Chapter 53
SUPPOSED TO BE
LAKE
My lungs are burning, my thighs are screaming, and my shoulders want to murder me. I’ve been knocked into the boards more times than I want to count, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. We’re still scoreless in a rough, messy game. I’ve missed shot after shot.
I chase the puck with one minute left on the clock, hoping for a goddamn miracle—both in the game and in me. But I don’t know that I can do what I’ve done in the past: Put all my emotions into the game. Because there’s someplace else they want to be. With her.
She’s where I want to be.
But I’m here on the ice, so I line up and take a swing. Their goalie blocks it like it’s nothing. The clock eats up the rest of the minute, and we trudge off the ice to the visitor locker room. I toss my gloves on the bench, yank off my helmet, and try to rub out the knot of tension in my neck.
Riggs pats me on the back. “We’ll get them next time,” he says.
The guys have been nice to me. Because they know. They saw the blowup, the admission, the beer on the dress. They watched the stupid live stream.
I’ve barely said a word though. I grumble something like “thanks,” then hit the shower, stewing in my aloneness once again.
I’m good at that. Being alone.
It’s where I’ve been for the last three years.
I’m an expert at going solo. I could teach a master class. So I should be able to handle this—the inevitable end of a fake romance.
Too bad my chest is hollow, and it aches more than my bruised body.
Soon I’m boarding the team jet so we can fly back to San Francisco, but as I slog up the steps to the plane, dread coils in my stomach. I have to face my father for the first time since the wedding.
He doesn’t know what happened. Shocker: he doesn’t watch advice shows that are live streamed. He likes the Property Brothers and sports.
When I reach the cushy faux leather chair in the second row, I sink down into it, my jaw tight, my mind a traffic snarl.
Corbin pops up behind me, Miller in front of me, Ivan in the aisle, Riggs by my side.
“Is this a clown car?”
No one takes the bait.
“Dude, what are you gonna do?” The blunt question comes from Miller. And it’s a valid one.
And I could blow them off, make a snarky comment, grump my way out of the conversation.
But I’m tired of being lonely, I’m worn out from my own inner grouch, I’m exhausted from thinking only of her. “Besides pay all you assholes?”
It’s an admission, all right. They won the bet. I fell ass over skates in love.
Ivan gives me a wise look—the look of a happily married man. “You could just tell her.”
Is she even ready, though, for all these fucking feelings inside me?
Does she need a guy like me who’s madly, outrageously, ridiculously in love with her when she’s a mere month and a half out of a toxic relationship?
I can’t just be a rebound with her. I can’t take it day by day.
I can’t be casual. I want everything. “She broke up with that fucknozzle less than two months ago,” I say, like that proves my point.
“And the night of the wedding, she thanked me for being a good boyfriend—that was it. She acknowledged it was fake. I was only ever supposed to be a rebound.”
Corbin gives a so-what shrug. “‘Supposed to be’ doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Hmm. Maybe he’s onto something.
“And maybe let her make that decision about what she wants,” Riggs says.
And dammit. He has a point too.
“Pretty sure she can’t do that though unless you tell her,” Miller adds.
And I hate that they’re right.
* * *
But first things first. I pull into the gravel driveway late, clocking that the light’s on in the living room. A weight settles into my gut, but I have to tell my dad now. I have to let him down. He’ll be so destroyed. He liked Remy so much.
Well, get in line.
I’m heading up the porch steps, mentally prepping, when somebody inside opens the door. Holy shit. It’s my father. He never opens the door. It’s too close to outside.
“What is going on?” I ask with some trepidation.
He gives a cheeky grin. “I wanted to open the door for my son. Anything wrong with that?”
Something dangerous like hope swells up inside me, but I tamp it down. I’ve been hopeful before. I don’t need to be hopeful again. “How’s everything going?” I ask, stepping inside.
“I’m okay. But are you? That was a tough game.”
“Yeah, it was,” I say, and then I shut the door and follow him to the kitchen table. He gestures to two plates, each one holding a sandwich on thick, seeded bread—my favorite.
“Figured you’d be hungry. Made you a sandwich,” he says, and I’m pretty sure it’s the fake bologna Remy turned him onto. For some reason, that makes my heart hurt even more.
“I’m ravenous,” I say, then bite into it. “This is good,” I admit.
“Told you so.”
No matter how good the sandwich is or how hungry I am, I need to face the music. I set the sandwich down. “Dad, I’m not with Remy anymore. We were just faking it for her terrible ex-boyfriend.”
His brow furrows. “Faking? Is that a new thing your generation does? Like ‘situationships’ or ‘cuffing’ or something?”
A smile tugs at my lips. I can’t believe my dad is using those words, let alone knows them.
“No. My point is I was lying to you all along. She’s not my girlfriend.
We were doing it for her sister’s wedding.
To stick it to her ex,” I say, but that’s hardly the truth.
Ah, hell. This is harder than I’d thought.
“And I wanted to make you happy. I knew it would make you happy if I were seeing someone.”
He pauses, giving that some thought. “Bullshit.”
I blink. “What?”
“Bullshit you were doing it for me.”
This is not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be disappointed. Instead, he sits taller and looks me right in the eyes. “I don’t think you were faking it.”
I swallow awkwardly, unsure what’s happening. “You’re not going to give me a hard time over lying to you?”
“No, because you weren’t lying to me.”
“I was, Dad,” I insist.
He shakes his head. “I saw the two of you together. You can say you were faking it all you want, but you weren’t. You fell for her, and I’m pretty sure she fell for you too.”
I can’t resist picking up that last one. I’m such a sucker for her. “How do you know?” I ask, my voice pitching up.
“She wanted to meet your father. She gave you a gift to give me. She talked to me at the house. She talked to me about her ex. And she talked to me about how to be brave.”
That kernel of hope wiggles through me. Tempting. Alluring. “How?” I ask, quiet, careful, like if I talk too loud, the fragile possibility might disappear.
“I made an appointment to see a therapist.”
It’s a rocket that just launched me into another galaxy. This thing I’ve been wanting for years. My heart soars. “Are you serious?”
“It’s an online appointment. I’m going to start that way, but she talked about how she likes to control her environment, how she tries to make sure everything’s just right.
But how therapy helped her to face her stuff.
” He stops, closes his eyes like this pains him, then opens them.
“That forced me to realize I’m doing the same thing. And I need to face my fears.”
I reach across the table and wrap my arms around him, choking up. “I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s about time,” he says, his voice breaking too.
“You’re brave,” I tell him as I let go.
He’s quiet, as if he’s giving that some thought. “You can be brave too.”
I flash back over the last month or so. The date at Costco. The puzzle shop. The haircut. The kiss in the dress shop. The list. The nap date. The road trip. The secrets we shared. The way she talked to me, the way she trusted me, the way we came together.
She’s done more than build me a cat tower. She’s shared her secrets; she’s let go with me. And, most of all, she’s helped my father.
She’s the most real thing to happen to me in years.
I’ve always operated on instinct on the ice. Off the ice, I’ve protected myself. But maybe I ought to trust my instincts because I know—I absolutely know there was nothing fake between us.
If I do nothing, I’m just one of those guys who’s not worth the effort.
But Remy is worth all the effort. And I’m not one of those guys.