Chapter Twenty-Two
I wait in the VIP box until the stadium starts to clear out, long after the team has disappeared through the tunnel to shower and change.
When it feels like I’ve overstayed my welcome, I pull my jacket tighter around my body and begin to wander, trying to figure out where the team locker rooms might be. I ask a security guard, but he only scowls at me, his frown lines deepening when I tell him I’m one of the player's girlfriends.
He probably thinks I’m a stalker, so I can’t really blame him for not being forthcoming with that information.
Eventually I find the edge of a corridor that seems promising, a large sign hanging down the tunneled hallway that reads ‘Authorized Personnel Only’.
My boots echo as I move closer to the opening and lean against the wall.
Across from where I’m at, there’s a merch stand and a nacho bar, and the employee smiles warmly at me.
I’m seemingly the only soul in sight, this end of the stadium now abandoned.
I send a text to Gareth, letting him know where I’m at so he can find me, and it takes several minutes for it to send, reception spotty at best.
The rumble of a steel gate pulls down around the merchandise stand, locking everything in safely for the night, and I glance at my watch.
The memory of Gareth’s home run flickers through my mind—the crack of the bat, the uproar of excitement when the Bears realized they’d won.
Gareth’s smile when he glanced up at me and mouthed I love you.
I get lost in the daydream, my heart fluttering.
Then, suddenly, my feet aren’t on the floor.
I yelp, hands instinctively flying to hit whatever has lifted me. Then I’m turned in strong arms, clutching my fists against a soft black long-sleeved shirt, pressed against a firm and familiar chest.
The scent of soap and sandalwood embraces me, and Gareth pushes the hair from my face. “Hey, beautiful,” he coos, then slants his mouth over mine.
I push him lightly, swatting at his chest. “You jerk! You scared the shit out of me.” My face deceives me, though, breaking into a wide grin. I loop my arms around his neck, hands in his hair to pull him closer.
He sets me back on my feet but doesn’t step away. Instead, he tilts my chin with his finger, staring down at me with so much emotion a lump lodges in my throat.
“Are you ready?” he asks, almost hesitantly, as if he’s scared I’ll say no.
I arch a brow in question, teasing him a little. “For what exactly?”
“You’ll see.” Gareth threads his fingers through mine, guiding me until we reach a door that’s been propped open a few feet away.
Cold New York air bites against my skin, nipping at my nose, while the city sounds twirl around us, welcoming us back into the chaos of the city. Lights twinkle from the skyscrapers, and I lean my head back, taking it all in.
Gareth presses his hand against the small of my back, leading me to a town car waiting along the curb with the door already open as Charles waits for us.
“Hello again, Ms. Archer. Mr. Fox.”
The inside of Di Mercutio glows like the kitchen of a generations-old Italian villa. The smell of garlic and rich tomato-based sauce hits me the second we walk into the restaurant, my stomach immediately rumbling.
“How did you hear about this place?” I ask Gareth as the hostess leads us back to a table in the corner with a street-side view.
We’re the only ones here—it has to be nearing their closing time—but I can’t bring myself to care as the hostess places a menu in my hands, already open to showcase the delectable meals they have to offer.
“I got to talking with one of the guys who plays for the Crown’s earlier today. Asked him for some restaurant recommendations and he was insistent we come here.”
“They’re open late,” I muse, my gaze cataloging the choices in front of me.
From over the menu, I see Gareth shrug, also scanning through his choices. “I made a call.”
Dinner’s full of laughter, easy conversation, and absolutely amazing food.
Gareth’s attention never wavers, listening to every word—every detail—I feed to him, like he’s storing away each breadcrumb I give to him for later.
He looks at me like I’ve hung the moon, and I wonder to myself if he realizes he’s my entire damn universe.
Under the table, our legs brush, knees knocking together as we share our plates. The chef eventually comes out from the kitchen and we pay him our compliments, raving over the tiramisu he’s brought to us.
By the time we step back into the night, the city feels like it’s beginning to wind down. I check my phone, eyes widening—it’s almost midnight.
“Should we go back to the hotel?” I ask Gareth, knowing they have another game tomorrow, this time at two.
