Chapter 23 #3
“Roman, Hollis, Ashish, and Dallas mediated a conversation after we got into a fight on the ice, so yeah, Flip and I are okay. We did go behind his back for a lot of weeks. And he knows what I’m like.” His grip on the wheel tightens.
“So it’s fine for him to rail everyone else and post about it all over social media, but it’s not okay for his younger sister to get railed by one guy she’s hot for in private?
It doesn’t matter if it’s vanilla sex or filthy sex, or anything in between, that’s my prerogative.
I understand that he’s upset we went behind his back, but he can’t live in a land of double standards where what he does is okay and what I do isn’t. ”
“I think it’s more that he knows I can be aggressive in bed.”
I can’t read his tone or his facial expression.
“And if I wasn’t on board, we would not have continued to have sex,” I assure him.
“And again, why is it fine for you to be aggressive with other women, but not with me, if it’s what I want?
I refuse to be ashamed for liking what I like, even if it’s being fucked with a cucumber and then watching you eat it like a savage.
” My thighs clench at the memory. We’re still circling the bigger issues, but one thing at a time.
He squeezes the back of my neck. “We should shift conversation gears if I want to get out of this car without ending up on the front page of the tabloids for rocking a public hard-on.”
“Good point.” Besides, jumping him in a public parking lot would garner a lot of attention neither of us needs. “How do you feel about the upcoming away series?”
He exhales a long, slow breath. “I’ll be starting on second line for the next few games, so not fantastic, to be honest.”
“Because you and Flip duked it out on the ice like man-babies, or because they still want to pull Hollis in the last period to make sure he’s still in peak condition?” I ask.
“More the latter than the former, but I sure didn’t help myself out by fighting with my teammate during practice.”
“Better practice than an actual game.”
“Yeah. Hollis is having a kickass season so far. I know it’s good for the team, but it messes with my head.”
“That’s fair. Hollis was strong in the first two periods last game.”
“You watched?” His eyes flare. “I didn’t know you were at the arena.”
“I wasn’t. We watched from home. Hammer’s worried someone will get wise to their game strategy.”
“One knee injury is bad enough. No one wants to be forced into retirement because of a reinjury.” He pulls into the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant, which ends our conversation.
Tristan hustles around to help me out. I accept his offered hand, but he lets go as soon as I’ve found my footing.
I fall into step beside him. He’s used to wearing suits when he travels and before and after games.
Most of the time he carries himself with an air of arrogant confidence.
But he keeps looking over at me like he’s not sure what to do.
I lift the hem of my dress when we reach the stairs up to the door and use the railing for balance. Halfway up he realizes I’m a few stairs behind and comes back down. “Do you… Can I?” He offers his arm.
“Thank you.” I slip my arm through his.
“Anything for you, Bea.” His fingers find the small of my back as the doorman holds the entrance open for us.
The host clearly knows who he is and addresses him as Mr. Stiles. We’re led to a private table. This is probably the nicest restaurant I’ve been to. Rob’s family was upper middle-class, so sometimes we’d go for nice dinners, but this beats that by a long shot.
We’re given the option of still or sparkling water, and the server comes by to take our drink order. I choose a glass of white wine and Tristan opts for a beer. That’s his go-to drink of choice when we’ve been at the bar.
He crosses and uncrosses his legs—sets his elbows on the table, then removes them and leans back in his chair.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Good. Why?” He rubs his bottom lip.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look…uncomfortable.”
He taps on the arm of his chair. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.”
“How long is a long time?”
He pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “Junior year of high school.”
“What about that cooking lesson? Didn’t that count as a date?”
“I mean…I guess, yeah. But before that, not since junior year.”
The server returns with our drinks, and we order the burrata salad and crab cakes to start.
Once the server leaves, I dig back into this interesting and probably uncomfortable conversation. “But you’ve dated women?”
“Sure. Yeah. I guess.” Tristan takes a huge gulp of his beer and then another.
“By dated I mean you’ve spent time with a woman that extended beyond a one-night stand, and you did things together apart from have sex,” I clarify.
