Chapter Twenty-Five
Sig looked down at the contract in front of him and had the strangest urge to laugh. One of those ugly, high-pitched hysterical laughs that would make everyone around him uncomfortable. One he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started. David, his agent, currently sat to his right, with dollar signs in his eyes. Reese, who’d just slid the contract in his direction, had her usual pin-straight spine and a satisfied expression on her face. She no doubt believed she’d just given him everything he’d ever wanted.
An eight-figure contract. Five more years on the team that had become his family.
A way to support himself. Ensure his mother continued to live comfortably.
It might as well be a plate of worms.
The irony of it all was like brass knuckles digging into his jugular. The thing that had been driving him to re-sign a hefty contract with the Bearcats... was now out of his reach. Chloe.
Chloe .
Goddamn it.
Any urge he’d had to laugh, humorless or not, sunk in his throat like a rusted anchor.
She was officially his stepsister. No more playing house, no more hope. No more... her.
That phone call from their parents in Vegas marked the last time he’d felt coherent. Since then he’d been sitting in his living room staring at a television he didn’t bother turning on. Drinking more than was responsible, damn the upcoming meeting with Reese.
Burgess had come over at some point to speak with him, but Sig couldn’t remember if he’d even formulated responses to his friend’s questions. Everything was a blur.
This moment, though, was becoming crystal clear.
Like a diamond with edges sharp enough to score his skin.
“Until I sign this, I’m still a free agent,” he heard himself say—and God, he sounded like death. “Isn’t that right?”
David leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat. Steepling his fingers. As if he was reading Sig’s energy, interpreting his desire to negotiate. But the dude wasn’t interpreting shit. He didn’t have any inkling of the hell in Sig’s mind. No one did. No one knew he was on the verge of self-destructing. A walking time bomb.
Chloe.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said his agent. “We’ve had several organizations reach out to us.”
Reese narrowed her eyes at Sig. “You told my father once upon a time that you never want to play anywhere but Boston. That you wanted to start and end your career as a Bearcat.”
“I don’t feel that strongly about it anymore.”
I don’t feel anything except pain.
“What changed?” Reese asked, though he could tell she already knew. Or, at the very least, who had caused his change of heart. “I knew approaching you about... the situation with Ms. Clifford was going to be delicate, but I hope you understand that I had no choice. And the issue has been resolved, as much as possible. The press appears to have dropped the story and we’ve blocked any mention of her on the message boards—”
“What issue are we discussing, exactly?” asked his agent. “Is there something I should be made aware of?”
Reese and Sig ignored him.
“How can you be so sure it has resolved itself in the space of two weeks?” Sig asked. Reese didn’t have an answer for that. “More than likely, I’ve just been playing so well, you no longer have a choice but to lock me down, skeletons and all.”
“There is a certain risk involved,” Reese said, her words clipped.
“Not anymore.” His vocal cords were charred. “Not anymore.”
Reese knew his father had married Chloe’s mother. He could see that knowledge in the tilt of her head, the wringing of her hands. She’d been keeping tabs on him—and really, he couldn’t blame her. She had a lot to prove and didn’t want to make a bad investment. Was he a good investment, though? A hockey player needed heart to sustain greatness and his had been ransacked.
David smoothed his tie, laughed a little uncomfortably. “Can someone fill me in on the subtext here?”
“I want to play somewhere else.” He dropped the words like a bomb, but he was too numb to feel any of the reverberations. “Anywhere but Boston. I need to get out of here.”
“Sig,” Reese began, panic beginning to creep around the edges of her cool exterior. “We do not underestimate your incredible value to this organization and that is reflected in what we’re offering—”
“Yeah? It’s two weeks too late.”
His agent was already on his feet, moving swiftly out of the room. “I’m going to make some calls.”
“Get me out of the division, too. I don’t want to come back here. I don’t want any fucking reminders of... this place.”
“Don’t throw away what you’ve built here,” Reese said quietly, closing her eyes, as if she knew she’d already lost, but didn’t know how to quit. “We’re offering you a uniform with a C on the shoulder. You’re not going to waltz onto a new team and automatically get the patch.”
“I probably shouldn’t be anyone’s captain right now.”
She allowed some incredulity to bleed into her expression. “Don’t you think some time is going to make it easier? Being without... her.”
“Not a fucking chance.” Reese couldn’t fathom the devastation inside him. That was obvious. “I hope you never have to feel anything like this.”
“I won’t.” She opened her mouth, closed it, sputtering slightly. “I wouldn’t let myself.”
Now, Sig did laugh. And it was as ugly as he’d imagined. “Good luck with that, Reese.” There was nothing left to say, so he stood on sore legs. More so than usual, because he’d been pushing himself in practice like a demon, almost hoping for an injury. Some pain to distract him from the agony. But now, he was thankful to be healthy and uninjured. That was going to be his ticket out of here. Out of Boston.
Away from the only girl he’d ever love.
“You’ll hear from my agent, I guess.”
“Don’t do this, Sig. With Burgess retiring...” She held her hands up, palms out, in an imploring gesture. “Don’t gut the team.”
He was already walking out the door, nothing but the howling of wind in his ears.
C HLOE DROPPED HER fingers from the harp, accepting murmurs of welcome and congratulations from the musicians exiting the stage around her. Her very first practice sessions had just ended, but there would be three more over the course of two days to prepare Chloe for her first performance with the orchestra. Yes, in two days’ time, she would debut as the first chair harpist, right there on the stage in Symphony Hall.