“Are you turning into a pumpkin, Cinderella?” His mouth quirks into an amused smile, eyes sparkling.
“Not at all, but you might need your rest, Sleeping Beauty.”
Gareth laughs and slips an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the waiting town car. “Nah. I’ve got time. Besides, we have one more stop.”
I smile at Charles as he opens the door, and Gareth tips his head.
“Is that so?” I slide inside the car, Gareth following me in after. “Where to now?”
As the door shuts, he leans in to fasten my seatbelt—close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. My breath hitches, and I fight against the urge to squirm.
“You’ll see.” He plants a kiss on my lips before sliding back into his seat just as the car pulls onto the road.
Twenty minutes later, we’re on the outskirts of Brooklyn, staring up at a building that looks like it’s seen better days.
The old neon sign hums, the r in arcade burnt out. Still, the sound of laughter and air hockey spill out onto the city street.
“An arcade?” I ask, skeptical yet intrigued.
“An arcade bar,” Gareth clarifies. “Pinball. Skee-ball. Vodka.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate vodka.”
“That’s fair,” he agrees, taking my hand. “Hopefully the drinks are strong enough to make us think we’re good at these games.”
“I am good at these games,” I correct. “Skee-ball’s my jam.”
He smiles, holding open the door for me. “We’ll see who’s better.”
We step inside the bar, and the first thing I notice are the sticky floors, the neon, and the nostalgia.
I know better than to judge a book by its cover, but the outside of this place doesn’t accurately portray what’s inside.
The walls are lined with every game imaginable, the bar sitting like an island in the center, wall-to-wall people enjoying drinks and camaraderie.
In the corner, there’s an air hockey table, the couple who were just playing it walking away.
I don’t give it a second thought before grabbing Gareth’s wrist, dragging him to it. “C’mon!”
I feel carefree, like I’ve gone back in time and can just be happy. No responsibilities, nothing to worry about. Just the ability to let go and have fun.
The table vibrates with air seeping through the holes on the table, the bright lights flashing, tempting us to play. Gareth pulls out his wallet, looking down at the machine. It takes credit cards, so he swipes his, and the table spits out the puck.
The sharp clang of the paddles hitting the puck, sending it sailing back and forth across the table, mix with our laughter as we unintentionally take turns scoring on each other. The countdown taunts us—fifteen seconds left before the table shuts off.
“I got this, Archer. Don’t be too sad when I win,” Gareth teases, looking at the black circle that’ll crown one of us the victor of dive bar air hockey. He analyzes it, then rams his paddle into it.
It’s fast, but I’m faster, blocking the shot, the puck stalls and bounces off the side of the table. Gareth groans, but in a split second, I send the puck sailing back down to his end, straight into his goal.
“Yes!” I squeal, and Gareth groans.
Jumping up and down, I clap my hands together. His eyes narrow as he prowls over to me, looking at me like I’m prey. Instantly my excitement morphs into anticipation, and I’m putty in his hands when he catches my hips, pulling me flush against him.
“Good game, Trouble.” He kisses me, hard and fast.
I moan as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, but all too quickly, he releases me, and I stumble as I regain my footing.
“Want a drink?” he asks, the picture of calm, cool, and collected. Like he didn’t just kiss me senseless and send my thoughts straight to the gutter.
I nod. “Yeah. A drink sounds good.”
His hand slips back into mine and he leads me to an open high-top, steadying it as he helps me up onto the stool. His fingertips linger before he steps away, heading to the bar to grab us drinks. I didn’t tell him what I wanted, and I’m curious what he’ll come back with.
Leaning against the bar, he glances over his shoulder, his hair falling over his forehead in a tousled mess, and winks before turning back to the bartender, deep in conversation.
I busy myself people-watching, letting my eyes drift over the different games lining the walls, deciding what to play next. Five minutes later, he returns and hands me a whiskey sour before sliding onto his barstool, a glass full of beer in hand.
“How’d you know?” I ask, taking a sip. Depending on my mood, I either order a whiskey sour or a strawberry margarita on the rocks with a sugar rim—but I don’t recall ever telling him that.
