Chapter 31
Jason
Two days later, I’m at the cabin again.
Rowan’s gone.
Bruce’s network of spies and grumpy old men who live for harbor gossip reported seeing her and Ron leaving a few hours after me. They’d been loaded down with all the ridiculous, beautiful boxes and bags she’d brought. No mention of a return trip planned, but I had to come back anyway.
I needed to see the cabin again. I needed to check if she left a note or even her number. Any way to reach her so I could explain that I’d never wanted an escape. That I’d loved her from the start. That I wished I’d been honest, so at the very least, she’d know.
It hadn’t seemed fair to put all that on her. And even though I’m fairly certain not giving her those truths from the get-go is something that will haunt me, a part of me is still glad that I got to be what she needed. Even if only for a while.
I don’t spend the night. Don’t think I could handle sleeping on sheets that might smell like her… or worse, might not anymore. So I do what I came to. I close it up. And then, I leave my phone number beneath Ed’s time capsule on the shelf where we left it.
Maybe she’ll be back.
Maybe she’ll want it.
Simple enough.
The fridge is emptied. The dishes put away. Trash taken along.
And then I go home. I don’t take calls. I don’t go to the gym. I don’t let Wexler up even when he begs me to take Lattner off his hands for a few hours.
I just need a minute.
Or maybe a day.
Or a week.
I dream about my dad. I dream about Rowan.
I play back our conversations in my head, the way she looked at me, the sound of her laughter… those moments between us when I would have sworn if we looked down, we’d have been standing on a giant circle that read, Forever Starts Here.
I start looking through the socials for her, even though her Instagram hasn’t been updated in four years. I start looking for Ron. And then for organizations of doctors and then—
I stop.
Because I know how to—
“Dude.”
I blink, looking up to find Ben standing in my apartment. He’s wearing track pants and a branded T-shirt and one of those foam neck rings for sleeping on planes.
“Who let you in?” I ask, not trying to be a dick. But like… really.
“A lady never tells.” He’s not joking.
“What?”
He looks me over and crosses his arms. We’ve met before, so I’m familiar with this mini flex he pulls out from time to time.
The broadening shoulders. The hard stare.
He can’t hold it very long without cracking a joke, but usually he gets what he wants first. Today?
I glance out the windows. Make that tonight?
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Noon.” Truth. I’ve got a service that showed up, and the kid who brought it in looked at me a little funny and then stuffed a chicken grain bowl into my hands and told me I looked like I needed it.
He blinks, suddenly uncertain. “Oh well, good.”
Yeah, I don’t bother telling him I’m not quite sure when I ate before that.
“Ben, man. I’m fine.” Lies. “I just…”
He waits, coming over to drop onto the couch beside me. “You what?”
“I need to find her. Talk to her. I need to know she’s happy.” I rake my hand through my hair for maybe the millionth time today. “That there isn’t any small part of her wondering if maybe she could have been happier with me.” And even if there isn’t… I still need to see her. Just once.
Ben nods, his hand landing on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze.
“You don’t think she’d be able to find you if that was what she wanted?”
I huff a short laugh. “I think she could do any damn thing she set her mind to.” I drop my head, turning it to look over at him. “The problem is that I’m not sure I gave her enough of a reason to.”
I push up from the couch and walk over to the wall of windows overlooking the lakefront while he mutters something about oral and when will these guys learn.
I’m thinking about when I mentioned her coming to a game. It wasn’t so much how she looked at me as… “I just need to talk to her.”
He stands. “You found her?”
“No. But I know how to.”
Then he’s beside me, scrolling through— yep, my phone. Time to change the lock screen code again. “Dude, how many medical aid groups have you been through?”
I palm it and take a few steps before dialing.
“Hello, Marsha.”
Jason
Thirty minutes later…
“Boomer, for the last time,” I growl, backing him out of the elevator and into my lobby, “get the fuck out of my way.”
