Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
MIA
I swear my breath is freezing mid-exhale as I trudge through campus in my snow boots.
Yes, technically, we are on winter break, and there aren’t any classes, but the library is still open, and I’m determined to get some extra study sessions in. The florist I work at in the center of town has been crazy busy for the holidays, and while I need and want to pick up extra shifts so I can live on more than just soup, it’s left me with little time to get through my assignments.
I’m determined not to take handouts from Dad. Him paying a huge chunk of my tuition fees is compromise enough for the both of us.
Even if I have to work all hours, I’m doing it. I’m standing on my own two feet and being the independent woman my mom always was. She loved my dad with her entire heart, but she always taught me to follow my dreams and not waver for anyone. I know if she were still here now, she’d be right behind me, encouraging me to go for it.
When she passed, I was a teenager with no real idea of what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be when I grew up. Mom had always asked me what my dreams were, but I could never answer, instead shrugging my shoulders and turning up the volume on the TV.
Her death almost broke me and Dad, but to this day, I feel like losing her finally showed me the path I wanted my life to take. I want to help people. When I get home at night, I want to feel like I made a difference for someone. Just like the people who helped me deal with and process Mom’s death did for me.
Opening my own practice is my dream, but it would also be a legacy to the woman who repeatedly told me I had the ability to achieve whatever I wanted.
With no siblings and a dad at his breaking point, I had to grow up fast. I supported him with the Destroyers and tried to step up at home, too, offering to help with the household tasks my mom used to take on since she hated employing people to do them. But a career in hockey was never what I wanted, and the years I spent as his assistant made that all too clear.
The warmth of the library hits me square in the face when I push through the heavy doors. It’s virtually empty as I scan myself in and make my way to a booth at the back. Even the librarians look like they’ve gone home for the holidays.
There’s something about a library. The smell of old and new books mingling in the air soothes my senses in the best way. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in the world or even what decade we’re in; the moment I walk through those doors, life feels timeless, weightless, and peaceful.
I dump my bag of books down on the table in front of me and I take a seat on the hard wooden chair, but quickly stand and shove my red winter jacket onto it and sit on that. I plan to be here until this assignment is complete, and a numb ass will not help my concentration.
As I pull out my laptop, I gaze around the vast space, only two other booths are taken, way ahead of me, and near the front. One of the guys, who I assume is a senior, leans back and cracks his knuckles above his head. He must sense me staring and smiles over his shoulder at me.
Immediately, I avert my eyes back to my open laptop and focus on the screen.
Two thousand words down so far. I need to double that today to have a shot at getting this assignment turned in on time.
Two hours and two packets of Chips Ahoy!—which were small, I might add—later, and I’ve only written a thousand words.
I’m going to be here all day, aren’t I?
I reach into my bag and root around for the textbook I need next, but I can’t see the bright purple spine I’m looking for.
Shit.
I left it back at the dorm, probably under my bed. Either that or Tara “borrowed” it.
I’m sure as shit not heading back in the pouring snow, so my best hope right now is that there’s a spare copy around here somewhere.
Finding the reference number is easy enough, and I start to search the long shelves. The intoxicating aroma of pages fill the air as I eventually make it to the psychology section and turn the corner at the end of the stack to head down the right row.
And that’s when I see it. With their back to me, another student is in the same section.
Please, oh please, don’t be after the same book as me.
The black Scorpions cap he’s wearing backward is the first thing I notice, and then it hits me—his spicy cologne—and I stop dead in my tracks. Even if I wanted to move, I couldn’t.
And even with his back to me, I know exactly who it is. Who that hand belongs to as he examines the books.
“Jessie?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, even in the silence of the library.
The second he turns to face me, I know he’s not okay. I saw him a couple of weeks ago before he fled the café, but in those few moments, at least I knew he was doing alright.
Not right now though.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—like he did when he was with the Destroyers.
His face is… haunted.
His usual piercing blue eyes are dark and sunken, the blond scruff on his jaw is longer than I think I’ve ever seen it, and his complexion looks gray.
