Chapter 8 #2
“Then maybe don’t talk,” she mutters. “Or breathe.”
We stare each other down. Juliet lifts her chin, irritated. Unfortunately for her, it only makes her red-lipsticked mouth that much closer. She’s so fiery, with her raven hair and flashing chestnut eyes.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
Her lips quirk, but she doesn’t respond. Ivy spreads her hands flat on the table, quickly pivots to safer territory.
“So! Next topic. Venue content. We thought that the two of you could visit a few wedding venues for a social media post series. Nothing too formal. Just candid shots of you looking at flowers and cake samples. Maybe arrange for a few paparazzi leaks. Really lean into the soft-focus engagement narrative.”
“You want me to pose like I give a shit about florals?” I couldn’t roll my eyes any harder if I tried.
Ivy nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! We’ll leak the pictures, stir up speculation about when and where. Maybe let your moms know about the—”
“Don’t,” I snap, suddenly all ice. The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. “I don’t want my mom involved, period. I think Juliet can say the same.”
Juliet shifts slightly in her chair, nudging her knee against mine under the table. A warning or maybe a question. I’m not sure which. She looks at me, changing the subject rather than letting the room stew on what I just said.
“Come with me to look at venues,” she tells me, ignoring the tension. “That’s the whole point of the pictures. Right?”
Ivy nods eagerly. “Exactly. Couple goals content. Very aspirational.”
I mutter, “I’ll show up. But if anyone hands me a boutonniere, I’m setting the place on fire.”
Across the booth, Jessa pulls plastic containers out of her purse and hands them around the table. “Okay, everyone has to try these. They’re a new oatmeal dessert bar I’m testing.”
“Why are you testing dessert bars?” Connor asks.
“I like to bake,” Jessa explains. “And now that Juliet has moved out, I have no one to test my recipes on. I’m going to die of sugar poisoning if I eat them all myself.”
Juliet gladly takes two containers. “You’re the best, Jess. Seriously.”
Grayson reaches across the table and grabs five. “I’ll take these off your hands.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “Five? Really?”
Grayson glares at him. “I love dessert. You got a problem with that?”
“Nope. No problem at all.”
“I’ll be right back,” Juliet says, standing up. “Bathroom.”
While she’s gone, I check my phone. Missed call from my agent. There are two texts that make my stomach drop.
Enzo Morelli: Your mother reached out again. It’s no big deal, something I have handled. But I just want you to know.
Enzo Morelli: She is demanding a retroactive percentage of your paychecks for the last two years and then she had the balls to ask for box seats to the Vancouver game. Someone already handled it.
Fuck. My agent is a shark, a cutthroat former hockey player with amazing business skills.
He’s not someone I would ever want to have a drink with, but I trust him to get me great brand sponsorship deals and contract renewals.
I want him to focus on that stuff, not to have to bother with my crazy mother.
Hunter: Thanks.
I don’t know how to express my gratitude without coming off as a pussy, so I just leave it at that. Enzo will get it. I toss my phone facedown on the table with a huff.
Jett sees the look on my face and asks, “What? Mom?”
I nod stiffly but say, “It’s already handled.”
I’m not in the mood to hold hands and braid each other’s hair while getting into deep philosophical topics with my brother.
Across the room, a guy from the main bar rudely walks into our private room, wandering over to our table. He’s got that sleazy confidence that comes from too much to drink and not enough sense.
I push up from the table, about to tell the guy to leave. He zeroes in on the girls like a homing beacon, heading straight to them.
“This is a private room,” I growl. The dude doesn’t even seem to notice me, which is weird because I’m six and a half feet of pure threat. I snarl, but he’s already talking to Ivy.
“Hey there, beautiful. I saw you from the main bar. Can I buy you a drink?”
Ivy smiles sweetly, standing up. “I would love that. Lead the way.”
She follows the stranger to the bar. I watch her go, fuming, and I see that Jett’s jaw tightens.
“What the hell?” he mutters.
“What’s your problem?” Shane asks. “She’s single.”
“It’s about team loyalty,” Jett grumbles, which makes no sense since Ivy doesn’t owe any of us anything.
“Uh-uh,” I intone. “I don’t like people just invading our space. It’s supposed to be a private room.”
Jett shoots me the dirtiest look and says, “That’s, uh, my objection too. I’m with you.”
I cock an eyebrow at him but he ignores me. Is he blushing?
When Juliet comes back, she slides in next to me, sitting closer than before.
I forget all about my anger. I keep looking at her legs, specifically her thighs, thinking that anybody could reach up her skirt if they wanted to.
Not that I want to, but I can imagine how some asshole might try it.
She catches me looking and pulls her skirt down.
“Eyes up here, Chainsaw,” she whispers.
I clear my throat and push my beer away. I definitely don’t need to be less inhibited around her. Already, I’m thinking about whether she would taste as sweet as she smells.
“Oh my God, Hunter, you should have seen this guy at practice today,” Shane says, elbowing Connor in the ribs. He launching into a story about rookies and equipment malfunctions.
Juliet throws her head back, laughing. “Are you serious? He actually did that?”
“Swear to God. Ask anyone.”
She leans in close to Shane, touches his arm. “You guys are insane.”
