strong handshake. “How are you?”
They make small talk and I lean closer to Théo. “He seems fine tonight,” I murmur.
“Yep.” Then Théo joins Dad and Pierre, and I can tell from the conversation that Théo and Pierre have already had discussions this week.
The game is an exciting one, with end-to-end action and scoring going back and forth. First the Flames are up by a goal. The Condors score a goal to tie it and then another to go ahead. Then the Flames even the scoring, and get another. It’s crazy but wildly entertaining, both teams playing hard and fast. The game is tied four all with only forty-four seconds left in the third period, seriously looking like overtime, when Baz scores for the Flames.
The wild atmosphere in the arena dims, the crowd falling silent. I drop my head forward. This might as well have been sudden death overtime, because the chances of tying it up in forty-four seconds are slim.
And…they don’t. We lose five–four.
Ah well.
I hang around a few minutes to chat with other people who stop by the box. Now Dad looks tired, and I can tell he doesn’t remember the name of someone he’s talking to. It’s not a huge deal…it’s someone from the Flames, not a person he knows well, but he’s always been so personable, remembering people’s names and their spouses’ and children’s names and…I learned how to do it from him.
My throat constricts but I keep my smile in place, making sure the people we’re talking to have no idea Dad doesn’t know Sheldon’s name.
This is probably what Mom does. All the time.
Now my heart aches for my mom. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be dealing with this, the man you love slowly losing his mind.
I pull in a long breath and let it out slowly. I have to get through the rest of this evening.
I take the elevator down to ice level and make my way to the family lounge just outside the dressing room. There are still media interviews going on, so I duck into the lounge. The players are starting to come out in their game day suits, finding their wives or girlfriends in the lounge to head home. I text Wyatt that I’m in here so he’ll know where to look, then spend a few minutes socializing with Elle and Anna, two of the players’ wives. I feel a bit out of place down here, because I’m not a wife or girlfriend—at least not officially—but everyone talks to me and is friendly to me because of who I am. They know I’ve been watching the game with the owner of the team up in the press box. I could think it sucks that they’re only nice to me because of who I am, but I decided a long time ago not to feel that way. I’m just happy they’re friendly to me, and I figure if I’m a nice person back to them, then maybe it’s not just because of who I am.
My phone pings with a text, and I check it to see Wyatt is showered and changed and out of the dressing room, waiting for me outside. “Well, I have to go,” I say. “So nice to see you again!”
“You too, Everly!”
I meet up with Wyatt in the corridor. He gives me a tired smile, leans down to smooch my lips, and we start walking toward the exit. “Baz will meet us at the Beach Bistro,” he says, naming a bar that’s in the Fairmont, where the Flames are staying. We decided to meet there for a drink to make things easy for Baz.
“Sounds good. Sorry you lost,” I say, slipping my hand into his. “It was a really good game.”
“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “So fucking close.” He makes a frustrated noise in his throat.
“It really was.”
I’ve learned that he likes to talk about games after. Some players don’t; I know this from my brothers. But I’ve also learned that Wyatt doesn’t expect me to say much. He just wants to unload. So I let him, with the occasional, “I know!” and “That is so true.”
Then we’re at the Fairmont. The Beach Bistro is a cool indoor/outdoor bar here. It’s a nice evening and there are heaters, so we head outside.
“Oooh! Let’s sit there!” I point at the fire pit with Adirondack chairs arranged around it.
Wyatt strides over and we sit and order drinks while we wait for Baz and his agent. Lights glow in the big fig trees around us on the wooden deck, more lights shining on the tables, palm trees silhouetted against the midnight blue sky. I lean toward the flames leaping up, gold and orange and blue.
There’s actually live music on a small raised stage, a quartet playing smoky, bluesy jazz.
“Oh my God, I love this place.” I relax into my chair.
The waiter brings our glasses of Pinot Noir. I sip and it’s delicious.
“This is so perfect.” I let out a sigh and relax.
“It’d be more perfect if we’d won.” But Wyatt leans over and touches his wineglass to mine.
“I know.” We sip our drinks.
“Oh hey, there’s Baz.” Wyatt stands and waves.
A dark-haired man waves back and heads our way, smiling. I saw him earlier, at the interview, although we didn’t speak. I stand too, smiling, so Wyatt can introduce us.
Then my gaze lands on the man behind Baz. A tall, muscular man, dressed in an expensive suit. He’s smiling too…until he sees me.
My heart stops beating.
Our eyes meet.
I haven’t seen or heard from Gage in ne
arly eleven years.
“Baz, this is Everly Wynn.” Wyatt touches my lower back. “Everly, Baz Chadha.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur politely, a practiced smile in place. “I saw you earlier during the interview but didn’t get a chance to say hi. Thanks for doing that for the Hockey for All program.”
“Of course. Happy to. And good to meet you also.” He half turns to the man now standing next to him. “This is my agent, Gage Gregoire. Gage, have you met Wyatt Bell?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.” Gage extends a hand to Wyatt and they shake.
“And his girlfriend, Everly Wynn.”
We face each other. Heat suffuses my body, my heart now galloping. I don’t know what to say.
“We have met,” Gage says. “A long time ago when I played for the Condors.”
“Small world,” Wyatt quips and we all move to take seats.
I’m trying to breathe. I pick up my wine and take a quick sip. I have a strong urge to get up and run.
“Gage and I wanted a chance to meet up while we’re both in L.A.,” Baz says. He looks up as our waiter pauses beside his chair, then requests a sparkling water with lime. Gage orders a Manhattan. “So thanks for letting him tag along.”
Gage snorts, grinning.
“No worries,” Wyatt says easily. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’m dying of awkward. Hopefully I can keep it that way.
I let them talk, keeping a smile and an interested look on my face, trying to gather my thoughts and act appropriately.
The man sitting across from me is a reminder of the worst mistake I ever made. Not only do I hate making mistakes, and I relive them for way too long all by myself, I hate being reminded of them.
I glance at him and our eyes meet.
I look away immediately.
I drain my wineglass and look around for our waiter. Wyatt notices and gets his attention. He’s such a sweetheart.
Fuck.
“Thanks,” I say to him with a smile. “I’m just going to use the ladies’ room.” I pick up my purse and stand.
I have no idea where the ladies’ room is but I stumble blindly across the outdoor deck. I pause at the bar to ask, and they direct me down a corridor just inside the bar, to the left.
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