Chapter 11
Present Day
After the bartender’s phone call, I scramble into some clothes and grab my Legends jacket. Then I take off running up Eighth Avenue.
I’m out of breath by the time I reach the bar, and my bad knee aches. But when I throw open the door, I have a flash of déjà vu. Several of the beer-belly guys are still in their circular booth, where I left them hours ago.
Furthermore, they catcall me when I walk in, exactly like they did earlier tonight. Except this time they sound louder and sloppier.
The bigger change, though, is that Chase is standing at the bar, more or less in the same spot where I watched the game earlier. His elbows are parked on the wood surface, and his head is hanging down, as if in exhaustion. Harp—the bartender—speaks quietly to him.
But I’m the one who’s supposed to convince him to leave? He’s no more likely to listen to me than he is to write a haiku in my honor.
Harp looks up. “Oh, hey, Zoe.”
Chase’s body jolts at the sound of my name. Slowly, he turns his head in my direction. And when he finds me, his expression opens up. In a flash, I see the old Chase—the blue-eyed party boy who was always happy to see me.
But just as suddenly he’s gone. His chin dips toward the empty glass in front of him, and his mouth tightens. “Can I get another beer?”
“Not tonight,” the bartender says as I close the distance between us.
“Chase, hi,” I say cheerfully. As if this were any meetup between two old friends. “What are you up to?”
“Drinkin’,” he grunts.
“Any particular reason?”
“What do you care? Just… out having fun.”
“Hey, loser!” shouts one of the beer bellies. “We need a minute of your time!”
“Fuck off,” Chase grumbles.
“You know what, Chase? We’re going to have to work on your concept of fun.”
He swings his chin in my direction and squints at me. “Zoe, what are you doing?”
“I live in the neighborhood.”
“Of course you do. Fuck my life.” He gives his head an exaggerated shake. “But I meant—what are you doing in New York? What do you want from me?”
I hesitate, wondering how truthful I’m allowed to be.
“Look, the Legends were the only team who would hire me right now. But also…” I swallow hard.
“Eighteen-year-old Zoe wants some closure. I admit it. But grown-up Zoe just wants to win some hockey games and keep her job. I’d really like to fix your skating. ”
Chase snorts drunkenly. “You do, huh? You think others haven’t tried? You think I haven’t tried?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” I say quickly. “But I think I have something to offer. I’m good at what I do.”
“You always were,” he mutters. “That was never the problem.”
My heart stumbles. Then what was? I take a calming breath. “Listen, I know you hate me…”
He turns. “You know that, huh?” His eyes may be squinty tonight, but they’re still a startling shade of blue. “You got me all figured out?”
“Well, yeah. You’ve ignored all my messages.”
His forehead crinkles. Then he looks away. “Give me a break,” he says carefully, like a man trying not to slur. “I got a lot going on. Go home, Zoe. You can’t fix me. Maybe nobody can.”
Oh, Chase. I’m searching for the right thing to say when a balled-up napkin hits Chase in the back. “Yo!” one of the beer bellies calls. “You ever gonna face us? Fucking coward.”
I glance over my shoulder and see all their anger focused on Chase, and a shiver runs down my spine. “What do they want?”
“To beat Trenton,” he mumbles. “Too late.”
“They’ve been at it for an hour,” the bartender says sourly. “They won’t leave until Chase leaves. So how ’bout you cut me some slack and let the nice lady hail you a cab?”
“Nah, fuck them,” Chase says. “Fuck the haters. Fuck the team. Fuck the fucking fuckery.”
“I completely agree,” Harp says, polishing a glass. “Still, you’re going to have to fuck all the fuckery from a new location.”
To my horror, the beer bellies keep advancing. The napkin thrower walks right over to the bar to yell at Chase from point-blank range. “I’m talkin’ ta you,” he thunders. “What do you have to say to your fans?”
“Chase,” I prod. “How about an Uber? What’s your address?”
But he’s not listening to me. He spins around on the barstool and rises with more agility than you’d expect from a drunk man. But the expression on his face is thunderous. “Fans, huh? You trying to start something?”
The boozer in the hockey jersey takes another step forward. He has a bad mustache, like an overgrown caterpillar. “So now we exist? Like you actually give a crap? Maybe if you paid this much attention tonight in Trenton, you wouldna lost to a suckass team.”
The bartender makes a noise of exasperation. “You’ve been talking shit about him since the minute he walked in here, just looking for a fight. Shut your face already or I’ll call the cops.”
