Chapter 14
CALLUM
Alia takes a small bite of her taco instead of responding.
She eats so daintily, I question whether she likes the food.
I hand her the guacamole, which she dips into immediately, pairing it with another swig of the ginger beer.
The smallest shudder, a happy one, passes through her, easily missed if I wasn’t looking.
Okay, so maybe she does like the food but isn’t vocal about it. Another thing I file away in my subconscious. I don’t mind that Alia is a quiet person, but I wonder if she’s chosen to be silent because it’s safe—or because she’s hiding.
We spend the next couple minutes absorbed in demolishing our meal.
I hadn’t planned on pulling her out of her house in her pajamas.
I certainly hadn’t planned to offer to take her out to eat yet again.
It’s become our thing—chats over coffee, with quick bites of food and conversation.
Nothing serious, no proper dinners. That’d be too much like a date, I suppose.
It’s been nice to have a non-hockey friend, though. That’s why I don’t mind playing up my whole ‘charming and flirtatious’ routine. Because it makes her laugh. It’s why I experience a wild sense of accomplishment eliciting any reaction that shows she’s at ease. Because we’re friends.
“I don’t have many friends.”
I’m not expecting her declaration, so it takes me a few seconds to process she’s said anything. She’s eerily on topic with my thoughts. I glance at her, but she is focused on the crumbs lining the wrapper she’s using as a makeshift plate.
“Sorry, what?”
Her head dips lower, trying to shrink away. A deep sigh later, she places what’s left of her taco down.
“I said, I don’t have many friends.” She shakes her head, a sad huff shooting out of her as her chest caves in. “Truthfully, I don’t have any. That’s why I texted you.”
I place both my elbows behind me, resting them on top of the picnic table, leaning back so I can see her clearly. “I don’t understand.”
Alia waves one hand in the air, like she’s trying to gather words to explain herself.
“I didn’t know anyone except Irsia and Rohan when I moved here.
I was reliant on my ex to make any connections at all.
He was surrounded by all these high-achieving individuals, the upper crust of society.
I was expected to play the part of a perfect wife.
Help him maintain the image he wanted to project.
When we divorced, I realized the difference between being in a social circle and truly belonging.
Three years with those people, and I had no one I could call friend when I left. ”
“What about your friends in India?”
“I lost touch with them.”
“Why don’t you reach out?”
“I feel like I’m bothering them if I try to. . . I dunno.” She shrugs uneasily, gazing at the crowd as though she’d like to lose herself there rather than be here with me, where the attention is on her.
“Maybe I’m overthinking it,” she admits quietly. “I’m afraid all they’ll see now is someone they pity. Someone who used to be what they are. Someone who no longer fits.”
Oof. I know it’s not the taco in my system making my insides churn.
“Have you tried to re-establish those friendships, Alia?”
“I met with a couple of them when I was in India earlier this year. It was odd.” She shakes her head as she swipes a finger along the edge of the guac before licking it off. “I didn’t mean to emo dump on you. Sorry. That’s not what you signed up for.”
“You don’t hear me asking you to stop.”
She looks up at me and I see the sadness she’s trying to hide. This woman wears her emotions like most people wear clothes. I don’t understand how anyone who’s noticed this hasn’t bothered to reach out to her. It’s so clear she’s still hurting from the loss of her old life, and for good reason.
I recall the early days after being traded to Monterey. I’d played for two other teams before landing with the Ironhearts. I remember the missed attempts at keeping in touch with old teammates and the sinking realization that they’d moved on while I was still trying to find my footing.
Fortunately, the team’s become my second family; their acceptance has forged strong friendships for me in a way I’ve never had before. I know they have my back as much as I have theirs.
Alia doesn’t have that. Why else would she spill her guts to me when I’ve only known her a couple weeks? How lonely must she be, to take my offer of a friendship and jump right into the deep end?
The more Alia downplays her challenges, the more I want to yank her secrets out into the open. The thought should have me running for the hills, but I reach out to lay my hand over hers instead.
“Emo dump all over me, Tots. I look good in black.”
Her chocolate eyes swirl with an emotion I can’t read before she blinks it away, giving me a small smile. The action seems tired and the pang in my chest worsens.
“I’m ok, Cal. It’s just not quite the same anymore. And it’s me. I’m not the same anymore. Maybe I’m jealous of what they have. Personally and professionally, they’ve achieved what I couldn’t. I feel. . .“ She groans, dropping her face in her palms as she mumbles, “You’ll think I’m a fool.”
