CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EMERSON
“I made you some chicken soup,” Milo declares, looking at my disheveled appearance with sympathy.
“Thanks,” I say, sniffing and rubbing the tip of my red nose. I’ve blown it so many times that it feels raw, just like the rest of me.
“I’m leaving,” he announces.
“Good call,” I say, taking a seat at the island and pulling the bowl closer. “I’m one giant germ right now.”
He chuckles. “I’ve already had the flu this year, so I’m probably good.” He moves closer to the door.
“You say that”—I lift the spoon—“but there are different strains. You could still get what I have.”
He cringes. “Well, on that note, I’m definitely outta here.”
I try to laugh, but I’m too weak, and my body still aches too much. I start coughing instead.
The door shuts behind Milo, leaving the apartment blissfully quiet. I slurp the broth once my coughing fit subsides, enjoying the heat as it travels down my throat and warms my blood. I don’t know how bad viruses like the flu do it, but it’s left me chilled to the bone for the past four days, like I was stuck in the middle of a blizzard, stark naked. I piled blankets on top of my bed and my body, then would awaken an hour or so later, drenched in sweat. It was a vicious cycle. Today is the first time I’ve felt almost human again. It’s also the first time I’ve ventured outside of my room.
I check my phone. No new messages. Everyone that normally calls or texts knows that I’ve been on my death bed this week, so they’ve left me alone. The only thing I’ve had energy for is to roll over in bed and occasionally visit my bathroom.
Sam has been on the road, though he’s due back today. I’ve checked in with him every day to make sure he didn’t come down with the bubonic plague like me. He hasn’t so far. After two to three days passed, the doctor said we’re probably in the clear. But he doesn’t know that we swapped spit the night before I got sick. In fact, no one knows it. Not even Suki.
I could blame my weakened state for the lack of communication, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I’ve held that moment close to the vest. I want it to be mine and only mine for now. I’m still not sure it actually happened. Maybe I was delirious from early illness that night or from too much alcohol and imagined the whole thing. No, if I had imagined it, I wouldn’t have stopped with a kiss.
I slowly eat a piece of chicken, chewing for longer than necessary to make sure my stomach is going to tolerate the food. I’ve stuck to a mainly liquid diet the past few days, so the soup tastes extra delicious.
My phone pings with a text. I glance down to see Sam’s name on the screen, and my heart skips a beat. I admonish myself, wondering when I became this girl and when exactly Sam became something different to me.
Sam: Are you feeling better?
Me: Yes. Finally.
Sam: Good. We’re boarding the plane to come home now. I’ll be back tonight.
My heart rate quickens.
Me: Helen was here this morning. She disinfected the apartment.
Helen is Sam’s house cleaner. I don’t mention that Milo was here, too, though Sam probably already knows. I don’t feel like poking the bear right now. Though Sam keeps him around so he must like his food.
Sam: I’m too strong to get your weak germs. I never get sick.
Me: Famous last words, superstar.
Sam: I haven’t caught it yet. Even though you stuck your tongue down my throat when the germs were multiplying.
Me: That’s not how I remember it.
Sam: I’m surprised you remember anything with as drunk as you were.
Me: Stop throwing stones. I remember a time when you lived your life drunk. And bring me something lemon home. I need the vitamin C. I looked for that cupcake you had in the pantry before, but it was gone.
Sam: I ate it.
Me: Of course you did.
Me: If I don’t make it through this illness, I want my ashes thrown into the lake.
Sam: Why bother being cremated? I’ll just throw your dead body in whole.
Me: How kind of you.
Sam: Fish food.
I giggle, glad he can’t see me so I can continue to feign contempt. Plus, the giggle quickly turns into another coughing fit, reminding me I’m on the mend, but not quite well yet.
Sam: I need to sign off now. But check the last room in your hallway.
Me: Why?
He doesn’t answer, but I know he sees it because he leaves me on Read . I stumble down the hallway with my messy, unwashed hair and bare face while wearing my old, ratty pajamas. I’ve worn them like a uniform the past four days straight.
The door to the room at the end of the hall is closed. I twist the knob, my eyes widening when I see the scene before me. It’s a dream, like walking into a staged art room at a store. Every color of oil paint, the exact brand I prefer, sits neatly organized in a container, unopened and brand-new. There’s an easel and different sizes of blank canvases. Charcoal. Colored pencils for sketching. Notebooks full of blank white paper, just waiting for images to fill the pages. Empty mason jars full of every size brush you can imagine. A small table and chairs where I can work. Extra lights around for brightness.