Cops? A shiver runs through me.
“Somebody needs to light a fire under his ass,” Mr. Mustache sneers.
“And you’re an expert, huh?” Chase rasps. “How’s your slap shot?”
The rest of the beer bellies laugh from their booth. “He’s got a point!” someone yells.
Mr. Mustache reddens. “You rich fucker,” he growls at Chase. “Can’t take a joke.”
“A joke? What joke?” Chase says, his voice full of disgust. “You been chirping me all night. You’re not even good at it.”
The big man’s face turns an uglier shade of red. “You’re a fucking disgrace.”
God, I’m so tired of entitled men. “And you’re not?” I demand. “I give you two minutes facing down Trenton before you’re running home to your mommy.”
There’s a wave of laughter from around the bar. “Sick burn!” someone hollers.
And now this dude is clenching his fists. “Stupid bitch. They’re paying him five mill to cough up the puck to a third-rate team. Merritt is a fucking joke.” He takes another aggressive step forward. “A goddamn waste of space.”
Chase goes rock solid beside me. “What the hell did you say?”
Oh no. My stomach curdles like bad milk. Acting on impulse, I step between the two men. “Back off. Chase Merritt is never a waste of space.”
The thrum of laughter makes me feel powerful, at least for a second. But then things seem to happen fast. First, the fan’s heavy-lidded eyes flare with anger. Then his meaty arm rises to sweep me out of his way so he can get back to accosting Chase.
I brace myself for impact. But when it comes, it’s not the impact I’m expecting. Drunk or not, Chase has the million-dollar reflexes of a professional athlete. He reaches around my body and pulls me in. My back collides with his strong chest.
Oh. Oh, wow. Just as my muddled brain processes the scent of his cologne, Chase uses his other arm to block a punch from his worst fan. He just sort of snatches the guy’s arm out of the air. Then, using his grip, he gives the guy a push.
It’s just a schoolyard shove. But the fan is unsteady on his feet, probably from drinking beers for six hours straight. His big body tilts like a bowling pin. I watch in slow motion as he begins to teeter. And then he falls down. All the way down to the sticky bar floor.
And he bounces.
I wince. But then it gets worse, as Chase steps away from me to lean down over the guy on the floor, his fist cocked.
“No!” I stop breathing.
Time grinds to a halt as Chase eyes the guy sprawled out on the floor. Then, as my lungs begin to burn, he rises slowly again. “You’re not fucking worth it,” he mumbles before unclenching his fist.
He takes a step back, and I exhale. But my relief lasts only a second. Because that’s when I notice the angry glares on the other beer bellies’ faces.
“My buddy was assaulted!” one of them hollers. “I’m calling 911!”
“I already did!” someone else says.
Oh God. “Chase. It’s time to go now.”
His exhausted gaze finds mine. “So you’re in charge of me now? That’s rich.”
I put a hand on his biceps. It’s like clutching a steel pipe. “It’s time to make your exit. Could you come outside, please? It’s important.”
For a moment he just stares at me. “Sounds like a terrible idea,” he says eventually. “For so many reasons.”
I glance over my shoulder and find the whole bar staring back at us. “Chase. You need to get out of here and get away from all these people.”
He seems to consider that for a second and then just shakes his head. “Last time I went anywhere with you, my life imploded. Gonna have to pass this time.”
His words land like a blow. He may be drunk, but he hasn’t forgotten every ugly detail from our past. “Let me rephrase,” I say carefully. “You don’t have to go anywhere with me. But you have to get out of this bar. I’ll find you a taxi.”
He stares me down, those bright eyes searing into me, and I can’t help but wonder what he sees. “Jesus, Zoe,” he whispers. “You ever watch action movies?”
The change of topic catches me off guard. “What? Sure. Why?”
“At the end there’s always a fiery explosion,” he says, as if this conversation makes any sense. “It’s in, like, slo-mo, right? The screen turns orange, and then the fire spreads out in every direction.” He makes a motion with his hands, which I suppose is meant to represent an inferno.
“So?” I glance warily at the beer bellies helping their friend off the floor.
“So that’s what you were in my life, Zoe. A big orange fireball. And now you’re back.”
I suck in a breath, taking that in. But I never get a chance to respond, because the door pops open. A waft of icy January air rolls into the bar, and two uniformed police officers step inside.
“That’s the guy!” one of the drunk fans says, pointing at Chase. “Arrest him for assault.”