Chapter 15
I shouldn’t be angry. I shouldn’t be surprised or annoyed or ready to flip off the world and scream, I told you so .
Asher is exactly who I thought he was. A man who would say anything to get what he wants while planning dates with beautiful models at the same time.
Now I’m living in his house. His house. I moved my stuff in yesterday.
What if he brings her home? What if they hit it off and start dating?
Ugh.
I can’t stand the uncertainty he breeds within me. He’s like cancer, infiltrating my body, taking over my cells one by one.
I never should have agreed to this. He made me feel seen and beautiful and special, and even though the larger part of me knew better, the smaller, softer part of me began believing that he wanted me beyond Mason.
This is what I didn’t want. This is why feelings are so dangerous in this situation.
I’m jealous, and I have no right or desire to be.
He’s a single man who can date whomever he wants. He can fuck whomever he wants. I shouldn’t factor into that. That’s how this works. That’s what is best for Mason.
I had walked down to his office to tell him that I was going to bring Mason to my mom’s.
He didn’t want to go down for his nap, and she called in the middle of my trying and offered to take him for a bit so I could get some ice time.
I stopped outside his office when I heard voices, and then I listened as they planned the date.
I heard the mention of the beautiful model.
I heard someone suggest he get laid, and then I heard Asher say, “Okay, set it up.”
I couldn’t face him after that. I ended up texting him right before I pulled out of the garage, and he hasn’t texted me back to acknowledge it.
Whatever. At least I know the truth now, and thank God nothing else has happened between us. I’ll set firmer ground rules. I’ll start apartment hunting. It’ll be fine.
I inhale a deep breath as icy air fills my lungs, the glow of smooth, white ice a landscape before me.
A smile catches on my lips. Gary had the Zamboni do this since I know his players cleared the ice only about twenty minutes ago.
I finish lacing up my skates with a bit more gusto than likely needed, but then I push onto the ice, my arms floating on either side of me, my head back, and my eyes closed.
Taylor Swift’s “Enchanted” courses through my ears and into my blood for no other reason than to torture myself.
I twist into a spin and then skate backward along the edge of the boards, picking up speed and heading into my first jump.
My free leg extends out behind me as I bend my other knee, then I step forward and jump into the air and rotate one and a half times, landing blindly, but no less soundly.
My skates pick up excitement, and I hit center ice where I do all kinds of spins and jumps, going faster and faster until I land a double loop—I used to be able to do triples. It’s solid, and I swirl around until I shift into a sit spin, my hand holding the foot of my blade as I twirl.
I come out of it, my spin slowing as the song ends, and then I shriek at the top of my lungs.
“Shit!” The guy holds his hands out toward me. “I’m sorry. Gary told me you were here, and I wanted to watch you skate. I remember seeing you when you were in the Olympics.”
I press a hand over my racing heart. “It’s fine. I just usually skate without an audience now.”
He grins and steps on the ice toward me. He’s cute. Tall and built with sandy-brown hair and darker eyes. “I get it. I prefer to knock the puck around solo now. I busted up my knee during the Stanley Cup finals my third year in the pros. Never made it back.”
“You had a shitty surgeon then,” I comment, only to grimace. “Sorry!” That feels wrong to say, but he laughs it off.
“Probably. I was a kid and didn’t know better.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m an assistant hockey coach for a D1 team, so I’m still in the game. My name is Heath.”
“Are you going to stay out here and watch me, Heath?”
He smiles. “Actually, I was hoping I could ask you out for dinner tomorrow night instead.”
“Oh.” It comes out in a shocked whisper.
“I’ve seen you on the ice before. I’ve wanted to come and speak to you, but the timing didn’t work out until now.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline, and he nervously runs a hand through his hair.
“So, would you like to go out with me tomorrow night? I know you don’t know me, but I thought it would be fun. Gary mentioned you’re single.”
“Uh.” Well… “I’m also a single mother.”
“He mentioned that too.”
Okay then. I would usually say no. Inherently, I would. He works with Gary and is a man, and I hate men—especially in this moment—but it’s also because of this moment that tempts me to say, “Okay. Dinner tomorrow sounds nice.”
A bright smile blooms on his face. “Great! Can I pick you up?”
That would be a definite no. “I can meet you somewhere,” I offer instead.
He slips across the ice on his sneakers and then removes the phone from the side of my leggings, unlocks it with my face, and types something in. “This is where I want to take you.”
He sends a text.
“This is also my number. Meet me there at eight?”
I gulp. Something in his chocolate brown eyes hits me strangely, but I push it away. “See you then.”
He hands me my phone and then walks off the ice, leaving me to myself once more. Only now I have a date tomorrow night.
* * *
Me: How did your press conference go this morning?
Player: It went pretty well. I answered a lot of questions. Made you the star of the show.
Me: *eye roll emoji* Great! That’s my favorite thing to be. I’m glad it went well though.
Player: Me too. It’s a relief to have it done. Where are you? You’re not home.
Me: Nope. I’m not. I’m at my parents’. Mason is spending the night here and I had to drop him off.
Player: Oh. Okay. I guess that’s better actually because I have plans tonight.
Me: Good for you. I do too. That’s why he’s staying there.
Player: What kind of plans?
Me: You tell me yours first.
Player: I’d rather not.
Me: Same.
Player: I don’t like this.
Me: Get used to it. I gotta go. It’s getting late. Glad your press conference went well.
Player: Queen, what kind of plans do you have?
Player: Will I see you later tonight?
Player: You are sleeping at the condo, right?
Player: Why aren’t you answering me?
Player: Wynter! Answer me. Tell me you’re sleeping at the condo tonight. Or at your parents’ place.
