Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
LUKE
“You played really well tonight, Luke,” Sloane says brightly.
“Thanks,” I mutter, but it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I played like crap, and Sloane was a big part of the problem. I hadn’t known she was in town, and having her show up at my game was an unpleasant surprise.
And things only got worse when Melissa showed up. I couldn’t get my mind off the fact that Melissa was there to watch Austin. And then she sat next to Sloane, and I could tell they were talking. It’s no wonder my concentration went to hell.
So when we got off the ice and Austin went to talk to Melissa, I was tempted to walk right past Sloane. I have a pretty good idea why she’s here, I’m not in the mood for it.
Unfortunately, I was raised to be polite, and my conscience wouldn’t let me ignore her.
So now I’m pretending to listen to Sloane as I watch Austin give Melissa his trademark grin, the one that never fails to melt female hearts. Melissa’s lips quirk up and she smiles shyly back at him. Even though Austin’s my best friend, I hate him right now.
I turn resolutely back to Sloane and interrupt her mid-sentence. “What are you doing here, Sloane?”
She pauses and chews her lip, and as she does, my attention strays back to Melissa and Austin. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but he’s standing too close to her. Like he missed all the elementary school lessons on personal space.
But Melissa’s smiling, as though she doesn’t mind.
“Luke?” I turn back to Sloane, who’s wearing the frustrated expression of a woman who’s had to repeat herself.
“Yeah, Sloane? How did you know when I was playing?” I don’t think she came to a single one of my games when we were together.
“You told me your team was named the Smooth Operators, so I looked up the league schedule online.”
“Okay.” One more thing to blame Austin for; the team name was his idea. If he hadn’t come up with something so cheesy, Sloane might not have remembered it.
But I’m not being fair. It’s not Austin’s fault; if Sloane hadn’t come to hockey, she’d have shown up at my condo.
She’s still chewing her lip, probably trying to draw my attention to her mouth. “I realize things didn’t end well between us . . .”
“You mean when you called me a selfish asshole who was incapable of a serious relationship?”
Sloane flinches, then pulls herself together. “I was hurt, Luke, and I lashed out. I’m sorry.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melissa smile at Austin. Her blue eyes flicker toward me, oh so briefly, before she turns and heads for the door. Relief sweeps through me; she’s not waiting for Austin, who’s walking toward the change room.
“Luke?” Sloane’s voice is frustrated. “I said I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Sloane,” I say briskly. “Apology accepted.” I try to walk around her, but she puts her hand on my arm to stop me.
“I have tomorrow off, so I thought I’d cook you dinner. I brought groceries and everything.”
I feign surprise, although I could see this coming. I’m not fool enough to think she drove all the way here from Toronto just to deliver an apology in a hockey rink.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sloane. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get changed.” My sweaty hockey gear is starting to itch.
But she doesn’t take her hand off my arm. Clearly, she also needs a lesson in personal space. “I have tomorrow off,” she repeats. “So I thought we could talk things through. See if we can, you know, work things out.”
My teammates have started to emerge from the change room, and someone shoots me a curious look as he walks out. The last thing I need is a scene in the hockey rink.
I push out a sigh. “Give me a minute to change, then we can go for coffee.”
Her face falls. “I thought we’d go to your place. Please, Luke?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I know it’s the wrong answer, but I’m tired of arguing and tired in general.
I change quickly, and find Sloane waiting right outside the change room door. Her hand finds its way onto my upper arm as we walk to the parking lot, where her red Audi convertible is parked next to my Honda.
Sloane follows me to my condo and parks in one of the visitors’ spots. As I cross the garage to meet her, I’m relieved to see that Austin’s car is parked in his usual spot, and there’s no sign of Melissa’s Toyota in the visitor parking.
Sloane’s pulling bags of groceries from her car’s tiny trunk. “Thanks, Luke,” she says, as I take them from her. “I bought stuff for lime chicken with quinoa.”
“Great,” I reply, but I can’t muster much enthusiasm.
It’s eight-thirty at night and I’m starving, and all I want is to stick something from the freezer into the microwave so I can eat.
Sloane’s a bit of a food snob, and whenever she cooks, it’s a production.
Last time she was here, she complained that I didn’t own a utensil to julienne vegetables.
She pulls a duffel from the backseat, and I take that from her too. It’s ominously heavy; she’s brought enough clothes for the weekend.
Five minutes later she’s puttering around my kitchen, making herself at home.
“Crap,” she says. “I forgot the cilantro.” She opens the fridge and peers inside. “Do you have any?”
“Pretty sure I’m out.” I don’t think I’ve ever bought cilantro. I’m not even sure I could distinguish it from parsley.
Sloane’s forehead scrunches in disappointment. At one time I would have thought it was cute, but now it just seems childish. “Do you mind popping out for some?” she asks.
“We could have spaghetti instead,” I suggest. “I’ve got some tomato sauce in the cupboard, it would be easy to throw together.” I think of the spaghetti Melissa cooked last week, and suddenly I’m craving it.
“But have everything else for the lime chicken.”
I consider lying, and telling her none of the grocery stores in Somerset are open past eight.
But I have no desire to make small talk while she cooks, so I nod and grab my jacket.
Sloane will probably take the opportunity to snoop through my apartment and check for signs that another woman’s been there.
She won’t find any, but I almost wish she would.
So I drive out to Superstore to buy cilantro for the first time in my life. Fortunately, the herbs are clearly labeled, and it’s easy to find. There’s only one checkout line open, and I find myself in line behind Ethan.
“Hey, Luke.” He looks embarrassed to see me, which isn’t surprising after our conversation last night. But he’s clear-eyed and seems sober, so hopefully last night was just a blip.
