CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EMERSON
Think of the money.
I keep repeating the words to myself like a mantra. I started saying them after I received the phone call from Madison, waking me from sleep in the middle of the night, informing me that several selfies had been posted online of Sam with various women at some club. I think Mads has her phone and computer programmed so she’s alerted anytime one of the players shows up on the web. Sam, the man who is supposed to be sleeping soundly in the room next door to mine. I said it again, reminding myself of why I was here, while I was throwing on a sweatshirt and jeans and tying my hair up into a messy bun to drag my ass across town to fetch him.
When I arrived at the club, the bouncers weren’t going to allow me entrance with the casual way I was dressed, but I threw around false credentials, insisting that I was with the team and there on specific orders to get Sam—all true—and it convinced them to admit me. I spotted him right away in the middle of the dance floor, his height proving to be an asset in a crowd. He was surrounded by women who used him to create a human sandwich. Their hands and body parts were pressed against his chest, back, and sides. I watched him take a shot from someone he didn’t know. I was moving closer when I saw one of the girls press a vape into his mouth. That was when I snapped, snatching it away and dragging him across the floor with my fingers cinched around his wrist. I tossed the vape into the nearest trash can along the way.
“You’re deceptively strong for such a small woman,” he snarks, chuckling at his own joke.
He’s obviously drunk and swaying on his feet. If he passes out, there’s no way I’ll be able to get him back to the hotel.
“Just keep it together, Anderson,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my irritation.
Though in his state, he couldn’t care less if I’m pissed. He doesn’t have a care in the world right now.
We exit the club, and the music becomes muffled behind the closed door. There’s a long line of people waiting to get inside. I see a few phones elevate to snap pictures when they recognize the hockey stud. I slide my arm around Sam’s waist to steady him and walk us to the side of the building to avoid prying eyes. After propping him against the wall, I order another rideshare.
“Five minutes out,” I mumble more to myself than to him.
I cross my arms over my chest for warmth and wait. The air is cold and damp, especially when the wind blows. Seattle looks gray most of the time. Tonight is no different.
Sam is leaning against the wall, watching me beneath hooded eyelids. The whites of his eyes are streaked with red, and he smells like a brewery. It reminds me of the first night we met.
He reaches out to run a finger along my neckline. I bat his hand away. He grins, but it’s sloppy. His tongue drags along his lower lip.
“Is that my sweatshirt?” he asks.
I glance down at my old Sinclair hoodie. “No.”
“Really?” he continues. “Because it looks like mine. You would look good in my sweatshirt.”
I roll my eyes.
“You would look good in nothing at all.”
I study him for a moment before narrowing my eyes. “Are these the kind of lines you throw at the women in there? Does this work for you?”
He chuckles, and I hate to admit that he looks incredibly sexy even though he’s one drink away from being incoherent.
“I don’t have to throw down game.” He slurs the words, but his arrogance comes through loud and clear. Not even alcohol can hide his ego. “In fact, I don’t have to do anything at all.”
And I know he’s telling the truth. I saw it with my own eyes in college. I remember the way my sister was clamoring for a night with him. It should make me bitter that he has the world at his feet just because he can skate, control a puck, and he’s pretty to look at. Men like him don’t have to work for things; they are handed to them.
But as I’m watching him right now, placing my hand out to steady his body when he nearly loses his balance, I don’t feel envy. I feel pity. Because even though he appears to have everything he could ever want, he seems lost and lonely. And no matter how many women are begging for a chance with him, at the end of the day, they are all strangers. Not one of them knows who he really is beneath the shiny exterior. None of them really want to know him.
And when I peek inside those red-rimmed eyes all these years later, they’re still beautifully empty and hollow, like he’s still missing … something.
I shiver when the cold penetrates my sweatshirt. Sam must notice because he pulls me into his arms. I resist and try to pull away, but he only tightens his hold.
“I know you’re cold,” he murmurs. His breath is warm against my forehead. “Stop being stubborn and stand still.”
I listen, for once, and allow the heat of his body to warm me. He smells like a combination of whiskey and that spicy cologne I smelled when I invaded his privacy the day I moved in. But the scent is even better when combined with his skin.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, sounding surprisingly vulnerable, like my answer matters to him.
I’m sure it’s just the drinks talking.
