From Coast to Coast (Offsides #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Remy

I stare down at the papers in silence, wondering for the dozenth time if we are doing the right thing. Alex—my best friend and lawyer—has helpfully tagged each line that will need my signature. The cheerful yellow stickies seem to be mocking me, as does the cheerful sun, shining through the windows into the conference room. Looking through the glass, I stare at the ocean and wonder how hard it could really be to drown oneself.

“That’s not going to sign itself,” Alex tells me, not even glancing up from his cell phone where he’s been playing Candy Crush for the last ten minutes.

“This will end my marriage , you know that, right? It’s not a joke.”

“Your marriage ended months ago when you separated,” he replies, still in that infuriatingly bored tone. “Sign it so we can leave and go to a bar.”

Annoyed, I pick up the pen. It’s one of those fancy pens that only people with loads of money would purchase. The damn thing screams money to burn . I hold it up and kick Alex beneath the table. His gaze flicks to mine.

“Seriously?” I ask, wiggling the pen back and forth. “You are such a rich prick.”

“The longer you take to sign, the richer I become.” He grins. “I’m not doing this pro bono.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” He pushes back from the table and kicks his legs out in front of him, one step away from an un-lawyerly sprawl.

“You’re trying to piss me off”—I point the stupid-ass pen at him—“but it’s not going to work.”

He shrugs, going back to his Candy Crush. I look back down at the contract, realizing that my irritation at Alex did actually make me feel better. Anger is easier than despair. Scrawling my signature across the first line, I pause to see if the world comes crumbling down around my shoulders. It remains steadfast, so I do the same. My hand is cramping by the time I make it all the way through the divorce papers. When I finish, I shove the whole lot in Alex’s direction and stand. He smiles, sweeping the contract off of the table and out of sight. I hold up the pen.

“I’m keeping this,” I tell him.

“You going to pawn it so that you can afford me?” he asks cheekily, and stretches as he rises to standing.

“I’m going to save it. One day, this will be the weapon used in your homicide.”

He snorts. Together we make our way out of his office. We take the stairs down, no matter that his practice is on the forty-second floor—I’m not dying in a fucking elevator. I set the pace down the stairs, hurrying as I try to outrun the claustrophobia that is nipping at my heels suddenly. Behind me, Alex keeps up without complaint and tactfully ignores my relieved sigh when we exit the building.

I turn to him. I’m not familiar with this area beyond his office building and will need his direction to the nearest palatable bar. He slings an arm over my shoulders, hugging my neck as he steers me off down the sidewalk. He doesn’t let me go, offering support no matter how difficult it makes walking.

“How are we feeling?” he asks, grinning.

“Like I just got divorced,” I deadpan.

“Jesus, stop being so dramatic. What is wrong with you today?”

Sighing, I reach a hand up and give my face a vigorous scrub. Regardless of the lack of tact, Alex is right: I’m being unduly dramatic. And, though he doesn’t know it, my marriage ended much longer than months ago. Alex, as my lawyer, was privy to a lot of conversations between Amanda and me that I would have preferred he never heard. He was not, however, present for the conversation that tipped the divorce scales in Amanda’s favor.

She’d shown up at 2 a.m., banging on my front door in a way that made me picture the police and not a 5’4” woman. I’d stepped aside to let her in, watching with trepidation as she’d stalked inside and whirled around, arms crossed tight over her chest. I’d known better than to hope for reconciliation.

“Ree, this is getting ridiculous,” she’d snapped, not even bothering with pleasantries before going for the jugular. “Sign the fucking papers so we can move on.”

“I don’t want to get a divorce.”

She’d looked like she’d wanted nothing more than to stamp her foot in frustration. I’d stepped forward and reached a hand out, but she’d slapped my arm away before I could touch her.

