Chapter 4
OFFICIALLY TERRIBLE
LAKE
I fiddle with the console in my car, trying to find the right music for this moment. Do I blast a breakup tune? Some kind of your-boyfriend-is-a-dick song?
Correction: ex-boyfriend.
I fight off a stupid smile. Is it terrible that I’m glad my sister’s clever, pretty, upbeat friend is suddenly single? But I push those thoughts out of my head, just like I’ve done with all the other Remy-centric thoughts that have landed in my head for the last year.
I find a promising playlist—something that sounds a little like the Arctic Monkeys and a lot like the kind of music you’d play after a really shitty day.
“Good?”
Remy nods from the passenger seat, clutching a bottle of champagne against her chest.
“What’s your address?”
“I’ll do it.” She leans closer to punch the address into the car’s GPS, and I catch a hint of her shampoo. Something floral and clean, and far too tempting.
I steal another hit of it.
When she’s done inputting the address, she sits back and gives a small, apologetic smile. “It’s not too far away.”
“It’s no problem.” I’d drive her to the other side of the country if she needed me to.
“Thanks again.”
She doesn’t have to keep thanking me, but I don’t want to correct her post-breakup etiquette. Or any etiquette. I pull out of the players’ lot, nodding goodnight to Carmine at the security kiosk.
Remy looks away, purposefully, that hat still pulled low. But the second we pull out of the arena lot, she tugs off the cap, then runs her hands through her lush hair, combing out those gorgeous brunette locks.
“I’m not a hat person,” she admits, like it’s about more than the accessory.
I cruise onto the Embarcadero, the stars in the sky reflecting in the shimmering waters of the bay.
“What's the story behind this hat hatred of yours?” I ask.
As I sail past Fisherman’s Wharf, still teeming with tourists, a tease of a real smile appears on her face. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all night—better, even, than a goal. “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she says.
“I won’t laugh.” It also feels important, this assurance.
“You promise?”
“Swear.”
She exhales heavily. “They feel like they’re squeezing my head.”
I could point out You can adjust a ball cap, you know.
But she doesn’t need a hat lesson. Feels like what she needs is maybe permission to be herself. I glance at her, holding her gaze for a short beat before I return my attention to the road. “You never need to wear a hat with me, Remy.”
She’s quiet at first, then says, “Thanks, Lake. And it’s ironic, isn’t it? Since my last name is Hatmaker.”
I bark out a laugh as I slow at a red light. “I don’t know how I missed that.”
“My last name? Understandable. You don’t have to remember it.”
Oh, I knew her last name. And more details about her than I should know. “No, about Remy Hatmaker’s hatred of hats.”
She leans her head back against the headrest, then sighs. When the light turns and I tap the pedal of my electric car, she adds in a tone full of regret, “I can’t believe everyone saw that.”
I won’t lie and say that no one noticed what went down on the Jumbotron. All I tell her is, “Yeah, it really sucks.”
“It does,” she says, slumping lower in the seat.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, tempted to keep up the convo and ask: Did you actually want to marry that trying-too-hard asshat?
Jameson always seemed like he was putting on a show when I walked past his craft beer stand on the concourse. Like everything was about being your cool brewmaster bud—from the vest, to the undercut, to the way he talked about mindful brewing.
Like that’s even a thing.
I keep my mouth shut though. The GPS tells me to turn left, so I head into the Marina District, and my forearms tighten when the cool, modulated voice says we’re less than half a mile from our destination. I don’t want to say goodnight to her.
As I maneuver through traffic, she blows out another breath. “I shouldn’t have…” she mutters, then purses her lips.
“Shouldn’t have what?”
She rolls her lips together as if sealing in her emotions. She looks like the bottle of Veuve Clicquot she’s clutching, like she’s ready to bubble over. Like she wants to.
“It’ll stay between us,” I add. Maybe she needs someone to confide in who’s not a friend, not a family member—just some dude she works with occasionally.
Sometimes it’s easier with people who don’t know us, who haven’t seen all our flaws, who aren’t aware of all our mistakes.
We roll along a busy block where festive music plays from a tapas bar. When she shifts her gaze to me, her brown eyes are wide, swimming with remorse. “None of it had to happen this way tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
She closes her eyes and covers her mouth like she’s warring with herself to keep the rest locked up tight.
After a few seconds of struggle, she drops her hand and blurts out: “I thought he was going to propose to me. Last night I found a little jewelry box in his sweatshirt. I figured it would be during our date, since our one-year anniversary is coming up, and the game was important. I hustled to arrange things at the arena. A big, fun mood. A declaration. On the Jumbotron, so everyone could see. I had a videographer lined up. I ordered the best champagne. I planned the elaborate, romantic moment I’d always imagined, and it went completely wrong. And it’s all my fault.”
There’s so much to unpack in that confession, but we’ve reached her place. I slide into a spot out front, turn off the car, then shift in the seat to face her. “Nothing that happened tonight was your fault.”
Remy just stares ahead through the windshield into the dark city night.
I set a hand on her knee, squeezing. I shouldn’t, but I don’t always listen to good sense.
“He could have stopped once he knew you were broadcasting. And he fucking knew. You don’t hear your voice reverberate and not know.
” Her brow furrows, like she’s chewing on that thought, and after a moment, I add another.
“You set it up, but you acted on a big fucking clue, and you were hoping for something. But he didn’t stop when he should have, and that’s just wrong. Fuck him. That guy is just a dick.”
At last, she turns to face me, as a soft smile shifts her lips. “Thanks, Lake.”
I let go of her knee. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
It’s not a question. I get out of the car, walk around to her side, and swing open the door. Remy pops up, still holding the champagne bottle, with her hat and a friendship bracelet hanging around its neck.