“I guess. Does watching movies count?” he asks.
“In a theater or at home?”
“At home.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What about events—did you ever take anyone to one? Like a charity gala or a team thing?”
“Maybe once or twice, but mostly that was for promo ops and mutually beneficial.” His knee bounces under the table.
Clearly this isn’t his favorite topic, which means I want to explore it more. “What about the girl in high school? How long did you date her?”
“Most of junior year.”
“What was her name?”
“Darla Fitzgibbons.”
“Did you go to the same high school?”
He rubs his lip. “Why are you so interested in my dating history?”
“Because you haven’t been on a date since high school, apart from a couple of charity galas. And if they were promo ops, they don’t count. But the high school girlfriend counts, so I’m interested in her and why you went out with her for so long.”
“Mostly because her parents worked long hours so we could go to her place after school or practice and have sex.”
“That’s the only reason you dated for a year? It must have been some great sex.” I’m needling him on purpose.
“She was nice. And smart. And fun to be around for the most part,” he offers somewhat grudgingly.
“Why did you break up?” I sip my wine.
“Because I couldn’t give her more and hockey took up too much of my time,” he replies. “I don’t know that much has changed.”
“Well, we’re here, doing this thing you don’t normally do, so I think that counts as personal growth. And you play hockey for a living, so it makes sense that it takes up a lot of your time,” I say.
“I had a hard time getting close to people after my mom left. I still do,” he says softly.
Now we’re getting somewhere. “That must have been really difficult for you and your brothers and your dad.” I want to reach out and touch his hand, but I don’t know how receptive he’ll be to contact meant to comfort.
I don’t think it’s something he’s used to, and I don’t want to give him a reason to shut this conversation down yet.
“I came home when she was leaving.” He focuses on his beer glass.
“It was super random that day. I was supposed to go to your house after school, but Flip hadn’t been feeling well.
He’d caught the flu, so I went home instead and found her throwing her suitcases into the car.
She was just gonna disappear. I mean, she did just disappear on Brody and Nathan.
They came home an hour later, and she was gone. I had to tell them. And my dad.”
This time I do reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. No wonder he never talks about his mom. No wonder relationships are hard for him. “I’m so sorry, Tristan. That must have been awful for you.”
“I thought maybe she would come back, but she never did.” He shakes his head. “Why the hell am I talking about this? You don’t want to hear this shit. I gotta use the bathroom.” He pulls his hand away and pushes his chair back. He strides across the room and disappears down the hall.
I want to chase after him. To hug him. To tell him she never should have made him shoulder that responsibility.
That his mother is a horrible coward and he deserved so much better.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Tristan over the past few months, it’s that when he feels anything uncomfortable, making him confront it causes him to shut down.
And this explains his anger when I told him I was moving, and I only gave him an hour. I left him. Without warning. Just like his mom. Of course his reaction was to lash out and shut down.
Our appetizers arrive while he’s gone, and I half expect him not to come back. But two minutes later he returns, sliding into his seat like nothing happened.
This little glimpse into the fall of his family makes me see him differently. I wasn’t wrong about him still being that hurt little boy hiding inside a closed-off man.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, sorry I left you on your own like that. I don’t really talk about that stuff. It’s too hard.” He sets his napkin in his lap. “Which one do you want to start with? You eat half and I’ll eat half and then we can trade?”
I let it be for now. “I’ll start with the crab cakes, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, for sure.” He sets the plate in front of me, then moves the burrata salad in front of him.
We’re both quiet for the first couple of bites. The crab cakes are decadent and delicious. The flavors burst on my tongue.
“You need to try this.” I slide my fork through the tender meat and lean in so I can offer it to Tristan. “It’s literally the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
“Really? The best?” He gives me a cocky grin as his fingers wrap around my wrist. His plush lips close around the tines, pulling the bite free. He chews thoughtfully. “It’s good. But you taste infinitely better.”
“You’re not getting in my panties tonight,” I warn him.
“I know.” He peeks up at me. “Doesn’t mean I can’t think about it. Or fantasize aloud.”
“Is that your attempt to wear me down?”