“Yes, you do,” she’d said, voice hard, and held up a hand to waylay my rebuttal. “Listen to me, Ree. No lawyers, no papers, nothing but us; okay? You and I made a lot of sense when we got married three years ago. We were the best of friends, weren’t we? But we don’t work . We haven’t worked in a long time, and I’m having trouble remembering a time when we did. We got together because people always expected us to, and we got married because that was the next logical step in the relationship ladder. But we don’t fucking work. ”

She’d emphasized each separate word as though there was a hard stop before and after each one. I’d stared at her, uncomprehending. Her mouth had pinched into a severe line and she’d looked away from me, arms crossed so tightly I’d wondered if she could even breathe.

“Tell me that you’re satisfied. Tell me that I’m the woman of your dreams; that you’re happy in this relationship. Tell me that when you and I have sex, you actually enjoy yourself.” She’d looked back at me then, eyes challenging. “Because I don’t. The last time you and I had sex, I spent the entire time mentally composing a grocery list.”

“You’re divorcing me because our sex life has…become stagnant?”

“Stagnant? Ree, our sex life is a fucking cold, dead corpse. Answer me—do you feel satisfied when we’re together? Do you like it? Have you ever? ”

I’d tried waiting her out—letting the moment stretch to five uncomfortable minutes. She’d waited. She’d always been the more patient of us .

“No.” I’d flinched, as I said it. The truth is: I’d never felt satisfied when we were together—not once. I couldn’t tell her that, though, no matter that I hated her a little bit for putting us in this situation. And even though she’d been the one who put the knife in my hands, I didn’t hate her enough to stick it between her ribs.

She’d stared at me and I’d stared back, that little bit of honesty bigger than any elephant in the room.

“Sign the papers,” she’d said, and neatly stepped around me and out the front door. It was the first time I’d seen her without a boardroom table between us in months, and I knew it would be the last.

Since then, I’d done my level best to fuck every willing woman within a fifty-mile radius. Alex told me this was a common occurrence in the divorce world and that I should have some fun. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t having fun. Apparently, Amanda and I weren’t the problem—I was.

“Remy, seriously,” Alex says, bringing me back to the present with a hard squeeze on my neck. “This is the best outcome you could have hoped for. Now, when you go to Calgary, you’ll be starting over with a clean slate. You’ll be Remy Stone, single-and-ready-to-mingle NHL forward, instead of Remy Stone who occasionally has to fly back to Cali for fucking divorce court.”

I laugh, because that’s what he wants me to do and not because I’m feeling anything but miserable. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Letting his arm slide from my shoulders, he reaches in front of me to open the scarred wooden door of a pub. I don’t bother looking at the sign; it doesn’t matter where we are as long as they serve alcohol and oblivion. Sitting down, I leave the drinks to Alex and check my phone. There are two messages from the public relations coordinator of my new team, and one from my new captain, as well. I respond to my captain before tucking my phone away and waiting for Alex to join me.

“See anything you like?” he asks, setting a tray of shots down on the table and perching on the stool next to mine. I stare at him with incomprehension, before realizing he’d mistook my aimless staring as interest in the girls clustered by the bar.

“No.”

“Taking a vow of celibacy?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Already sick of meaningless hookups? After only a couple months of freedom?” He shakes his head sadly. “The lobby full of men waiting for me to divorce them would be disappointed.”

“I won’t tell,” I say, and mime locking my lips closed. He smiles at me, but cocks his head to the side as he surveys me. I know him well enough to know that the joke was an invitation to talk to him. I debate for a few minutes, before deciding none of my laundry is dirty enough to keep hidden from him.

“Honestly,” I start, staring down at the empty shot glass in my hand, “I could take or leave sex, at this point. It takes forever for me to get it up, and I never feel fucking satisfied.”

Alex’s eyebrows rise at this confession, but he doesn’t laugh. “So, what, you’re banging your way across the state in search of the woman who raises your flag?”

I choke on a laugh, and he smiles at me. Together, we throw back a shot. Of all the things I love about California, Alex is going to be what I miss the most when I’m on a plane to Calgary tomorrow.