“I promise you, I won’t. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.”
She drops her hands on her thighs with a thump. When she sniffs, the sound settles like dead weight in my gut.
“I feel like a failure.”
The breeze carries her quiet confession to my ears, her whispered pain twining about my heart and squeezing it tight.
“You didn’t fail, Alia.” I have no reason to feel as certain as I do, but I can’t allow her to think so negatively of herself.
“Callum, I. . .”
“You can’t play cricket because you were in an accident.”
“An accident I could’ve avoided if I’d made a more responsible choice.” Her face twists in disgust, condemning herself for what happened. “I should’ve stayed home.”
“Tots,” I cajole, hoping she hears me. But she’s too far gone. Her self-loathing spills past the edges of her quiet demeanor.
“It was my fault. Then I made one bad decision after another. Getting into that car was the first. Marrying Namik to escape facing the aftermath of my accident was another. I’m living with the consequences of what I did and I’m so. . . tired.”
Her agony sinks a dagger into my already weakening heart. Before I know it, I drop to my knees in front of her. Surprise flits across her face, but she remains silent.
“Listen to me. You’re not a failure.” She opens her mouth to argue but I silence her. “Your accident was not your fault, no matter how the media spun it. Same with your marriage. It takes two for a relationship to fall apart.”
I don’t know what she sees in me that prompts her, because she nearly knocks me on my ass when she confesses, “He cheated on me.”
That fucking cock-sucking piece of shit.
I knew I was right to hate him. I have no time to indulge in the rage that rushes through me because she looks shamefaced.
“Tots, you know cheaters are cowards, right? It was not your fault he cheated.”
“I know.”
Her tone is gentle but defeated. Like she thinks I’m placating her with words I don’t mean. Determination pulses through me and I stand. She startles when I place my hands on either side of her, caging her against the edge of the tabletop and my chest.
Her eyes widen and her head tilts back as I loom over her, using my size to ensure every speck of her attention is on me and what I’m saying.
“If you were my wife, I’d never look elsewhere. I’d be so fucking obsessed with you, you’d need to pry me off and, even then, I wouldn’t let go.”
Her pretty mouth parts in shock and her quick, shuddered intake of breath confirms she heard me and understands how serious I am.
Flecks of amber swim in her eyes, her pupils dilating as she takes me in.
Her gaze flickers, dropping to my mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
When her lashes lift, I want to give in to the urge to close the distance between us.
Surely, one kiss is permissible between friends. Just one kiss.
Like a helpless moth drawn to the brightest flame in a dark world, I lean forward.
My palm grows heated as I get close to cupping her cheek.
I almost feel her smooth skin when my watch buzzes, the red icon blinking to warn me of an increased heart rate.
I halt, my hand hovering in midair, the spell broken.
Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples, I’m so fucking close to crossing the line Moore drew. One evening of tacos and tales and I nearly broke my promise. Shit. Shit. Shit!
Alia’s expectant gaze burns and I do the only thing I can think of to recover. I bypass her cheek and go all the way up to pat the top of her head. I ruffle her hair for good measure, like she’s a kid at the hockey camp I volunteer at each summer.
She blinks at the sudden shift in energy.
“Cal?”
I take a step back even though every cell in my body wants nothing more than to pin my lips to hers and have her sweet voice moan my name instead pitch up in a question.
“If you’re done, we should get going.”
“Oh.”
She looks confused and disappointed. I almost reach for her before catching myself.
Goddammit, any more time with this woman and she’ll find herself bent over the picnic table and fucked ’til she’s forgotten all about her problems. Until her sadness is replaced with pleasure and her voice hoarse from crying for more instead of lamenting past mistakes.
“Yeah, we should go,” I repeat, feeling like an asshole of epic proportions. Her face flushes red and I know this time, it’s not because she’s shy.
I. Am. Scum.
As I drop her off at her apartment, I remain quiet, no longer sure of my ability to resist Alia. The easy camaraderie between us has vaporized and I’m too tightly wound to do anything else except maintain my grip on the wheel. It’s that or her hips.
“Thank you for the tacos, Cal. Good night.”
Alia takes off before I can so much as unbuckle my belt and walk her to her door.
The walls that had lowered between us when she shared her fears have come right back up and I have only myself to blame.
I watch as she practically runs away from me and realize, to my utter frustration, that I don’t have the right to run after her.
What’s the point? After all, we’re just. . . friends.