Chapter 8
I stand rooted as Rachel takes off toward the elevator, her feet moving faster than humanly possible. She doesn’t look back, not even once. Like a helpless idiot, I watch the elevator open.
Then my brain reacts and I rush toward her, “Rachel, wait!”
But it's too late, the doors close, and she disappears into the unknown of the hotel. My heart rattles around my ribcage, my mind an absolute disaster. I have more questions than answers and the only person who can give me any clarity is gone, and I have no idea where to find her. No number, no address, no hotel room, nothing. I feel my frustration and panic surge through me. That woman is the mother of my child. My child. I need answers, and I need them now.
I turn on my heel and rush my way straight to the desk. The woman behind the counter looks up, her expression wary. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady, “can you tell me what room Rachel Reese is in?”
She shakes her head, a practiced smile on her face. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out guest information.”
I grit my teeth, leaning closer. I know she heard the spectacle that was our conversation. “Please,” I say, my voice more urgent now, “I need… she…might. Well you heard it all. I just need to talk to her. It’s important.”
Her expression softens a bit but it doesn’t make a difference. “I understand, sir, but I can’t help you. It’s hotel policy.”
“Look, I’m begging you,” I plead, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, desperation rising in my chest. “I’m not some crazy guy off the street! I…we know each other. I just need to talk to her. Please.”
She hesitates, biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable. “The best I can do,” she finally says, “is leave a message for her at the desk. If she comes down, I can make sure she gets it.”
I exhale sharply, ready to lose my mind, but I nod. “Fine. Fine. Just… take this.” I grab a scrap of paper and scribble down my room number, my phone number, and a hurried, pleading message: Rachel, please call me. You have to talk to me eventually. I slide the paper across the counter to her, and she nods, giving me a sympathetic look.
“Thank you,” I mutter, turning away, heading back to my room. My thoughts are a chaotic mess of confusion, anger, and uncertainty as I replay everything that happened. Every word, every expression on her face. I know I won’t be able to stop until I see her again, to hear her say it—one way or another.
I don’t sleep a damn minute. I toss and turn, staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning with questions and what-ifs. When morning finally breaks, I’m out of bed, pacing, trying to decide what to do next. I can’t approach her at work, that wouldn’t end well for either of us, but I can find a way to talk to her after the game. I have to know. I have to confront her, no matter what, because now in addition to the anger and hurt, there’s also a longing to meet the little girl who I’m pretty confident is my child.
At the arena, I’m running on pure adrenaline and nerves. The puck drops against the Charlotte Timbers and the game is instantly a blur of motion and sound. My legs pump as I skate down the ice, every muscle in my body tuned in. The fans in the crowd fade into the background, replaced by the sharp sounds of sticks clashing and bodies getting checked into the boards. After a solid pass to Vlad, who threads the puck to Ford for a shot, the Timber’s so-called junior league goalie makes a stellar save. From that point on, the first period is nothing but close calls. Each one makes my focus sloppier. As the horn sounds, we skate off toward the locker room.
We hit the ice for the second period with the score still locked at zero, but that doesn’t last long. The guys drill down and score back to back on a power play, out of the gate stronger than the first period. The same can’t be said for me. I’m barely hanging on, a glorified enforcer at this point.
The third begins 2 to 0, Red Wolves and we can’t sleep on the score. A clear path to lighting another lamp opens so I pass the puck. Ford fires into the net, the puck hitting the back of the net. Charlotte fights back hard, but we kick it into overdrive to hold them at bay. With five minutes left, I intercept a pass and sprint down the ice, adrenaline the only thing left in my veins. I deke left, then right, and go for it–the puck sails past their goalie’s mitts.
Up by four, we defend our crease until the final horn blares, and we win. The sound of our win erupts around me, but it feels like I’m on another plane. I skate off the ice, tapping helmets with my guys as I go, moving on autopilot. Without the distraction of the game, my head is back in that hotel lobby, replaying every moment with Rachel. I barely register it when Coach Wilder steps in front of me, his face a mix of satisfaction and concern.
"Good game, Samuels," he says, his eyes giving me a wary once over. “But why the fuck do you look like you’re ready to tear someone’s head off?”
I shake my head, clearing the fog. "I’m fine, Coach," I say quickly, but it’s hollow. I can’t shake the image of Rachel’s face when I asked if her child was mine. Not having time for a conversation, I move on from Coach Wilder, my thoughts racing ahead to my next step. I haven’t so much as seen Rachel today, let alone had the chance to talk to her alone. And neither of us are leaving this damn city until I do.
I know exactly who can help me and it's not really a call I want to make, but none of that matters. I click on Elliot’s number and he picks up on the fourth ring, sounding out of breath. “Hey, Oren, what’s up?”
“I need Rachel’s number,” I say, cutting straight to the point. I hear Ziggy giggle in the background.
There’s a pause on the other end, and I can hear Elliot whisper something away from the phone. “Dude, focus. You can get back to your woman later.” I grit out.
Elliot hums, processing what I’m asking him for. “Why? What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. “Just… I need to talk to her about something, Elliot. It’s important. Please.”
Another pause, and then Elliot sighs. “Alright, I’ll text it to you. But Oren, if this is about some fucking booty call or desperate attempt to get in her pants, I will kick your ass sideways.”
“Fuck off,” I reply, my voice firm. “I just need to talk to her.”
Within seconds, Elliot’s text comes through with Rachel’s number. My fingers race over the screen as I type out a message, keeping it short and to the point.
Oren: Rachel, we need to talk.
Please meet me at the café
next to the hotel.
I can’t keep waiting.
I hit send, my stomach churning with anxiety and anticipation. A few moments pass, and then my phone buzzes with a response.
Rachel: Fine. I’ll meet you after
I finish up work. I’ll text
you when I’m heading back.
Oren: Good.
I exhale, relief rushing my system, but it doesn’t do much to muffle my exposed nerves. There is no telling how this conversation will go, but I know it has to happen. I head to the café. I can just as easily sit there for hours waiting for Rachel. Whether I’m in my hotel or at the cafe, my mind will still be racing with a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions.