Chapter 25
THE NAKED TRUTH
LAKE
“Called it,” I declare once I round the corner into the kitchen, spotting my dad assembling the border of the Signs with Sayings puzzle.
He shoots me a look that says calling it was child’s play. “Yes, like it’s a surprise, too, when Thor rubs his face on the catnip banana.”
I stop in the doorway, arch a brow. “Did you just compare your love of puzzles to the cat’s obsession with a catnip banana?”
He stops, stares at the ceiling with a puzzle piece in hand, then shoots me a smug smile. “I did.”
As if on cue, Thor rounds the corner and leaps onto the table then skids, sending a handful of pieces skittering onto the floor.
“You are such a dick,” I say to the big boy, but I pick him up and scratch his chin.
He permits five seconds of contact before ejecting himself from my arms and onto the floor where Dad’s kneeling to pick up the scattered pieces. I bend down and help him out.
When he returns to the table, he slides a piece in, then nods to the stove. “You want some breakfast? I can make you something.”
Shaking my head, I grab a banana from the hanger on the counter, then a bowl. “Nope. Just gonna have some cereal then take off. I’ve got morning skate.”
“And a game this afternoon.”
And…something in between. Something like a date.
Or maybe a date-ish. But that reminds me of something else.
As I peel the banana and slice it into a bowl, I say, “Dad, I forgot to tell you the puzzle is a gift from…” I pause, since I’m not sure how I want her name to sound coming out of my mouth.
Affectionate? Fond? Fucking obsessed? The latter, dickhead, since it’s the truth. “Remy.”
His smile looks positively feline. “That so?”
I head to the pantry to grab the granola. “Yeah, she thought you might like it.”
His smile widens. “She sounds like a lovely lady. When do I get to meet her?”
I freeze, the box of granola in my hand. How the hell can I picture the path of the puck down the ice during a game, but I didn’t see that coming? Telling my dad I’m seeing someone is easy since it’s true enough. Introducing him to a woman I’m having a fake real rebound with is something different.
“That’s a good question.” I return to the bowl, pour the cereal, then add some oat milk. I shove some cereal into my mouth to buy some time before answering. I chew and think, then when I finish I say, “Soon, Dad. Soon.”
I eat as fast as I can then harness Thor so we can take off. I’ll need him for the nap.
* * *
Morning skate ends right on time, and I couldn’t be happier. I shed my practice gear so fast, and am hightailing it out of the locker room when Miller nods my way. “Want to get some lunch?”
“It’s early,” I say, since it’s barely eleven.
“When did the time ever stop you from eating?” Riggs says with a laugh.
Fair point. “Just have some things to do at my place,” I grumble.
“Some things with your hand,” he tosses back.
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for the crude joke. I make a jerking gesture with my fist. “Don’t want to mess with a streak, boys. It worked for the last game. So on that note,” I say, and then I escape from the tribunal.
I hop in my car and head to my apartment, where I already dropped off my cat this morning.
I even got him a new cat tower but haven’t finished assembling it yet.
Dude knows how to make do though—the trouper’s got his own catnip banana here and he’s basking with it in the windowsill of my place in Russian Hill, at the top of a building, overlooking the bay, the sun uncharacteristically shining in a bright blue sky.
Perfect.
Checking the time, I head to the closet where I keep my game day and travel suits, checking that everything’s in place and the card game is on the table.
I stop in the middle of the bedroom suite, my Alaskan king dominating the room, the rays from the sun warming my shoulders. I should feed her. It is lunchtime. Pretty sure she’s a vegetarian, so I google vegetarian options nearby, then shoot her a text.
Lake: Want some lunch? There are some veggie places nearby, and I can place an order.
Remy: I love lunch.
No idea why this detail about her makes me smile. But it does. Maybe because it feels so honest, and I get the sense that Remy doesn’t always, or often, like to let people in. So even a detail like adoration of a meal feels like a secret.
Lake: I’ll make sure it has perfectly squishy avocado.
Remy: Now I’m practically running.
I place an order. The food arrives a few minutes before she does.
And fuck me.
Remy looks good in a hoodie, in a skirt, in jeans, and in her casual attire. Black sweatpants, rolled at the waist, and a white sweatshirt that is mercifully, beautifully, fucking enticingly sloping off one shoulder.
She carries a canvas bag with the blanket in it, and her hair is swept up in a ponytail I just want to tug on.
I don’t say anything for a beat. I just stare at the beauty at my door. She’s here and I know this thing is only a rebound, a fake romance with an expiration date, a chance to show her what she deserves, but it’s also all mine.
My chance.
And I’m going to make the most of it.
* * *
I finish the last bite of a power bowl with salmon, squash, and quinoa, set down my fork, and grab the box of cards.
“All right. Let’s do it,” I say.
“For the unknown bride. Ask away.” She pushes her mostly eaten bowl of quinoa, tofu, and perfectly squishy avocado into the middle of the table.
I fish out a card and read the first question. But nope. Not going to ask that one. “Let me put this one aside,” I say, setting down the card.
She gives me a look. “C’mon. We have to do this fairly.”
“It’s a bad question.”
