Chapter 42
MY PROTECTOR
REMY
Even if I had my Notes, Complaints, and Existential Crises notebook handy to map out potential outcomes of this conversation, I’d never have picked that one.
That Lake and his late wife were divorcing before her motorcycle crash.
But he did tell me when we played The Naked Truth that he wouldn’t have dated her again.
I just didn’t think they were breaking up back then. Why would I have?
I’m thoroughly unprepared for this moment, but I desperately want to say the right thing. Judging from the way he’s leaning closer to me, holding my gaze, nerves flickering in his beautiful blue eyes, that wasn’t easy for him to say.
I can hear the clock ticking. More so, I can feel it in my chest. “I don’t know what to say.”
But that might be the exact wrong thing because he rolls his lips together, then nods. His expression turns hard and eerily familiar. This is the Lake in control. This is the Lake who’s inscrutable, broody, a closed book.
The Lake before. I don’t want him to go back to being a closed book. I try again, reaching forward, taking his hand. “But I want to understand you,” I say.
His shoulders relax. His jaw unclenches.
I keep going, wanting to help him along this uncharted road. “You don’t really tell that to anyone, do you?”
He scrubs a hand across his bearded jaw. “I don’t.”
“Not even your dad?”
“Especially not him. He liked Heather. I didn’t want him to take on another worry. He was rocked by her death, by how it happened. I didn’t need him to deal with my guilt or my feelings or whatever. I was trying to help him deal with his own stuff.”
Oh, this poor man, keeping it together for everyone else—his family and, I presume, the world at large.
“What about your teammates? Or your brother? Do they know?”
“With Gavin, I maybe said something offhand to him once while we were working, like things were rough there at the end. But that was it. With my teammates, there was no point. Once you say that, it’s out there.”
Boy, do I ever know what that’s like—for everything to be out there. “I hear you, but it’s a lot to carry.”
“I had to carry it. It was one of the last conversations Heather and I had, and she also said she wanted to keep it quiet. Wanted it to be as private as possible while we were going through it. Then she died unexpectedly the next day and all at once the media and fans immediately constructed the story of my grief. It seemed wrong to say anything else then. What would be the point? Just to correct the public record? Hey, Heather Axelrod was killed today, and guess what—she and her husband were splitting up? No one needed to know that. The media had already decided I was the grieving widower.” He takes a second, looks away, then back at me.
“Which was maybe selfish too. I didn’t need to be held up as some fucking sad saint.
But what was the alternative? She didn’t want our split to be a big thing while she was alive, so I didn’t want to turn it into a thing once she’d died.
It seemed like a mean thing to do to her family too, you know? ”
That makes perfect sense. “That’s why you don’t like talking to the press?”
“Exactly. I only want to talk about hockey. That’s it. I didn’t want the image they foisted on me, but the truth felt worse. Both were selfish choices, but exposing the truth felt more selfish. So I kept it to myself.”
This man is such a protector. Sometimes he does it quietly, like for his late wife. Sometimes publicly, like for me when he knocked the stuffed foxes into the stands, and then drove me home.
“You’ve always been the protector, haven’t you?”
He tilts his head, as he’s giving that some thought. “Maybe.”
“You were protecting her after death. Her memory. Her legacy. You didn’t want to share personal details that she probably wouldn’t have wanted shared.”
“She was a good person. We just fell out of love. We grew apart. That was all.”
“Do her parents know the truth?”
He fidgets with the napkin on the table, shaking his head. “I had dinner with them when I was in Colorado. They like to talk about her. I listen.”
I give him a sad smile. “That’s a really lovely thing to do. If it gives her grieving parents some comfort, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I hope so.”
But something gnaws at me. Since I care about him. I lean closer. “But what about you? You keep that all to yourself. But who protects you?” Then I force out a laugh. “I mean, what do I know about keeping things quiet? Everyone knows how my last relationship ended. I’m the opposite of private.”
He manages a small laugh. “Maybe we are opposites. But I’m fine. It wasn’t hard. I just kept my mouth shut and let others tell the story. I didn’t want people saying shit about her after her death. I didn’t want to make her seem…unloved. Know what I mean?”
My throat tightens. “I do. So why now?” Or really, why me?
He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck then shrugs, a little helplessly, like he’s giving in to something.
His expression gentles even more. “You’re the first person I’ve really wanted to understand me,” he says, a quiet confession and one that makes my heart beat wildly.
He shifts his gaze to Lacey’s list. “But also this list. Lacey never got to do all these things. The road trip, the breakfast, the secrets.” He pauses, then seems to backpedal.
“But actually, now that I say that, I think I’ve always been doing this for me—the list. To spend more time with you. ”
That wild beating turns chaotic. It’s like a riot in my chest, and I don’t know what to do about it except keep the focus on him. Maybe I can protect him in a way—with how I treat him. “You deserve nice things too.”
“Thanks,” he says, and there’s relief in his features. He seems…lighter.
“I’m sorry that you’ve been carrying this guilt. And I’m sorry that you were splitting up with Heather. Mostly I’m sorry you felt you had nobody to tell that to. But I’m glad you told me.”
“Me too.”
We’re both quiet for a minute. It’s tough to know what to say next after someone unburdens themselves with a secret they’ve been storing in a locked safe.
I chew on my lip for a second, then say, “There’s something deeply ironic about the fact that everyone knows my business and nobody knows yours. ”
But perhaps that’s why my chest is racing, and something tugs on me—the wish to share with him too. It’s not easy since my dirty laundry was broadcast on the Jumbotron, but there are still things I keep close to the vest.
One look at number five on the list and I feel the suffocating weight of another secret press against me. A secret I’ve only started to unpack over the last few years. Something I’ve been wondering every time I’ve tried to plan a date for someone else, especially recently.
Here goes.
“I don’t know if I’m a romance designer for the right reasons,” I admit.