Her mother would be there. With her new husband.
Front row, of course.
Truthfully, Chloe wasn’t sure she wanted Sofia and Harvey there at all, but she didn’t currently have the energy to stop them. Or construct the boundaries that had been a long time coming with her mother. She would be erecting them soon, though. Oh yes, that day had arrived. It arrived as soon as the realization sunk in that her mother had eloped to keep her from Sig. Because while Chloe had abhorred the idea of hurting Sofia, her mother hadn’t given her the same consideration, had she? No.
So, yes. As soon as Chloe could think straight, she’d put some sturdy walls in place and keep them clearly marked.
Grace had gone to Amsterdam, leaving Chloe the keys to her penthouse, so she could continue to practice on the Harp of Destiny, which she’d come to think of as her own. Not that she’d be mentioning that to her mentor, who’d sent her a picture in the middle of the night of a cello case propped against her bedroom wall, a bra hanging from the neck. Had she reconciled with her girlfriend? It appeared so. And Chloe was happy for her, in a my-chest-is-hemorrhaging kind of way.
She was the last remaining musician on the stage now, silence settling over the rows of black leather seats. Her gaze tracked up to the chandeliers glittering above, the statues of angels and saints tucked into the ceiling’s perimeter. It was a glorious place. The hall where she’d always dreamed of performing—and she’d gotten there through sheer force of will. She’d stopped ignoring the possibilities in front of her and reached. Taken hold.
For the life of her, though, she couldn’t imagine her first performance without Sig watching from the audience. She couldn’t really imagine any performance without him present, first, tenth, or five hundredth. As much as she sharpened her craft since beginning her mentorship with Grace, she couldn’t deny there was something missing.
She played perfectly. Didn’t miss a note.
But she played without a soul.
It had been sucked clean out of her body.
Living without it—without Sig—grew more difficult by the second. And she was coming very close to slipping. Taking the train to his neighborhood and showing up at his door. One more time. I need you one more time. Or... asking him to his face if he’d been serious about Sweden. Although wouldn’t their reputations and identities follow them there? Wasn’t Sweden more of a placeholder for the concept of running away together?
“I can’t ask him to do that,” she whispered.
And she couldn’t. No more than she could disappoint Grace, the orchestra that had welcomed her with open arms. Herself. She’d earned this, hadn’t she?
Chloe rose from the stool and wandered backstage, not registering a single step. She found her purse in her assigned cubby, smiling at a group of string musicians who were congregated nearby. One of them waved her over and she held up a finger, indicating she’d join them in a moment—a moment she used to scroll through her camera roll, tapping on her favorite picture of her and Sig together. She’d taken it the first time he showed her how to use the train. He was holding on to a pole, arms crossed, quizzing her on how to make transfers, which stop would take her to the conservatory. He looked so serious, so worried, yet also... confident in her, too. Determined to help.
This love was going to break her.
Maybe it already had. And she desperately needed to feel whole again.
So she slipped.
She texted him in a rush of heartbeats and lack of breath, unable to go cold turkey.
Would the world end if she just saw him in person from a safe distance?
My first performance is Saturday night. I wouldn’t be here without you. I don’t want to be here without you. Will you come?
She hit Send and her knees almost buckled.
Just the act of reaching out to him was like being revived.
Would he answer? Would he come to the performance?
When her text hung there for a full two minutes without a response, she hurriedly tucked her phone into her purse, took a deep breath, and went to go join the group.
S IG COULDN’T brEATHE.
He cradled the phone in his hands like a glass slipper, reading and rereading the text from Chloe. Christ. She’d broken first, in terms of contacting each other, anyway. He’d driven past her apartment building a dozen times since the day of the bombshell phone call from Sofia. Not to mention, he’d called the landlord every morning to make sure she’d come home safely after walking Pierre. He’d barely managed not to call or text or show up at her door, as if he needed any more proof he should leave Boston ASAP.
His instinct was to reply to her text immediately.
To say, I’ll be there. Of course, I’ll be there.
But he had a meeting in Los Angeles on Saturday. With a potential new team.
Sig set the phone aside on his coffee table and started to pace.
Dug his knuckles into his eye sockets as deeply as they would go without blinding him.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Go to Los Angeles. Save himself. Save her. She’d been strong enough to start the process of separating them, now she needed him to take the baton. Do what needed to be done. He couldn’t live this close to her and not be with her. His heart was a constant eruption of pain the longer this went on. Being in the same town as her only made it harder.
Sig snatched up his phone and typed the words.
I’ll be in LA meeting with a new team. I’m sorry.
He sent the message, felt his chest rip open, and immediately tried to unsend the text, no idea why or what it would accomplish. Only that he was going to die if he didn’t give Chloe what she needed. Knowing the news would gut her, as much as it gutted him, was like a recurring blow to his solar plexus. But the deal was sealed. No unsending.
Sig fell onto his couch, head in his hands. Fingers ripping at his hair.
Go. He needed to go now before he went to see Chloe.
Get to LA. Sign a fucking contract. Play hockey until his body gave out.
That was all he could do now.
When an email alert popped up on the screen of his phone, signaling that he had a new message from his private investigator, he deleted the notification without looking, deciding he’d had more than enough irony for one lifetime.