But somehow, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
You wouldn’t think he was an NHL hockey player and definitely not the most gifted of a generation—or maybe even several.
The man in front of me looks like he’s spent several nights sleeping rough, and that breaks my fucking heart clean down the center.
Do I love Jessie Callaghan?
At one time, I was sure I did. When Dad told me he was being traded and I’d never see him again, I locked myself away in my room and cried until not just my eyes, but my entire body ached.
Ultimately, I convinced myself it was young love, and the sadness turned to anger and resentment. He never called me, and he left my messages on Read—the two blue check marks made my stomach flip in the worst way.
In the end, I was glad I hadn’t given my virginity to Jessie Callaghan. Because he didn’t deserve to have it.
Neither of us has moved since I whispered his name into the silence.
“W-why—h-how are you here?”
He looks back at the books and squeezes his eyes shut.
When he slides a random book off the shelf, he studies the front cover and laughs silently, but nothing about this is funny. “Figured this was the best place to start with self-help,” he pushes out.
Other than a few words telling me he wasn’t feeling well when I saw him in Whistler, I haven’t spoken to him directly in months.
Last summer, we spent a couple of hours together when he took me out for dinner one night in Dallas. He’d finally replied to one of my texts when I’d asked if he was okay.
He was an asshole that night. He told me he wanted me, but that we couldn’t be together and I was better off moving on and being away from him. The cold way he delivered it cut through my bones.
I know I shouldn’t have gone to Whistler and waited for him in that café. I should’ve listened to him last year. But when Coach Burrows—my dad’s closest friend and a guy I’ve known for most of my life—invited me to his house for Thanksgiving last year, I couldn’t help but overhear him telling his wife that Jessie and his friends were spending the holidays in Creekside Village. I wanted to see him, to see that he was doing okay. To tell him I was doing what I’d threatened so many times—leaving the Destroyers and following my dream of studying psychology.
But the second he flew out of that café, I knew I’d made a mistake, traveling all that way from Seattle. I knew I had to let him go.
And I did, as much as it hurt to accept that we were over.
So, why is he here?
“You want to study psychology?” I reply, still in a daze that he’s standing in front of me. “Do you go here? Like, as a student or something?”
Why the fuck would he be a student, Mia?
He still doesn’t look at me fully as he continues to stare down at the hardback in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d moved to Seattle?”
At last, when he looks at me, I see it—the pain. My jaw is agape as I struggle to contain my reaction to his appearance.
“I did. Well, I tried to tell you back in Whistler, but you ran out on me, leaving me in a random café with your friends. You know, the super-famous hockey friends you have. And their wives or girlfriends and babies.”
Fuck me, that was embarrassing, as they all stared straight at me. I swear one of them—the goalie, Jensen Jones—knew exactly who I was.
He’d either seen one of the very few public photos of me and Dad and recognized me—which I doubt—or Jessie had told him about us.
Part of me hoped for the latter, that he’d missed me enough to talk about me.
He blows out a silent, humorless laugh and drums his fingers on the front of the book. “I needed to see you. To check you were okay. I was told you were studying here, and I knew there was only one subject you’d take. So, I took a gamble and came here.” With his free hand, he scratches the back of his neck. “Third day’s the charm.”
My eyes go wide. “You’ve been coming here for three days?”
“Yep.” He pops the P .
He takes a couple of steps toward me, and every single hair on my body rises in response to his movement.
I point at the book still in his hand. “Are you actually a member of the library and going to check that book out?”
When he comes to stand only a foot or so in front of me, I look up at his six-three frame. I’d still need to stand on my tiptoes to kiss him.
I can smell the booze on his breath. Something I used to gloss over when my dad discussed Jessie’s state of mind in board meetings. Something he started hiding more and more successfully with strong mouthwash and gum back when he played for the Destroyers. Something I’m sure he does before he sees his current teammates. But today, I can tell he’s too far gone to care.
He hands me the book and shakes his head. “Nah, I came to talk. Is there, like, a place we can get a drink or something around here?”
I quirk a brow in response. “Sure. If you can promise to stay in this café for longer than thirty seconds.”