“Yes,” I whisper honestly. “You lied to me.”
“I did,” he says, squeezing me tighter against his chest. “I was trying to prove a point.”
“And did you succeed?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” His exhale is long and deep. “But I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“Then, don’t do things that make me angry.”
He chuckles.
The rideshare pulls up, the tires splashing through the puddles left from the rain this morning. I help Sam get settled into the back seat before sliding in after him. I close the door, confirm the address, and watch as the streets of downtown Seattle pass by through the window. There’s a surprising amount of traffic at this time of night, especially with the cold and damp temperatures. But I guess the state of Washington is used to this type of weather.
“When are you going to learn, Sam, that your actions have consequences?” I whisper the sentence to the side of his face.
He’s slumped down in his seat, his breaths even and deep, his eyelids closed.
Half an hour later, I wake him, and we manage to walk from the car to the hotel room with my small body sustaining part of his weight. I remove his key from his pocket, ignoring the comments he makes that are filled with innuendos but are only half intelligible by now. We move inside his room, my arm still around his waist, and the door slams shut behind us. Sam falls to the bed with his feet still on the ground.
I squat to remove his shoes one at a time, deciding not to struggle with the rest of his clothes. I tell him to move up so he can place his head on the pillow, and surprisingly, he listens. I can’t maneuver the comforter and sheets from beneath his heavy body, so I drape them over him from the other side of the bed.
I walk into the bathroom and find an empty glass. Filling it with water, I take it into the bedroom and instruct him to drink. He rouses enough to obey, emptying most of the glass, but when he looks at me, his expression is blank, like he can’t really see me. I refill the glass again, and by the time I’m back at the bedside, he’s snoring. I sigh and place it on the table next to him.
I find an extra blanket in the closet and take it to the couch across the room. Shimmying out of my sneakers, I curl up on the sofa and wrap my body in the wool. I type a text to Mads, letting her know I found him and that we’re back at the hotel, safe and sound. Then, I settle in for the rest of the night. I don’t feel right about leaving Sam alone here in this state, even though the last thing I want to do is stay in his room on this uncomfortable couch. But this scenario isn’t new to me. I’ve had countless nights just like this one, only substitute my sister for the hockey stud sleeping in the bed.
Eve hasn’t really changed in the time since she graduated college. She hasn’t matured. She drinks too often and too much. Her main hobby is still chasing men. She works to pay the bills but has rotated through countless jobs over the years and even more boyfriends. So many that I’ve lost count. But when she finds a man with money, she holds on to him for longer, until he grows tired of her antics.
When I moved to Chicago, I was excited to be in the same vicinity as her again. But the newness wore off quickly, replaced by the old, stale cycle of me picking her up and placing her on her feet again. Eve’s a handful. She’s a taker. She sucks you dry until you have nothing else to give. I’ve grown tired of the caretaker role, which is ironic since I’ve placed myself right back into one with Sam. But at least I’m getting paid this time. And there’s an expiration date on this one.
Sam groans and stirs, his head lolling to the right until he’s facing me. His eyes are still tightly shut as his breathing evens out again.
I take advantage of the moment to study his features. He looks so peaceful in sleep, unlike his normally tumultuous, brazen nature. There’s no doubt about it—Sam is an incredibly handsome man. His eyelashes are long and dark and kiss the tops of his cheeks. His jaw is square and strong, peppered with stubble from not shaving. His lips are full and puckered into a slight pout as he sleeps. That dirty-blond hair is mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it. Or someone has. There’s a flush across his cheeks, likely a combination of the alcohol he drank and the cold weather outside. But it gives him a boyish appearance despite his masculine features.
It dawns on me that this man was never meant to blend. He was created to stand out. He does it naturally, stealing everyone’s attention wherever he goes.
Sam’s body jerks, and his features draw tight, like he’s suddenly dreaming. He lives inside his head, even throughout the night. It seems that even sleep can’t completely numb the things he wrestles with or dilute whatever poison is flowing through his veins. It makes me wonder what a man like him, an athlete with the world seemingly at his feet, could be struggling with. But nobody has a perfect life. Not even those who seem to.
Sam settles again. I watch him for minutes that drift into hours until my eyelids grow heavy. And at some point, I fall asleep.