Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
The road trip was supposed to distract me.
It hasn’t.
We’re three games in—two losses and a win. We broke our winning streak in Nashville (seems fitting). Pulled a win against Utah, then another loss tonight in Denver.
I’d like to blame it on Helm jinxing us with his talk of a “baker’s dozen,” but it’s on me.
I can’t remember any of the games. All I can think about is the look on Summer’s face when I pulled away. Pulled away… I scoff. Who am I kidding? I completely lost my shit.
“You good, King?” Fox asks as we file off the bus.
I crack my knuckles. A habit I thought I’d broken years ago. “Fine.”
“You’ve maybe said ten words since we left Chicago.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go anyway.
I pull out my phone in the hotel lobby. No new messages from Summer. Not that I expected any.
I shove the phone back into my pocket.
“Bar tonight?” Helm asks.
I should say no. Should go to my room, get some sleep, focus on the next game.
“Yeah. Sure,” I hear myself reply.
My phone buzzes as the elevator hits the fifth floor.
Summer:
I’m sorry about the loss
Her kindness is so much worse than anger would be.
I make it to my room and drop onto the bed. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but I don’t know what to say.
Thanks. It’s fine. How was your day? Did you find the dinners I left for you in the fridge? Did you remember to turn on the heated floors in the kitchen? I know how cold your feet get. I wish—I wish… what?
I miss you.
That last one is the problem.
I toss my phone onto the comforter.
“Fuck!”
The screen lights up again, vibrating against the bed. I’d like to say I have self-control and don’t lunge for it. But I don’t. And I do.
Easton Helm:
Meet me in the lobby
Goddammit.
I swipe back to my conversation with Summer.
Me:
It’s okay. Hope your day was better
I grab my wallet, phone, and key card, and shove them into my pockets.
We pull up outside a bar in downtown Denver. I don’t register the name, or much of anything really, as I follow Helm through the crowd. It’s packed. Bodies pressed together, music competing with voices. Too loud and too warm.
Helm snags us two stools at the bar.
My gaze catches on a performer in the corner, singing a song I don’t recognize. No one’s paying her much mind, all caught up in their drinks or conversations. Is this how it was for Summer in Nashville? Playing to a room that didn’t know what it had.
“What can I get you?” The bartender knocks on the bar to get my attention.
“Budweiser.”
“Whatever IPA is on tap,” Helm adds, then turns to me. “Since when do you drink Bud?”
I shrug, pulling my phone out and placing it on the bar. The screen stays dark. I stare at it anyway, only looking up when Helm asks, “Still upset about the loss?”
The bartender slides our beers over. I take a sip and wince. “I’m never happy about a loss.”
“We’ll get back at it, Cap.”
I tap my phone screen. Still nothing from Summer.
“Dude, quit frowning.” Helm jostles my shoulder. “You’re killing my vibe.”
I raise a brow. “I don’t see any of the others here with you.”
He huffs, but his attention quickly shifts across the room. To a woman, of course. She’s pretty—dark hair, red lips, the kind of smile that used to be an invitation I’d accept without thinking. She catches us looking and says something to her friend.
I turn back to my beer and watch the singer. She’s good. Really good. Wasted on this crowd.
“Dude, they’re coming over,” Helm whisper-shouts, standing.
I check over my shoulder and, sure enough, the brunette and blonde are weaving through the crowd toward us. Their smiles widen as they get closer.
“Great,” I mutter as my stomach pitches.
The laughter, the clinking glasses, and the music press in from all sides.
I finish my beer in two long pulls and order another.
Helm’s already introducing himself to the blonde by the time I turn. “—and this is Miles.”
“Hi.” The brunette smiles almost shyly, but it looks all wrong.
She waits. I’m supposed to say something. I always have something to say.
“Ladies, can we buy you a drink?” Helm’s already got his charm dialed up.
I take a swig of my beer. Why the hell does Summer like this stuff?
“We’ve got some, thanks.” The blonde lifts her glass with a coy smile. “But we’ll take the company.”
“Be our guests.” He gestures to his empty stool, then elbows my side.
“Ouch. Damn,” I mutter, but stand.