I stuff myself into a dress I haven’t worn in years and twist my hair around a curling iron until it’s in soft, tight waves. I draw the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man and paint a smoky dusting of shadow over it. Then I curve red around my lips because red makes me feel like a warrior.
I gave Mason dinner and a bath, and then my mom shooed me out the door with a knowing smile.
I nearly canceled this date a dozen times today.
My heart isn’t in it. I had turned off my phone after I told Asher I had to go.
I don’t want to text him, but now as I sit in the back of the Uber heading to the restaurant, I turn my phone back on just in case my mom needs to reach me.
And when it powers on and all of Asher’s texts come through, I sigh, reading through his frantic texts. With a shake of my head, I put it back in my purse. I don’t know where I’m sleeping tonight—the condo or my parents’—but I don’t feel inclined to answer him.
“Hell, get yourself laid.”
“Okay, set it up.”
I’m trying to focus on tonight. On the date I’m forcing myself to go on. But the truth is, I’m hurt. And annoyed. And wanting to kill Asher, so that’s not helping anything. Did he not think I’d hear about it or see it somewhere on the internet if he’s dating a freaking model?!
I blow out a breath and run my hands down my dress. It doesn’t matter. I’m here for me. Not for Asher. And I plan to give this man a real chance. He was cute and uncomplicated and normal. He has no ties to Joe, and he’s not a celebrity, and he’s not Mason’s father.
All reasons why I should be happy about Asher’s date.
The valet opens the door for me and helps me out.
I walk into the lavish restaurant, the space large and sprawling with high ceilings and hypnotic music playing in the background.
The bar is at least two layers deep, and the crowd around the hostess stand is intense.
I manage to slip through, but I don’t get far before a warm hand hits my lower back.
“Hey,” Heath breathes by my ear. “You made it.”
I spin around against the warmth of his palm and face him. He’s wearing a black button-down and jeans. His hair is brushed back, and his dark eyes are all over me.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek, and considering I barely know his first name, that feels forward. Then again, maybe I’m the outdated one. Maybe this is how it’s all done, and I just don’t know better. I can’t remember the last time I went on an actual date with someone.
With his hand on my lower back, he guides me to our table somewhere in the center of the enormous space. He helps me into my chair and then takes his own, menus on the table as if he’s already been here a while when I was exactly on time.
“I’ve wanted to eat here since it opened,” he tells me, staring down at his menu. “I finally have an excuse.” A smile brightens his eyes. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me.”
“Me too,” I tell him, not fully sure if I mean it yet.
Gary told me he was new to the team and doesn’t know him all that well yet.
I never would have given him a chance if it weren’t for Asher’s date.
Perusing the menu, I settle on an entrée—no appetizer or dessert—and then set it down over the empty place setting.
“I wasn’t sure you would,” he admits, his features softening. “I know I was a bit forward yesterday, but I didn’t want to let the chance go. I knew the first time I saw you skating that I had to ask you out.”
“Oh.” That surprises me.
He blushes slightly “Anyway, I heard everything here is good, so let’s have some fun.”
I relax at that. Smiling and laughing along and not protesting when he orders some appetizers and a bottle of wine for us to share.
The wine comes along with our appetizers and I settle in, forgetting everything else until he asks, “Did you always want to be a doctor?” He’s sipping from his wine glass, carefree and totally interested, without knowing the blackbox that is my past. That’s a hard question for me to answer without getting into the details of my fifth birthday.
Usually, I answer that by talking about my knee injury and decide that’s the course I’d rather take.
“No. I was at a competition, getting ready to head into my second Olympics the following year, when a skater came too close to me during practice. I was mid-jump and I saw them out of the corner of my eye, and when I came down, I landed funny to avoid hitting them. But in the process, I tore three ligaments in my right knee.”
He frowns, dropping his elbow onto the table. “That must have been awful. I’m sorry.”
“It was… pretty rough,” I admit, shifting some of the tomato and burrata around on my plate. “It was going to be my last Olympics anyway. I wanted to go to college and had gotten early acceptance to Yale that I had deferred.”
His eyes widen. “How? You were… what?”
“I was seventeen, but I had done high school entirely with tutors since I was competing and training so much. I technically graduated at sixteen.”
He looks impressed. “You never got to compete in the Olympics.”
“No. Definitely not.” I shrug. “I retired.”
“So you know what I went through then.”
I laugh lightly at his playful tone. “I guess I do.” I take a sip of my wine as our appetizers are cleared and our entrees are set before us. “Wow. This looks amazing.”
“It does. Do you want to try mine?”
“Um. Sure.” He cuts into his steak and then offers me the bite from his fork. It’s intimate as hell, and I falter. Just do it. Pushing myself up, I extend toward him and take the bite, chewing as I sit back in my seat. “It’s delicious. Do you want some of mine?”
“I’d love to try it.”
I do the same thing he did to me, and he eats from my fork.
“That’s great.” He sets to cutting more into his steak, eating his own meal now, and I do the same, forcing myself not to overthink anything. “You didn’t finish your story,” he prompts.
“Oh. Right. Well, it’s difficult coming back from an injury like that. Knees especially take a long time to heal. But I loved the idea of being able to repair injuries like that, and sports medicine is where I ended up.”
“I think it’s great—”
My phone chimes in my purse, cutting him off. “Sorry,” I say, pulling my purse onto my lap and digging for my phone. “It could be my mother about my son.”
He waves me away. “Not a problem. I get it.”
Unlocking the screen, I read the message. It’s not from my mother. It’s from Asher. And at first, it has my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
Player: Look to your left.
What in the hell? Reflexively, I turn my head, scanning through the sea of diners until, about ten tables over, my gaze collides with a set of furious silver eyes, intensely trained on me.