He shrugs, eyes lighting up into something playful. “Lucky guess.” Then, quieter—almost hesitantly—he asks, “Are you having fun, Indy?”
“Of course I am.” I take another drink. “This reminds me of that night at the fair. Do you remember?”
“How could I forget?” He leans back, resting one hand casually on the table. “I think about that night probably more than I should.”
“Our first kiss.” My gaze drops, the memory rushing back. I think about it all the time, too. Of how he made me feel, so cherished and seen.
Then the memory shifts, and I’m brought back to the night everything imploded.
As if he senses the change, Gareth braces his elbows on the table. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow thickly, glancing around the bar. It’s not the best place to rehash the past, but it’s loud enough where no one will hear us, I’m sure. “I feel like we need to talk about that night.”
Gareth nods, knowing exactly which I mean.
“You left,” I say simply, starting at the end, because where else is there to start? We both know what happened in the beginning.
His jaw tightens. “You told me to.”
“You should have fought harder.”
The words taste bitter on my tongue. Is that fair? I told him to go. I locked myself in the bathroom and told him to be gone by the time I got out.
I was embarrassed—mortified. I’d just laid myself bare in every sense of the word, and he turned me down.
Rejection sears through me again, the sting just as assaulting now as it was then.
He drags his hand down his face. “Indy—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “I’m not placing all the blame on you, but God, Gareth. The rejection I felt? I was a virgin. I was ready to give you everything that night, and you chose my brother.”
“We both chose him,” he mutters under his breath, his head shaking. His eyes blaze with unspoken words, emotions swirling beneath the surface. “Jesus, Indy.”
My chest tightens. For a second, I wonder if maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation—if we should let the past stay in the past—but he needs to hear it.
I need to say it—I’ve been holding onto this for so long.
“I loved you so much,” I whisper. “It broke something in me when you said you—”
“Indy, I didn’t reject you,” he cuts me off, hurt flashing across his face.
My shoulders sag, the pain I’ve worked so hard to shove away rising to the surface again.
“I wanted you so bad that night. I wanted to slow down, not stop. I didn’t want you to think you were some quick fuck.
I wanted to take my time. I wanted it to be special. ”
He stares down at his glass, jaw ticking.
It’s like he’s afraid to continue his thought, or is bracing himself for my reaction.
Shaking his head again, his eyes meet mine.
“I was a virgin too, Indy. I walked away that night because I thought I didn’t mean as much to you as you did to me.
It seemed like you were only interested in scratching an itch we’d both been feeling for years, and that gutted me.
I wanted to worship you—not just make you come, tuck myself back in, and sneak back down the hall to your brother’s room. ”
Realization slams into my chest. “We both got that night so wrong.”
He’s off his barstool in an instant, his hand tangled in my hair faster than I can take my next breath.
His thumb tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“I’ve spent years going through every moment of that night, wishing I could go back in time and change it.
I made so many mistakes after that—moments I’ll never get to redo.
I’m sorry, Indy. I should have just talked to you then, but I was too much of a coward. ”
I shake my head. “You weren’t a coward, Gareth. You were a kid. We were kids.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Before I can respond, he seals his promise with a kiss.
We spend the rest of the night in a haze of drinks, wrapped in each other’s arms, and playing every version of pinball the bar has to offer. Our conversation is light, laughter softer, but no less meaningful.
If anything, everything means more now that we’ve opened an old wound together and now have the opportunity to make sure it heals properly.
I think we’re off to a good start.
When we finally call it a night, the city feels calmer. The roar softened into a dull hum, lights dim, like New York’s taking a second to relax before morning.
“I have a confession,” Gareth says as we walk to the car hand in hand.
I look up at him, quietly waiting.
His lips twitch as he brings my hand up to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. “I didn’t book you a room. You’re staying with me.”
I laugh, breathless. His confession’s an assumption I’d made before I even stepped foot on the plane.
We stop beside the car, and Charles steps back, giving us a moment.
Rising on my tiptoes, I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“That’s good,” I murmur, letting my mouth drift to his lips.
But I don’t kiss him—not yet. Instead, I smile as my hands slip behind his neck.
“I sleep better with you next to me, anyway.”