Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Rhodes
I open the door to find a young redhead smiling at me from the porch.
She’s pretty. Objectively.
Soft features, bright eyes, a pleasant sort of face.
And…I feel absolutely nothing.
Except crushing disappointment that she isn’t Finn.
“Hi,” she says, lifting her hand. “I’m Brooke.”
I shake it. “Rhodes.”
She doesn’t sound like Finn.
Doesn’t smile like her.
Doesn’t feel like her.
That’s the point, right?
I force a smile and point down. “And this is Chloe.”
“Hey, Chloe,” she squats down and waves.
Chloe peers around my leg for all of two seconds before deciding Brooke is acceptable enough to ask, “Do you like apples and peanut butter?”
“I love them,” Brooke says.
“Want to meet Olive and Pear?”
“Are those foods or something else?” Brooke asks.
Chloe giggles. “They’re my kittens.”
“Wow. I’d love to meet them.” Brooke smiles then flicks her gaze in my direction, clearly asking me if that’s okay.
I nod.
Chloe turns and walks into the house, Brooke trailing her, chatting with her in an easy, practiced way that tells me they’ll get along fine.
I follow them at a distance, watching as my daughter does the feline introductions, as Olive and Pear make their tentative—then chaotic—approaches before tearing off like the tiny demons they are. Then I watch Chloe show Brooke her room.
And then the guest room.
Finn’s room.
No, it’ll be Brooke’s room now.
Fuck that…
Kills.
“You hungry, Chloe?” Brooke asks.
“Yup,” Chloe says skipping down the hall. “I’m gonna make apples and peanut butter and chocolate chips. Want some?”
“That sounds delicious.”
They—mostly Chloe—make the snack and I supervise a trip to the park, but when Brooke breaks out a binder of stickers and colorful paper, I know they’ll be okay.
So I go upstairs to get ready for my game.
But all I can see is the itinerary Finn planned for us sitting on the dresser.
By the time I get to the rink, my skin feels too tight for my body.
So tight I want to scream.
But I shove that down too.
If I shove all of it down, I’ll be okay.
Rome spots me in the hallway then falls into step beside me. He’s quiet for long enough that I think he’ll let this go, let me deal with this my own way.
Ha.
Dumb, delusional me.
He steps in front of me, stopping me before I can escape into the changing room. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I mutter dryly.
He doesn’t reply, just lifts his brows.
I grunt and push by him, going to my locker and swapping my street clothes for the Eagles gear I wear under my equipment.
Rome does the same but the moment I finish he asks, “How’s Chloe doing?”
I clench my jaw, grip the locker door so tightly it groans in protest.
Then…I just shake my head.
He sighs and I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.
I can’t.
We lock up our stuff, head into the locker room, and my lungs loosen as the usual noise swirls around me—tape ripping, shit being dished out, Huddy working on his hands with that fucking golf ball of his.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Rome drops down next to me. “Finn’s been staying with us.”
I freeze mid-reach for my skates, and look over, my heart thudding hard against my ribs at the same time that relief pours through me. She’s safe…she’s close.
No. I can’t think like that.
“And?” I ask carefully.
“You hurt her.”
I close my eyes. “I had to,” I whisper. “Better to tear the Band-Aid off now than in a few months’ time.”
He sighs.
“What?”
“I’m not going to tell you that you’ve royally fucked this up.” His lips curve into a wry smile. “King’s done that plenty the last few days.”
He has.
“I am going to tell you that if you hurt her again you’ll have to answer to me.”
I grab my skates. “I ended things, remember?”
“I remember,” he mutters. “But I think the next thing I tell you is going to change your mind.”
“No”—I shove my feet into my skates—“it won’t.”
“She moved it up.”
I go still. “What?”
He shrugs, cool brown eyes coming to mine. “Jean-Michel’s offered her a spot on the jet. She flies out tonight.”
Tonight.
“She’s leaving tonight?” I rasp.
A long pause as the room tilts from side to side, as my vision goes hazy, as my lungs forget to work.
His hand clamps down onto my shoulder. “Talk to her,” he says. “Call her. Beg her not to go. Tell her you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life, but you’ll spend the rest of hers making up for it.”
The sounds around me grow in volume, overtaking his words, or maybe it’s just the buzzing in my ears and…
The realization that it’s truly over.
She’ll get on that plane tonight…
And she’ll be gone.
“I have to let her go,” I whisper.
Rome’s hand tightens.
Then he sighs and pulls away.
He’s not wrong about what he said—sitting here with my skates half-laced and panic clawing up my throat, I know that letting Finn go is going to be the biggest regret of my life.
But I’m still not going to call her.
Still not going to beg her for forgiveness.
I can’t.
I tie my skates, strap on my shin guards, tug up my socks and pants then move on to my shoulder and elbow pads, my jersey and helmet. My gloves.
But it’s all by rote.
All fucking bullshit.
Because I’m not here, not really.
I skate.
I shoot.
I backcheck.
I score a goal.
Then I do the whole damned thing again.
But none of it means anything—the win, the goals, the good plays.
Because the entire time all I can think is…
She flies out tonight.
And even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to go after her—
I know I have to let her go anyway.
For all our sakes.