Chapter 19
nineteen
. . .
Bex
No, I didn’t fucking ask if this hotel bar had cheese fries. I haven’t eaten them in three years. Not since… My face settles into a scowl, the default expression when he’s around.
The bartender places a foamy beer in front of him, and he murmurs a thanks in appreciation.
“You come here often?”
My head whips to the right. Is he talking to me? Sure enough, his eyes are trained on me, his expression open and earnest.
“It’s no Michigan bar, but it does have charm,” he continues.
Michigan bar? Is he talking about the bar where we met?
“We always stay here.” Since we’re in the same division, we play Atlanta four times a year—two home, two away—and the team always stays at the same hotel. He knows this. It’s probably the same hotel his old teams used.
Nick chuckles, the timbre rich and hearty. It does something to me, deep inside, and I do not appreciate it.
“I’m just passing through.”
“Good for you,” I mutter, going back to my book.
My friend Sadie wrote it, and if dealing with hockey players in real life wasn’t torturous enough, I willingly choose to spend my free time reading romance novels about it, too.
Although her books are male/male hockey stories, so they’re not the same as what I deal with every day.
Sadie’s partner Jared Aviyente is the on-ice reporter for the Grizzlies, and she’s used Vanessa, Audrey, Robby, and me for research over the years, so it’s relatively true to life.
Except where she needs artistic license to make the story work.
As much as I want to yell at the page when something isn’t one hundred percent factual, I recognize that sometimes it needs to happen for the plot.
Although I do like the kissing bits. And the spicy bits.
If only men in real life were open to honest communication and toppling the patriarchy. Until then, I’ll have to escape into a fictionalized reality where love always wins, everyone ends up happy, and the orgasms are satisfying.
Unlike the real world.
“Whatcha reading?” Nick asks, his smarmy voice cutting through my concentration.
I ignore him, refusing to rise to the bait. He’s only going to ridicule me. Whereas I know when Wyatt or Robby do it, they mean it good-naturedly, with him, it won’t be all fun and games. And I’m not in the mood to be mocked.
The bartender sets a platter of cheese fries in front of him, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he pushes the plate between us.
“Hungry?”
Yes.
“No.”
Vanessa and I were supposed to grab dinner while Sven goes out with MacGregor and Logan, but the other two left nearly half an hour ago, and neither my bestie nor her husband have made it downstairs.
Probably sneaking in a quickie. Hell, if my hot-as-hell husband was on the road with me, and we didn’t have a game until tomorrow, I’d be getting my freak on, too.
Not that I have a husband. Or want one.
Except, I admit to myself as I finally pluck at a cheese-covered crinkle-cut fry, I really, really do.
Not so much for the road trips, although traveling together would be nice.
More, I want someone to come home to. Someone to share my bed, to hold me through the night.
Someone who will ask about my day and care about the answer.
Someone who will be there for me through the good times and bad, who will offer a shoulder for me to lean on, and let me do the same in return.
I’m not upset that my friends have all found their forever love. But I can’t deny I’m bitter that I haven’t. Even though I’m not putting any effort into it, even though I don’t date and never give anyone a chance, I still want it so desperately my soul physically aches.
Happily ever after doesn’t happen for girls like me. That’s what my mother has taught me over and over and over again. Sure, she’s never come out and said it. She doesn’t have to. The words she does say are poisonous enough. Maybe if you lose weight. Maybe if you dye your hair. Maybe if you—
I shake my head, as if that will clear the thoughts away. I know it won’t.
Nick pushes the cheese fries closer to me. “You look hungry.”
Whirling to face him, I narrow my eyes into slits. “Excuse me?”
Is that a dig at my weight? I know I’m not thin like the supermodels he probably dates. He doesn’t need to rub it in. Here’s a list of all your faults. Fucking asshole.
He swallows the fry he’s chewing, then wipes his hands on his napkin. His big, strong fingers. I remember how they felt inside me, filling me so fully I could hardly breathe.
Then he does the last thing I expected. He reaches over and smooths his thumb over the space between my brows, where my forehead is furrowed.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he murmurs. “Having a meal with me isn’t the end of the world.”
My breath catches. “It might be.” Can he hear the hitch in my voice? The way I can hardly think around him?
The radiant smile he offers me makes my heart hammer in my chest. “It’s not.”
His hand cups my cheek for a moment, just a fraction of a second, before it’s gone.
“How’re we doing?” The perky fucking bartender is back, this time eyeing Nick like he’s a piece of meat. Look, I get it. He’s hot, he’s only in town for a few nights, he’s a superstar hockey player. And he’s mine.
Okay, intrusive thought. He’s not mine. I don’t have any ownership of him. Hell, I don’t even want him. I don’t think so, at least. But I don’t want her to have him, either.
“I’ll have the steak, medium-rare, with the mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts,” he orders. “Oh, and a Caesar salad with chicken. Bex, what do you want?”
I open my mouth, ready to turn him down. I don’t want to share a meal with him. I don’t want to share anything with him.
“Don’t say nothing, or I’ll unilaterally order for you,” he threatens.