The brunette takes my now-vacated seat. Up close, I notice her eyes are green. She’s wearing perfume that’s too floral, nothing like the citrus scent of Summer’s skin.
“I’m Autumn,” she introduces, extending her hand.
I choke on my drink, sputtering, beer dribbling down my chin. I wipe it off with the back of my hand.
I stare at her, mouth gaped, for longer than is probably polite.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I take her hand briefly. “Miles.”
“Tough loss tonight,” she says when I don’t offer anything else.
I should probably ask her a question, or do something. Anything other than standing here, probably looking as miserable as I feel.
This used to be easy.
Helm jumps in, launching into a story about the third period. The blonde—I didn’t catch her name—leans closer to him. Autumn joins in, adding her own commentary about the game.
I shift, pull out my phone, and check it discreetly at my side. Still no response. What am I really expecting? This is my doing, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment that sinks into my gut. I slip it back into my pocket.
When I glance up, Helm’s telling another story, and the women are laughing. I should be laughing, too. This is what I used to do—sit in a bar, talk to a pretty woman, let the night unfold however it was going to unfold. Now, it sounds like the worst possible punishment.
What did I think I was going to accomplish by coming out? Did I really think I could just go back to living my life before Summer? Dumb. So fucking dumb.
My eyes drift to the exit. Twenty steps, maybe. Thirty if I had to weave through the crowd. A ten-minute ride back to the hotel.
I wonder if Summer’s still awake. If she’s writing. If Grace is curled up next to her on the couch, purring while Summer hums some melody she’s working on.
“—right, Miles?”
I blink. Autumn’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.
“Sorry, what?”
Her smile tightens just slightly. “I asked if you’re from Chicago originally.”
“No.”
She waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
“Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
Another lull in conversation, longer this time. More awkward. I can feel Helm’s eyes on me, a silent what the hell, man? written all over his face when I glance at him.
I take another swig.
“So what do you do in the off-season?” Autumn tries again. “I bet you travel a lot.”
“Not really.”
“Do you have family in Chicago?”
“No,” I lie because I have no desire to talk about Tara and Jim, or how my teammates feel like family, or how my roommate is so much more than that.
The blonde jumps in, asking Helm something I don’t catch, and the conversation mercifully shifts away from me. Helm makes this whole song-and-dance look easy. He leans in, makes eye contact, asks questions back—the way I used to.
When did this stop being easy?
With Summer, it was never work. That first night, I couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to. Everything just felt… right. Talking to her, listening to her, being near her.
This is the opposite. It’s all wrong.
Time passes. I’m not sure how much. The singer finishes one song and starts another. Helm orders another round. The blonde’s finger hooks into his front pocket, and he’s eating it up.
Autumn turns to me. “You’re quiet.”
She’s eyeing me expectantly, a small grin playing on her lips. Nothing like Summer’s.
Summer.
She’s all I can think about. The way she looked at me that night, hurt and all my fault. The way she didn’t glance back when she walked away from me. The way her breath hitched just before she disappeared up the steps.
Was she crying?
I can’t think about being the cause of her tears. I’ll never forgive myself.
And for what? Four months. I was so scared of those four months ending that I ended them myself.
I pushed her away to protect myself from losing her.
But I’m losing her, anyway. Right now. Sitting in this bar, pretending I can move on when I know damn well I can’t.
“Long week,” I mumble.
She shifts closer. “Do you want to—”
Her fingers brush against my forearm.
I jerk back so quickly I nearly knock my beer over.
“I—” The words catch in my throat. “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Autumn’s brows pulled together. “Did I do something—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just can’t do this.”
I take bills out of my wallet and drop them on the bar. Enough for both our tabs and then some.
“You good?” Helm asks.
“I’m heading back to the hotel.” I don’t meet his eyes. And I don’t wait for his response. I turn, pushing through the crowd toward the exit.
Outside, I lean against the brick wall and catch my breath.
Then I pull out my phone.
Summer’s text is still there. So is my unanswered one.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. But I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to fix what I fucked up.
I was an idiot to think I could go back to how it was before her.
I don’t even want to.