It burns in my chest. I don’t understand why it bothers me. She’s playing a part, the same as me. Still, something tight wraps around my ribs.
She must sense my mood because she puts her hand on mine where everyone can see and scoots closer, pressing her thigh against mine. I glare down at her hand. It’s too small and delicate. A big guy like me could crush someone like Juliet without even trying.
Thorne, who’s been sitting on the very edge of the group like he’s not sure he wants to be here, suddenly stands up.
“I’m out,” he says.
“Already?” Connor asks. “It’s barely ten.”
“Dawn practice tomorrow.” Thorne rolls down his sleeves, covering the ink that covers both arms. He puts even tattooed me to shame. Tattoos cover forty percent of his body.
The second he steps outside the private room, he’s surrounded by puck bunnies who’ve been waiting for their chance.
“Thorne! Can we get a picture?”
“Just one selfie, please?”
“No,” he says gruffly, pushing through them toward the exit.
Good idea. I stand up too. “I’m tired. Heading up.”
“But it’s still early,” Juliet protests, though she’s already grabbing her purse.
“Long day tomorrow.”
She follows without arguing, which surprises me.
In the elevator, she asks, “Are you mad?”
“Not everything’s about you.”
She doesn’t get it. Nothing’s about her. Nothing’s about anybody. I don’t give a damn what most of the guys think of me. I don’t like them and I don’t have to pretend to.
“Good to know.” She pauses. “Is it about your mom?”
I react as if she just slapped me. Juliet and my mom don’t belong in the same conversation.
“No.”
She pokes out her bottom lip but says nothing. I can see her holding in her thoughts, pushing them down. Juliet isn’t very good at hiding her emotions from me.
“Just say it,” I sigh as I open the door to our condo.
“Say what?” she asks, blushing.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking. I can tell you’re trying to hold something back and be polite. We will not make it five months in this...” I point between us. “You’re bad at keeping secrets.”
“I am not! What I want is to have my own PR company, for God’s sake. I’m great at keeping secrets.”
“Well, those people aren’t me. So go ahead. Tell me what you’re so desperate to say.”
“Your mom is a vampire.” She scrunches her nose. “You can’t give her whatever she wants. That’ll only make it worse.”
“Worse how? She’s already pretty damn bad.”
“You can’t let her bleed you dry every time she feels like it, Huxley. If you’ve gone through this before, and it sounds like you have, say no.”
I glare at her. “You don’t get it. She’s an endless pit of need.”
“I get enough,” she says firmly. “And if you want this to go away, you need to control the narrative. You can’t just give her hush money and hope she disappears. She’s clarified that it doesn’t work.”
I dig my nails into my palms and say nothing. Juliet touches my shoulder, her hand small and warm through my shirt. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
The genuine sympathy in her tone catches me off guard. It makes me wonder if there’s more to Juliet than I’ve been giving her credit for. More than just a sharp tongue and a banging body. I haven’t quite figured her out yet, and that bothers me more than it should.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod and head toward my room. Anything to end this awkward moment of niceness.
Juliet disappears into her room without another word. I go into mine, close the door, lock it, and pull the dusty shoebox from the back of my closet. It’s pathetic that I still do this, but old habits die hard.
I flip through old letters I’ve written but never sent.
Some are angry rants directed at Darla. Some are just blank pages with her name scrawled at the top, like I wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Tonight, I scribble out my feelings in angry, jagged handwriting.
Then, I add it to the pile without reading it or signing it.
I open my nightstand drawer and find the old sketchpad buried underneath receipts and tangled earbuds.
The last drawing is of Silas, half-finished.
I haven’t touched this thing since a fan caught me sketching in one of Jett’s Instagram photos and made a big deal about it online. The comments were brutal.
Apparently, hockey players aren’t supposed to draw. We’re supposed to hit things and grunt.
I think about starting something new. Maybe sketching helps me process things I can’t say out loud. But I snap the pad shut again and do nothing.
I lie on my bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Juliet move around in her room. Water running. Drawers opening and closing. The soft sound of her voice on a phone call, probably with Jessa or Ivy.
Emotionally, I’m wrecked but holding it all inside like always. My mother is dragging old wounds into the light, making me relive the worst period of my life. I’m angry and ashamed and raw.
I’m also noticing Juliet. Really noticing her. The way she handled the guys tonight, how she made everyone like her within minutes. The way she looked at me when we talked about my mom, like she could see something under the surface that most people miss.
It makes me question what exactly I was thinking when I agreed to this ridiculous fake engagement. It’s already annoying to deal with. Then Juliet does something like touch me while asking if I’m okay in that soft voice, and I don’t know what to do with that.
It means nothing, though. It couldn’t. The thought terrifies me more than any lawsuit ever could.
Because people like Juliet don’t stick around for people like me. They get smart and leave before the damage gets too deep.
And I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t stick around for me either.
I’m tired of fighting with my mother. Tired of being painted as the villain in a story where I was the victim. I am tired of pretending her betrayal didn’t break something in me I’m not sure I can fix.
But tomorrow I’ll get up and put on the mask again. I’ll tour fake wedding venues with my fake fiancée and smile for cameras that will broadcast our fake happiness to the world.
And I’ll get through another day.