Glaring at him, I hold out my hand, and he passes over the cardstock menu. It’s greasy with fingerprints and stained from who knows what, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“The shrimp and grits, please.” The words come out in a whisper, completely unlike the usual authoritative tone I’ve taught myself to use.
“Certainly.” Is that tension in her voice? I can’t tell over the ick in my ears.
She whips the menu out of my hands, and I dive for my purse.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” Nick taunts.
My hands curl into fists. Rummaging through my bag is difficult, but I want to avoid touching all my things with dirty, greasy fingers.
Statistically, restaurant menus hold more bacteria than a toilet seat, since they aren’t wiped down with bleach all the time.
I’m not usually a germaphobe—my OCD doesn’t manifest that way—except I can feel the germs dancing on my skin, taunting me, and I want to crawl out of my body.
Finally, I come up with the bottle of hand sanitizer, and I squeeze a huge glob into my palm. The sharp scent of alcohol, muted by the orange-blossom perfume, calms my frazzled nerves. It’s psychosomatic, and I rationally know that. Still, it doesn’t lessen the soothing impact.
“Oh, can I have some?” He holds out his hand, and I squeeze it into his waiting palm despite my wariness. He rubs the sanitizer in, then brings his hands to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Huffing it won’t get you high.”
His hearty chuckle and the warm smile he sends me are so familiar, it’s like a punch to the gut. That is what he sounds like. That is what he looks like.
I’ve been so intent on hating him, I’ve forgotten some of the good things, too.
The way he made me feel seen. And wanted. And safe.
Then I had to ruin it. The same way I ruin everything. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.
“Hey.” He sets his hand on my arm. “What’s going on?”
There’s no condescension in his eyes, only concern. Prickles of warmth flood through my veins at his innocent touch on my skin, and I can’t decide if I like it. I don’t want to. But I think I really, really do.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I can’t.
Not with him.
Not with my friends.
Maybe not even with my therapist.
“You don’t have to.” He’s still using that soft, soothing voice. The kind you use with a skittish kitten or an inconsolable child. “I’m here if you want to. But I’m also okay to just sit here. Can I sit here with you?”
A lump lodges in my throat, and it feels impossible to swallow, but somehow, I manage. I give a short, stilted nod, then force myself to inhale, hold the breath for three counts, and exhale. Then I do it again.
Nick gives me a gentle smile. “There we go.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve been nothing but nasty to you.”
“Because I know you,” he says simply.
I recoil. “No, you don’t.”
“I’ve heard Elsy talk about you for a decade.
I didn’t know it was you, but I know you.
And I’m not talking about that thing we don’t talk about.
” His smile turns shy for a moment, a glimpse of vulnerability peeking through, before he covers it up.
“We work together, we share friends and colleagues. They talk about you.”
My eyebrows dart into my hairline. “What do they say?”
“How cool you are. How fun you are to work with.” He takes another cheese fry, then pushes the plate back toward me. “It makes me wish you would show me that side of yourself, too. That I don’t get the stone wall.”
Reluctantly, I pick at the fries. I don’t want to eat them, not when I know he only ordered them to fuck with me. But I can’t deny I’m starving, and they’re here. I’ve always been a grazer; I eat what’s in front of me, even when I’m not hungry.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admit.
“There’s nothing you have to say.” He lifts one massive shoulder in a shrug. The cotton of his team T-shirt looks soft, and I have an inexplicable urge to bury my face in his chest, inhale the woodsy scent of his cologne and laundry detergent. Shove all my problems down deep and lose myself in him.
It would be too easy. Which is why I can’t allow myself to do it.
The bartender brings our meals, and Nick shoots me a wry grin as he unrolls his silverware from the napkin.
“This isn’t so bad, is it? Sharing a meal with me?”
“Could be worse,” I mutter.
“Aw, you love me.” He’s teasing. But he’s not taunting. He’s not being mean-spirited. If anything, I think he might be… flirting?
That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t flirt with me. Not if he knows what’s good for him.
“Yep, sure do,” I tease right back. “Want to get married?”
As soon as the words are out, I regret it. We don’t have the kind of joking relationship where I can say things like that. Where I know he’ll take it how it’s intended.
His jaw drops, his face going slack with surprise. “Uh…”
I roll my eyes, trying to smother my sullen disappointment at his blank expression. “Forget I said it. I was being stupid.”
Nobody wants me. Nobody is interested in getting to know who I am, the real me. There’s a reason I’ve spent my entire life buried in textbooks and, now, work. Why I escape into fiction instead of muscling through reality.
“Bex—”
My phone vibrates on the bar between us, drawing my attention—and his. Elsy. My sister-in-law. His best friend.
The gravity of our situation washes over me like a cold shower. What am I doing? We’re so interconnected. He’s a patient, a player on the team I work for. This is crossing so many lines. I can’t flirt with him. I can’t even allow myself to want it.
No. This can’t happen. We can’t take back the past, but it doesn’t have to impact our working relationship in the present.
Nick nods to my phone. “Better get that before she sends you a fruit basket.”