I walk around the space, dragging my fingers across all my favorite things, wondering when Sam had time to arrange this. And wondering what convinced him to do it in the first place.
I’ve always wanted a space like this. A place dedicated to my art, where I can go inside and close the world outside off with a door. I can be as messy or as neat as I want because it won’t bother anyone else. It’s my space. Mine . But Sam doesn’t know that. I’ve never shared it with him. How could he know?
I look around in awe, and it’s like Sam stepped inside of my head and pulled out my wildest dreams. If I was given anything in the entire world, this room would be what I wished for. A place dedicated solely to my art. My eyes fill with unshed tears. I flip my phone over.
Me: I don’t know what to say.
Me: Thank you.
I allow the screen to go black, knowing Sam won’t see the message until they land. I explore the room until I grow tired, my body still weak from sickness and my energy low. I close the door and promise myself to start painting as soon as I can, still overwhelmed by the unexpected sentiment. I grab a blanket from my bed and continue to the couch, lying with my head on the pillow at the end, and turn my attention to the television. I start a movie, my eyelids drifting lower until they shut completely halfway through.
The closing of the front door awakens me later that night. The flickering of the television is the only light present in the dark apartment.
“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be there.”
I peek over the couch to see Sam with a phone pressed to his ear while leaving his bag next to the kitchen island. He flips on the overhead lights. I give him a small wave when he notices me on the couch.
“Do I need to wear anything special for the auction?” he asks, still speaking into his cell. He chuckles. “I’m not coming out in my birthday suit, Ann, not even for charity.” He pauses. “A tux I can do.”
He speaks with the caller for another minute before hanging up the phone and tossing his cell onto the counter.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me, walking over and sitting in a chair next to the couch. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.
“Much better,” I say, wondering who Ann is. “What auction were you talking about? Is it something for the team?”
“No,” he sighs. “It’s for the American Cancer Society. I was involved with it in California, so I contacted the branch here. They’re having a benefit to raise money for people who can’t afford treatment.”
“Wow,” I say, the blanket pooling around my waist when I rise to a sitting position. “That’s awesome, Sam. I didn’t know you were part of anything like that.”
“It’s a cause that’s important to me,” he admits solemnly.
I search my memory for any mention of it online when I googled him a few weeks ago, but can’t recall anything written about it. Sam’s association with a cancer charity would be a PR gold mine.
“Does Mads know about this? It could really boost your reputation.”
“Nope,” he answers resolutely.
“Why not?” I’m confused why he wouldn’t want to shout this from the rooftops. It would benefit his career.
“Because I don’t do it for the notoriety. I don’t want the press talking about what a good person I am for supporting the cause. I do it because I want to and because it’s the right thing. It makes me feel good.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I stew on his words for a few seconds.
“Your heart can be in the right place while you enhance your rep, you know. It wouldn’t make you a bad person. Why the cancer society anyway?”
“My mom,” he says after a few beats. And I get the impression that he doesn’t talk about this often. Or at all. “She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was back in college.” He runs a hand down his face. “It was one of the worst times of my life, watching her go through those treatments. My parents never had much money, and they struggled to pay for everything. The charities helped. So, when I entered the NHL, I got involved.”
“How is she doing now?” I ask, pulling my knees into my chest.
“She’s been in remission for a few years.”
“That’s great, Sam.”
He has a small smile on his face that fades right before he speaks again. “That’s why I never wanted to broadcast my involvement. I wanted to do it for the right reasons—for her—and not because I was getting something out of it.”
“I get that,” I say, reaching for my glass of water on the coffee table when my throat feels dry and scratchy. I take a sip. “But if the hockey team knew, I bet some of the other guys would want to get involved too. And all of that would benefit the charity. It could bring in even more money.”
He smirks. “They asked me to auction myself off this year for a dinner date.”
“The women are going to go crazy.” I smirk, picturing the melee the announcement will cause, the image causing that unfamiliar twinge again. “Can you imagine how much you guys could bring in if there were a few of you up there, auctioning off dates? I bet Cruz would do it. And Cooper. Ollie too. It could make a lot of money for a worthy cause.”
He’s watching me as I speak. “I never thought about it that way.”
I shrug and set my glass back on the table. “It’s just a suggestion. You do what you’re comfortable with.” I pull the blanket back up around my shoulders. “By the way … that art room …” I’m at a loss for words.
“I just thought you could use a space of your own to create. Those guest rooms just sit there, unused most of the time. You’re welcome to paint in here too.”
The attention to detail in that room still overwhelms me.
“How did you know the type of paints I use? The brushes?”