“The last girl I picked up?” I wait for him to nod. “I didn’t even finish. First time I’ve ever left a sexual encounter without coming.”

“Maybe you should be telling this to your doctor,” he says wryly. I flip him off. He opens his mouth, closes it, and looks across the room toward the girls at the bar. He throws back another shot before he continues in a careful voice. “Can I make a suggestion?”

“Listen, Alex. I know being my lawyer makes us closer than I ever wanted us to be, but I really don’t need to know how you and Serena keep things interesting.”

“So says the person who overshares constantly. I wasn’t going to, though. However, I would like to offer a little insight, if you promise not to punch me for it.”

Interested despite myself, I pick up a shot glass and wave it in a “go ahead” motion. He waits for me to swallow before he talks.

“You’ve never referred to Amanda as anything other than your best friend,” he says. “Not once have I heard you call her the love of your life, or soulmate, or anything remotely romantic. Seriously, the pair of you acted more like siblings than a married couple. I never got the impression that you were in love with each other.”

“I never promised not to punch you,” I point out, and he holds up a hand.

“Sometimes people on the outside have more insight to offer than those on the inside. I’m not giving you a hard time. In fact…” He pauses, frowning down at his empty shot glass. “Have you ever considered men?”

“Considered men, what?” I ask, nonplussed .

“Dating them.”

“Literally never.” I laugh, shaking my head at him. “Are you seriously trying to blame my marriage problems on a…closeted-gay-man theory? You know I spend all of my time surrounded by half-naked hockey players, right? I’m pretty sure I’d have discovered an attraction to dudes before now.”

“You’ve never been a little curious?” he presses. I gape at him.

“Have you?”

“No”—he shrugs—“but I’m married to the sexiest woman in the world. Why would I look elsewhere?”

“Amanda is sexy,” I say loyally.

“So was that woman you were with when you couldn’t cross the finish. And you never answered the question.”

“I mean, I guess I’ve felt curious before. But not a burning sort of interest—more a clinical one. Like, when I see two men kissing, I might wonder a little bit. But that’s not because I want them to kiss me. It’s more like a…I don’t know, Alex, I just know I’m not gay. I’m not.”

“I didn’t say you were gay, and I’m sorry, are you some sort of homophobe? Why are you getting so defensive?”

“Of course I’m not,” I reply, stung. “I’m defensive because you’re attacking me.”

“I’m not attacking you, Drama Queen.”

“What are you doing, then? Trying to make me feel more guilty about my failed marriage?”

“You know that’s not it. I’m just offering a viable option that you might not have considered. Remy, the only long-term relationship you’ve had is with your now ex-wife. You just told me you’ve stopped getting any gratification from sex. You’re in a self-admitted slump—maybe going outside of your comfort zone is the way to get over that. ”

“And you think I should do that by fucking the same sex instead of buying padded handcuffs?”

“Try the handcuffs first.” He shrugs. “And if that doesn’t work…”

He leaves the tail end of that sentence dangling suggestively. I sigh. “That doesn’t really seem fair, Alex. Pick up a guy specifically to experiment? Isn’t that kind of messed up?”

“Christ, man, have you never heard of dating apps? You could put ‘straight man wanting to experiment’ in your profile and I guarantee you’ll still get hits.”

“Maybe,” I say, mostly to get him off of my back and not because I’m really giving the idea any real consideration.

“Something to contemplate.”

“This is sort of a weird thing to spring on me,” I muse, fiddling with a shot glass. “Have you been thinking about this for a while?”

In answer, he slips off of his stool and takes our empty glasses to the bar for a refill. I stare after him before sliding my gaze over to the group of women. They’re beautiful in the way that most women in California are beautiful—tan, slim, and well-groomed. Little cardboard cutouts of each other. I will myself to perk up at the sight of the tight clothing and pretty faces, and am annoyed when I fail.