26. Ghosts
GHOSTS
brETT
After the casino event ends, Nik and I crawl into the back of the town car.
I rake my fingers through my hair. I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now.
Pissed off.
Horny.
Sad.
I mean, Jesus. I’m putting my whole career on the line, and she doesn’t even want to be seen with me.
And why do I care about that anyway?
Chelsea not wanting a commitment should be the dream.
If I don’t deliver, if the Wolfpack don’t re-sign, who the hell knows where I’ll be come June.
In the meantime, we’re electric in bed together and keeping things on the down low means we’re drama-free.
And drama-free is exactly what I need right now.
So why the hell am I hoping for more? Why can’t I just follow my dick and leave my heart out of it? It’s like the spectacular implosion of my whole life because of a woman taught me nothing. Maybe not everyone gets what Coop and Lainey have. Maybe I just need to accept that.
I’m not paying attention as Nik hashes out the route details with the driver, too caught up in my own bullshit.
But I notice when he hits the button that raises the divider between us and the front seat.
There’s a soft hum as the tinted glass lifts into place, while the car maneuvers through the parking lot and out onto the road.
Nik glances over at me when it reaches the top. “So. You and Chelsea, huh?”
I stiffen.
I don’t know what to say. A million words trip over my tongue. A million denials. But none of them actually make it out of my mouth. I sigh.
“That obvious?”
He’s quiet for so long, I turn and look at him.
Shifting on the seat, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the puck that the guys always give him a hard time about. I watch as he spins it in his hand, a comfortable, rhythmic motion that tells me he does it a lot.
He shakes his head. “Not unless you know what to look for.”
I’m not sure how to take that.
“When I came to this country, my English was shit. The only way I got by, in school, at practice, was by watching. Paying attention.”
He looks down at the puck, rubs a thumb against its worn black surface.
“And there was a girl.”
I start at that, my head swinging toward him. “Oh yeah?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the puck. “Smart. Bossy.”
Hoff’s lost in a memory, no doubt. First time I’ve ever seen him like this.
Unfocused.
Nik Ehrhoff is always focused.
“Gorgeous?” I hazard, and that breaks him out of it. Earns me a sly look as he confirms, “So fucking gorgeous.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. Exhales loudly. “She was my rock. She centered me during a difficult time in my life. And I’ll always be grateful for that.”
I look down at the puck. Back at his profile.
“Is she still in your life?”
A small, mocking smile spreads across his face. “Every day,” he tells me. His fist closes around the puck. “She just doesn’t know it.”
We sit there in silence for a minute, the soft hum of the pavement under the tires the only sound.
All those scattershot emotions and thoughts that were banging around inside of me settle, quiet right down.
It’s a lot like how the pre-game nerves and adrenaline go quiet when I step out on a fresh sheet of ice, ready to play.
“She centers me,” I admit. And I know he heard the weight of that confession by the way the puck in his hand stills.
“I figured.” A beat of silence. “Be careful.”
I huff a self-deprecating laugh and stare out the window, watching the buildings race by. “I think it’s too late for that.”
“Yeah. I figured that, too.”
The car pulls up in front of our building and we both get out. I tip the driver. Nik shoves the puck back in his pocket. And neither of us brings up what was discussed in the town car as we head inside.
The condo feels empty tonight.
Especially because I should be with Chelsea. But I don’t want to be her dirty little secret. And no matter how many times I tell myself I can’t afford for her dad to know we’re together, I can’t deny tonight hurt. I’m mad at her, even though I don’t want to be.
I loosen my tie and grab a bottle of water from the fridge before I flop onto the couch.
Being alone with my thoughts sucks.
Pulling my phone out, I check a couple of hockey scores. But it’s not long before the pretense of that runs out, and I open my text messages, thumb hovering over Chelsea’s contact.
Be careful.
Nik’s advice echoes in my head.
With a sigh, I take it. Click on my text thread with Coop instead.
Me: U awake?
I crack the cap on my bottle of water and take a long pull.
When Coop still hasn’t answered, I thumb into my thread with Lainey and shoot off a message to her, too. Double my odds.
Me: Got a second?
I rake a hand through my hair. I consider texting Hoff, because I know he’s still up, but I shut that shit down. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. The one who can’t get his shit together. Montana is supposed to be a new start for me.
I scroll a couple of social media apps, but nothing’s holding my attention.
What went down with Chelsea has me on edge. Off-balance.
I flick back into my texts to see if maybe Cooper or my sister answered and I just didn’t get a notification.
Nope. Still nothing.
That’s when I notice the unread thread at the bottom of the screen.
Seven. Unanswered. Texts.
It’s like my ex-wife’s number has me under hypnosis as my thumb slowly travels toward it.
I should have blocked her. Gotten a new number. Avoided this possibility from the start.
Because looking at these texts? It’s a bad idea. I know it.
Probably a worse idea than just texting Chelsea.
Definitely a worse idea than bugging Nik.
But it’s like I’m powerless to stop myself. I have to know what Janelle wants.
Unknown: I need to talk to you.
Unknown: I really need to talk to you.
Unknown: Why aren’t you answering?
I shake my head. Is our entire history not an obvious answer to her?
Unknown: You can’t ignore me forever.
Sometimes I wish she’d give me the option to try, at least. This is the same toxic spiral we’d always end up in, Janelle and I. I thought the divorce might finally put an end to it.
Apparently not. And I’m ashamed that I let myself get stuck in that loop for the last three years.
The next one’s a voice memo. Hearing her makes me flinch.
“You remember that reality show that approached me? The Trophy League?”
Do I remember one of the most contentious issues in our divorce proceedings? Yeah. It rings a bell. She tried to count it as lost income, even though it’s a reality show about being married to an athlete and they didn’t even get back to her until after divorce proceedings were well under way.
“I talked them into letting me be the divorced one. Viewers will totally relate to my story. You know, strong woman on her own again, reinventing herself. Like, it’s really empowering.”
I squeeze my eyes so tight that patterns dance on my eyelids. I don’t see what this has to do with me.
“The show runners are totally on board with the idea.”
Pause. One that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Because I know what’s coming.
“I just need you to agree to be in six of the eight episodes they’re going to film.”
And there it is.
She never stops. Never stops pushing. Never stops taking.
“I need you to get back to them on this or they’re going to go with someone else. So text me back.”
It’s one of those moments of reckoning, and it hits hard. How did I get myself into this? Why didn’t I listen to everyone who said she was no good for me? Why couldn’t I see it for myself? What does it even say about me that I let myself be part of the toxicity for so long?
Unknown: You’re not ignoring me, are you? Because that would be a mistake.
And am I doing it again?
The thought stops me short.
Is that what’s happening right now? Am I just lust-drunk? Fooling myself?
No.
It’s different with Chelsea. I know it is.
It’s not just about the sex. I genuinely like her.
And I don’t want to let all this bullshit with Janelle stand in the way.
Unknown: I’m serious. Text me back.
I block my ex-wife’s number and get to my feet.
Chelsea’s not Janelle. She’s not.
And I don’t want to lose her.