“I cheated.” He smirks. “I went through your stuff when you weren’t home.”
“I can’t believe you did all that,” I whisper. “It was incredibly thoughtful. And expensive.” I know just how much the paints and brushes and canvases cost. And they aren’t cheap.
“I can afford it.”
“I know you can. But you didn’t have to … and the fact that you did …”
It takes some effort to set that up. Effort and time and money and coordination. He did that for me . Just because. Who is this man? He isn’t turning out to be what I expected. He’s so much more.
Our gazes are connected across the small space as the moment drags on. His gray-blue eyes are clear and bright despite him traveling the past few days. They look less empty, less tortured than they did even a few weeks ago. When did they start to clear?
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs, turning toward the television.
“You’re wrong. It’s a huge deal to me.”
He meets my gaze again and holds it. Something starts to stir low in my stomach. I think it’s those butterflies again.
“I mean it, Sam. No one has ever done anything like that for me before. My parents … we don’t talk anymore mostly because they don’t support my art.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I hug my knees to my chest again, fortifying myself against the vulnerability my words are creating inside of me.
“Maybe you’ve been hanging around the wrong people, Doe.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. “Or maybe I’m hanging around the right people now.”
His eyes flicker between both of mine, searching. The television murmurs softly in the background.
“I wanted to do something nice.” His voice is low and rough with his confession. He’s emotional and so unlike the man the rest of the world sees.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Because you continue to surprise me.”
“You surprise me too,” he confesses. “The way you look at me …”
“How do I look at you?”
No hesitation. “Like I’m something. Like even if there’s only a tiny flicker of goodness buried deep inside of me, that goodness is all you see.”
“There’s a lot of goodness inside of you, Sam.”
He shrugs as his eyes drop to the floor. “I guess when enough people tell you that you’re bad … you start to believe them after a while.”
“We all have a little good and a little bad inside of us,” I insist. “But you’re so much more than what you let others see.” I sigh. “Why do you think you’re not that person?”
“Why do you not know how beautiful you are, Em? Because you are.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, running a hand through my disheveled hair. “I’m sure I’m a vision right now. Four days with the flu, puffy eyes, snot running down my face, and in desperate need of a shower …”
“You’re beautiful, ” he insists sincerely.
I study his face for what feels like forever.
“What’s happening between us, Sam?” I ask, suddenly desperate for the answer.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I like the way it feels.”
“I do too,” I confess.
He finally breaks eye contact, glancing away for a few beats. “I’m going to tell the Hawks about the benefit. See if the rest of the guys want to be involved. It’s a good idea.”
“It won’t take away from the sentiment. It’ll only enhance it. Make it bigger and better. Think of all the people who will benefit from your generosity. People like your mom.” I smile. “And if you just so happen to get some positive press out of it … well, that’ll be the cherry on top.”
He’s studying me again, like I’m an anomaly. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Em. Your optimism is contagious.”
“Is that a good thing?” I arch a brow.
“In my case, it is,” he says. “I needed someone with your positivity to rub off on me.”
“Have I rubbed off on you?” I joke, the blush flushing my cheeks even before I finish my sentence. “Because I feel like I’d remember every second of rubbing anything on you.”
He smirks, that infectious look taking my breath away momentarily. “If you weren’t sick …”
“I’m not that sick,” I murmur.
His smirk widens, and he laughs. He rises and presses a kiss to the top of my head while I swim in the sexual tension as it rises between us.
“Rest up, little Doe. Our time is coming.”
“Promise?” I tease.
The fire in his eyes rages. The soft brush of his rough fingers across my cheek ignites a blaze on my skin.
“Oh, I more than promise. But just know … the ball is in your court.”
Sam acts like I’m in control of this situation, but I feel more out of control right now than I’ve ever felt before in my life.
He grabs his suitcase while I rise from the couch and walk into the kitchen.
He pauses as he’s wheeling the luggage down the hallway to his bedroom and glances over his shoulder. “Emerson.”
“Yeah?” I ask while placing my glass in the dishwasher.
“Go to the benefit with me?”
“Like a date?” I ask, tilting my head.
He nods slowly. “Just like a date.”
“I’ll have to get a dress.”
He waits patiently while I’m running his offer through my head, already planning the night in advance. Me in some formal red number and him in a tux.
“Okay,” I agree, feigning nonchalance.
“Okay,” he repeats.
And just like that, everything shifts. And I no longer see an angry, selfish, self-absorbed hockey player when I look at Sam. Instead, he’s starting to look more like the stuff dreams are made of, flaws and all.
And I’m starting to feel like the reckless one—with my heart.