I want to grab that bracelet, sneak over to Jameson’s stupid beer stand, and shove it up one of the taps, far enough to fuck up his business.
For now, I walk Remy toward the front door of an awfully nice Scandinavian minimalist-style place.
She nods to the side of the townhome, though, and I follow her to a little porch leading to a guest house.
When she reaches the stoop, she looks up at me. “Thank you again. I really did need that. And I owe you.”
She owes me nothing, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s spotting opportunities. “Promise me something, then.”
She tilts her head, her pretty eyes brimming with hopeful curiosity. “That I’ll have a fantastic time hanging out with my plants while I avoid the world the next few days?”
“That. But also this. Promise me you’re not going to take him up on that offer to make a dating profile.”
“Are you offering to help me set one up?”
You’re looking at your profile match, sweetheart. That’s what I want to say, but I’m no good at romance. Instead I say, “When you’re ready to set up your profile, call me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your phone will ring in a couple of years.”
This makes me unreasonably happy. I tuck my finger under her chin and say, “Chin up, Remy.”
“Chin up,” she repeats, like it’s the night’s mantra.
I let go of her. As I lower my arm, I rub my thumb across the pad of my finger where I touched her. It’s…sparking.
Hell, I am too.
She goes to tap a code on a keypad but stops after one button, then spins back, holding up and waggling the bottle. “Do you want this? I don’t think I’m going to drink it—not tonight, at least.”
“Save it. Crack it open when you’re officially over that jackass who never deserved you.”
“Deal.” She pauses, brow knit, then her lips curve with some amusement. “How did you get a deal and a promise out of me?”
I flash a confident grin. “I’m just that good.”
“Evidently.”
As I walk away, I catch a widening smile, which stays with me down the steps and back to my car.
The image tags along as I drive through the fog of late-night San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the hills of Sausalito, until I reach my quiet home in Cozy Valley, away from all the madness of the city and all the mistakes I made there once upon a time.
* * *
Two days later, passing drills have my thighs screaming in the best of ways, and I skate behind the net, taking an easy lap. Riggs, our left winger, skates behind me.
“I hear you’re an onion,” he says dryly.
I snap my accusing gaze to Miller, who’s guarding the net. “And you’re a rat.”
Miller just shrugs, shooting me a smile from behind his face mask. “I’m a rat. You’re an onion. It’s all good.”
“We can call you Lake Onion and Miller Rat,” Riggs shouts, racing ahead of me.
I catch up easily. “And I’ll call you…Tortoise,” I say, flying past him. Helps being the fastest guy on the team.
That speed helps us win that night’s game, but even I’m not fast enough to evade the head of PR.
After the W, he finds me unlacing my skates in front of my stall.
With his tablet in hand and perma-grin locked in, Daniel launches his request with some butter: “Lake, of the two clutch goals. Can you talk to the media?”
Riggs barks out a laugh as he chucks his jersey into the laundry bin. “Lake? Talk to the press? More like grunt.”
He’s not wrong. Not usually. “I talked to them the other night,” I point out.
“Two goals, my man. Two goals,” Daniel emphasizes, staring at me with dark eyes.
“But, really,” I bargain, “don’t those goals speak for themselves?”
Daniel laughs lightly, then turns serious. “Nonetheless, you had the most impressive game.”
Joking aside, I hate talking at these after-game interviews, but I’ll be fined if I refuse. Reluctantly, I pull on an athletic shirt and trudge out of the locker room. Immediately, I scan the halls for Remy. I don’t see her chestnut hair, her clever smile. How the hell is she doing? Is she okay?
I wish I knew.
In the media room, I weave past a table of snacks and a crowd of podcasters, bloggers, and sports reporters, then park myself behind the table on the dais at the front of the packed room.
Daniel announces, “We have Lake Axelrod for a couple of minutes,” and before the final word is out, a baby-faced sports reporter in the front row shouts, “Why were you hitting stuffed foxes into the stands the other night? Was that a commentary on the Jumbotron Dump?”
Holy shit. It has a name? “No,” I bite out.
“‘No’ to it being a commentary, or ‘no’ to it being about the Jumbotron Dump?”
For fuck’s sake. “Why are we talking about something that happened two nights ago?”
“Because it’s still news,” he says earnestly. “The video has more than two million views.”
It’s like someone punched me in the kidneys. I guess that’s a clue as to how Remy must be doing—awful.
Daniel clears his throat. “If you want to ask Lake about tonight’s game, that’s fine. Let’s focus on the present.”
Nice redirect. Answering dumb questions about the stuffie slap shots won’t help Remy. People will talk about the Jumbotron incident, whether I comment or not.
If only I could distract them.
While answering perfunctory questions about tonight’s game, I scan the room for inspiration. Then, yup, I’ve got it.
I wrap up my time, stand, and give a wave, something I never do.
I say a polite goodbye as I leave the dais.
Also out of character. Keeps their focus on me.
As I pass the snack table, I grab a handful of Goldfish crackers, toss one high into the air, and dart out my tongue to catch it.
Then another, then another. By the time I’ve reached the door, I’ve caught ten in a row.
I look back at the media gaggle, and they’re all recording me. “To answer your question about the other night,” I say, from the doorway, “I guess I just wanted to show off my fun side.”
Then I exit. Maybe it won’t go viral, but maybe it’ll take some heat off of Remy, and she won’t have to deal with more blowback.
But in case she does, I want to make her day a little better. On the way home, I duck into a shop and send a little something to her place, along with a handwritten note.
Hope this is keeping you in good company now.