“I can handle it.”
She probably can but I’m selfish. I want today to go well. I want it to feel date-ish. “Remy.” It’s a warning.
“Lake,” she presses, more urgently, then reaches for the card I don’t want to read.
Ah hell. If I play keep-away, I’m a dick. With some reluctance, I let her take the card.
She reads it, her expression hardening. She swallows, looks up, and says, “What’s the most embarrassing thing to happen to you on a date?” She lowers the card, shoots me a sad smile and says, “I think you know. I think the world knows.”
My shoulders slump at the mention of the Jumbotron incident. “Does it still bother you?”
She screws up the corner of her lips, like she’s giving it some thought. “No. Not really.”
“Which one?”
“Well, both.” She blows out a breath. “I see a therapist pretty regularly. I saw her a few days ago when you were on the road trip. We talked about a bunch of things, but also that.”
I had no idea she was in therapy. “Did it help?”
“She talks about moving on, helping me practice self-compassion.”
“How do you do that?”
“I try to be nice to myself. Sometimes that means getting a face mask—standard self-care. Sometimes it’s time with friends. Other times it’s reminding myself that I’m not just the woman who got dumped. That I can learn from what happened.”
“What do you think you learned?”
She sighs, thoughtfully. “To be less controlling. To let things happen at their own pace.”
She’s suddenly an open book, and I can’t stop asking questions. “How were you controlling?”
She shrugs, maybe a little sheepishly. “I like things to go a certain way, to be right. For dates to go well—those that I plan of course. But also my own. For nights out to go well. Things with my family. I need to try to be okay with things not being perfect.”
There’s so much in there about Remy. That she wants to relax, but that it’s hard for her. Maybe even that she needs time to deal with her breakup.
“She sounds really smart,” I say.
“She is. I’m glad I see her.” She lifts her chin, all proud and tough. “So you didn’t have to protect me from that question.”
“I would have though. If you’d wanted me to.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then nods. “I know you would.”
“Glad you know that.” But I’m not ready to move on to another question yet. The door’s been pushed ajar by her truth card, so I kick it open farther. “Do I need to protect you from seeing him outside of the wedding events? Does it hurt when you do?”
“No,” she says, and the speed of her answer makes me want to kiss the sky. “I’m all good there. Sure, I’ve kind of questioned all my life choices because how was I ever with him? But seriously, it’s kind of amazing how something like that makes you realize you are better off without someone.”
Fuck yes. I fight off a shit-eating grin but can’t quite smother a small smile. “Good. You’re so much better off without him.”
“It only took a Jumbotron incident for me to learn that.” She digs for a card, shooting me a playful glance. “Now it’s my turn to ask you something.”
I brace myself as she reviews the card.
“Would you date your college crush today?”
Oh, shit. Is this game holding up a mirror to my black soul? I swallow uncomfortably, thinking of Heather, the bold, confident athlete I met my freshman year at the college rink. We hit it off, connecting instantly with our passion for the game.
But something changed after we got married right after graduation. We were both so focused on our worlds as pro athletes that we stopped focusing on each other. We were all hockey all the time, and it felt like there was no space to grow, or change.
I think I changed.
I meet Remy’s gaze, earnest and open, making it hard to lie as I pull myself back into the here and now. “I don’t think I would.”
Her lips part, soft, full of concern. “You wouldn’t?” It comes out staccato, concerned. But also clear. She knows what she’s asking. She’s asking if I’d marry my late wife all over again.
I’m keenly aware this answer doesn’t make me look good. But she told the truth and I ought to do the same. This isn’t quite admitting Heather and I weren’t in love—I’ll keep that terrible truth locked up, but I nod and say, “I think I want different things now.”
“What do you want?” she asks tentatively.
To take care of the people I love. But I say something else true. “I don’t want to fail the people I care about.”
She gives a soft, small smile. “I doubt you are.”
I think of my dad staying inside all the time. I wonder. I wish. And I hope.
I move on, too, by grabbing another card. “What’s your biggest fear?”
“Easy. Snakes,” she says, but there’s something in her eyes—a shift—that tells me she’s afraid of something else more than slithery creatures. Maybe something deeper, more emotional. Especially since she turns the question around with a quick, “You?”
“Is that your card?” I tease.
“No, I just want to know.”
“Hurting someone I care about,” I say, a variation on my theme today evidently.
She nods, like she’s taking in that info, then she tilts her head. “For what it’s worth, you’re not hurting me.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Did I think I was? No. But do I want to? Hell no. “I’m glad.”
We play a few more rounds, the air a little softer, the sun a little warmer.
Thor wakes up as Remy tackles the question of whether she’s ever used a fake ID—the answer is a defiant no.
The cat jumps from the sill and sashays past the unfinished cat tower and me to my bedroom as Remy asks one more question: “How are you really right now?”
I’m nothing but truth as I say, “Fantastic.”
Once Thor and his white paws are out of sight, she sets down the cards, checking the clock in the kitchen—a wooden owl cutout with moving eyes. “I don’t want to cut too close to your nap. Do you want me to check out your suits?”
And I’m honest, too, as I say yes.