His lips are pinched together, his hands planted on my chest as his sneakers skid against the marble floor. “Training camp starts in three days. You cannot go to Madagascar!”
“The hell I can’t.”
Fucking Marsha was more than happy to tell me where Rowan was. She was damn near gleeful, asking if she’d see me at the wedding on Saturday. All I heard was, She’s not married yet.
I hung up on her mid-rant, starting for the door when Ben slid in front of me. Suggested we take a beat. Sit down and talk it through.
Then, when I picked him up and moved him out of my way, he asked if I was actually planning to crash Rowan’s wedding smelling like that.
I showered.
Brushed my teeth, thinking about the impish light in her eyes when she wound me up. The way they went soft before I kissed her. And the way they’d held with mine when I pushed inside her that first time.
Complied when fingers snapped an inch from my nose, and without looking up from his phone, Ben sighed, “Floss.”
But then I was whipping the clothes off the hangers, getting dressed and filling my duffel bag.
The bag currently strapped to my back as I deal with the buddy who is mistakenly getting in between me and my— and Rowan.
“Jason, you’re not walking out of here,” he says, treads squeaking.
“Who’s gonna stop me?” My breath is coming harder now, and that thing I rarely welcome, and only on the ice, is starting to rattle its cage.
Ben sees it too. All traces of that over-the-top guy are gone. “I am.”
Wrong answer, friend.
The corner of my mouth hooks, my voice taking a warning tone. “You… and what army?”
The lobby doors burst open behind him, and Wexler skids in, breathless and red-faced, Huska and Lattner close on his heels.
Clutching a couple bags from the hardware store, Wexler thrusts a roll of duct tape overhead and gasps, “We got it. We’re here!”
Huska’s doubled over, half waving a coil of climbing rope in front of him.
Lattner skids to a stop, reaching into the hockey bag swinging around his knees, and pulls out—
“A shovel?” I demand, glaring at Boomer who does a double-take, his shoulders dropping in defeat.
“See what I’m dealing with here?” Then, rounding on the rookie, he jabs the air. “We’re saving his fucking career, not burying him in a shallow grave!”
“I didn’t know!” the kid croaks.
Boomer turns to me. “I love you, dude. And I feel for you. I do.” He cracks his neck all, Let’s go. “But I can’t let you get on that plane.”
“Love you too, man.” My arms are tensed, ready. “But if you don’t get out of my way, I’m going through you.”
If they cut me, I’ll play in the minors. I’ll coach fucking high school.
Because the only regret I can’t fucking live with is not fighting for Rowan while I still have the chance.
“I get it. You gotta try.” Boomer signals, and the guys start to move in.
My shoulders and chest heave with the deep breath I draw through my nose, my arms coming down in a shot as a snarl rips free.
All of them jump back, even Boomer. But only for a second, then—
A throat clears.
“Mr. Stanvic,” the attendant from the front desk politely interjects.
“Sorry, Chuck. No need to call the cops. I’m fine.”
“No, oh… right, yes, good.” He gives me an apologetic look like maybe he wasn’t thinking about calling the authorities over my imminent assault.
“Actually, sir, I just thought you should be aware, we have another unexpected visitor… Perhaps you and your friends would prefer privacy for this… throwdown?”
We all freeze except Wexler, who balls up the length of duct tape and stuffs it under his shirt.
“Camera or phone out?” I ask discreetly, more for my guys than for me.
What I’m about to do, missing the start of training camp, is going to have consequences.
Ones I can live with for myself. But no way should my teammates have to deal with the bad press and executive scrutiny just because they were trying to stop me.
Chuck peers around my shoulder. “Not that I can see. I’m sorry, Mr. Stanvic. She seemed harmless. She just asked if she could stay for a few minutes while she figured out who to call.”
“Who to call?” Not the norm for the fans, bunnies, and reporters Chuck’s had to turn away over the years. I start to look, when Lattner points his shovel toward the seating area.
“Hey, Static, isn’t that… uhh… not your sister?”