And actually, anyone seeing us in the checkout line would probably be more concerned about me than about Ethan. I haven’t had a chance to shower since hockey, so I’m still a sweaty mess, and the only thing I’m buying is a bag of fucking cilantro.
“Hi, Ethan,” I reply.
He glances at the bag of cilantro in my hand but doesn’t ask, and I’m grateful. There’s no way to explain it without giving away the fact that Sloane’s in my condo, cooking a fancy dinner that’ll wreck my kitchen and probably won’t even taste very good.
An uncomfortable silence falls, and Ethan turns his focus to the cashier scanning his groceries. After he taps a credit card and gathers his bags, he gives me a nod. “Have a good night, Luke.”
“Yeah, you too.” If Sloane wasn’t at my condo, I would have invited him to come over again tonight. We could microwave something for dinner, watch a game, and hopefully get past the awkwardness.
But Sloane is at my place, and when I get home, I see that she’s already done a number on my kitchen. Every mixing bowl I own is on the counter, along with a number of utensils I’d forgotten existed.
I hand her the cilantro wordlessly.
“Thanks, Luke,” she says brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready. I opened a bottle of wine from the cupboard, I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure. Do I have time to grab a shower?”
“If you make it a quick.”
When I get out of the shower she has dinner ready, and I help her carry the plates to the table.
“I met one of Austin’s friends at the hockey rink,” Sloane says conversationally. “Melissa. She seems nice. Not his usual type, though.”
“Uh huh.” Melissa’s not Austin’s usual type, she’s way too good for him. But it’s not a subject I want to discuss with Sloane.
Sloane looks disappointed by my refusal to pick up that conversational ball, but she rallies quickly. “I’m almost done analyzing the data for our research paper. I’ll show it to you after dinner.”
“Sure.” I wish I’d never agreed to help with the project, which seems like a colossal waste of time—a study on how doctors introduce themselves is hardly groundbreaking science—but I feel guilty backing out.
A lot of medical journals love this sort of touchy-feely crap, and if it gets published, it will look good on Sloane’s fellowship applications.
It won’t hurt my resume, either, if I’m ever looking for another job.
“Is something wrong, Luke?”
I take a bite of quinoa and set down my fork.
A lot of things are wrong. The beautiful woman sitting at my table has gone to considerable effort to cook me dinner, but the quinoa tastes like cardboard.
And when Sloane leans forward and her sweater slips down one shoulder, the sight of her bare skin does nothing to stir my blood.
“Why are you really here, Sloane?” I ask.
Her eyes widen; she clearly didn’t expect me to be so direct. “Because I think we made a mistake, Luke. We were good together, and we gave up too easily.”
I lean back in my chair. “We still want different things, Sloane.”
“Not really, Luke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’d be willing to move to Somerset?”
There’s a pause. “Maybe for a few years,” she says carefully.
“A few years that you’d spend nagging me to move somewhere else.”
“No! But Luke, I just think you’ve got a ton of potential, and . . .”
“And you think I’m wasting it in Somerset.” Sloane wants a husband who will publish in the big journals and speak at the big conferences. There was a time when I thought I wanted that too, but my priorities have changed.
I want to be a good surgeon, sure, but it’s not the only thing I want.
“Not wasting it,” Sloane says carefully. “But Luke—”
“I don’t want to move back to Toronto, Sloane.”
“It doesn’t have to be Toronto,” she says quickly. “We could go anywhere, to the States, or—”
“But I don’t want to move anywhere,” I say bluntly. “My parents live here, and I’d like them to see their grandkids. When I have them.”
“We’d visit your parents,” she insists. “Surely you’re not going to give up a relationship because you don’t want to move away from your parents?”
“No.” She’s right. The geography is just an excuse.
“Sloane, I’m involved with someone else.” It slips out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about it, but I realize it’s true. Even though Melissa isn’t replying to my texts, and she came to hockey to see Austin, she’s still the girl who consumes my thoughts.
Anything with Sloane would feel like cheating on Melissa.
A single tear trails down Sloane’s cheek, and she blinks a few times. “I see.” She’s already pulling herself together. “Why didn’t you tell me, Luke?”
“Because we broke up two months ago, Sloane.”
“I shouldn’t have come.” She pushes her chair back from the table with enough force to scratch the hardwood floor. “I’ll get out of your way.”
She stalks away to grab her duffel, which somehow found its way to my bedroom while I was at the grocery store.
“Stay here tonight,” I suggest. “I’ll take the couch. You can head back to Toronto in the morning.” It’ll be awkward, but it’s late and she’s upset.
“I’ll be fine,” she insists.
“Please, Sloane.”
“All right,” she gives in. “But I’ll take the couch.”
“I insist.” If I give her the couch, she’ll likely try to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night.
After we finish our dinner in silence, Sloane disappears into the bedroom. I stretch out on the couch, still fully clothed and far too keyed up to sleep.
I type a text to Melissa, delete it, then type it again and hit send before I can change my mind.
Me: It was nice to see you at the game.
I wonder if Austin talked her into a dinner date.
Half an hour later Sloane reappears in my living room, wearing only a white tank top and panties.
“I got cold, Luke,” she says with feigned innocence. “I thought maybe you could come warm me up?”
I’m sure many men would find her irresistible, but I’m not even tempted. My thoughts are tied up in a curvy brunette with blue eyes and freckles. If I got into bed with Sloane, I’m not even sure I’d be able to perform.
“I’ll get you another blanket,” I say, walking to the closet to grab one. “And I can turn up the heat if you’d like.”
Something in my expression must convince her it’s pointless, and she doesn’t argue when I hand her the blanket.
“This will be fine. Thanks Luke.”
“Goodnight, Sloane.”
She heads back to my bedroom, and I pick up my phone again.
There’s still no reply from Melissa.