Chapter 30
Present Day
I feel emotionally unprepared to walk into the lobby of Chase’s gleaming luxury building on West Twentieth Street.
“Good evening. May I help you?” The concierge behind the desk—a beautiful Black woman in a sleek dress and stylish gold hoop earrings—is better dressed than I’ll ever be.
“I’m here to see Chase Merritt?” It comes out sounding like a question, because it’s hard to reconcile the Chase I used to know—the broke college guy in the beat-up truck—with this palace of modern design.
The understated furniture is angular in an interesting way, and there are more windows than in a greenhouse.
“And your name, please?” Then she studies me, and her eyes narrow. “You’re the girl from that video.”
“It’s Zoe,” I say weakly.
“Interesting.” She lifts a phone and punches in a code before having a brief murmured conversation. “All right, Zoe from the video—go on up to The Lair.”
“Sorry?”
She frowns, as if I should already know what she’s talking about. “The penthouse level. Three players share it. You’ll see. Chase is in the second unit.”
“Okay, thank you.” I proceed to the elevator, with its plush carpet underfoot and its brass buttons, which go from 2 to 10, plus the topmost level, marked with PH. Someone has glued a label beside it that reads Party Headquarters.
Lord. I guess professional hockey player is an oxymoron.
The car rises swiftly on smooth hydraulics, and before I’m ready, the doors slide open to reveal a landing with three doors, marked not with the numbers I, II, and III but instead with 16, 41, and 7.
It takes me a second, but I realize those are jersey numbers. Tremaine is 16, Chase is 41. And I’m pretty sure DeLuca is 7.
I roll my eyes and then knock on 41.
“Just a sec!” calls a voice inside.
Be cool, Zoe. This is no big deal, right? Just a glimpse into Chase’s bachelor pad, where he brings all the models and Grammy nominees home for dinner and sex.
The door pops open, and Chase is suddenly in front of me, beckoning.
“Come on in,” he says. I miss his next sentence.
It’s something about food and his refrigerator.
But I’m struck by the sight of Chase in low-hanging gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt bearing the name of an AHL team in Connecticut.
It’s just unfair how good he looks in sweatpants. And, phew, is it hot in here?
Trying not to gape, I follow him inside, where I’m blasted by another beautiful view.
It’s hard to know where to look first—at the sunset over New Jersey, visible through windows that stretch two stories high, or at the outrageously elegant loft apartment, with its miles of golden wood flooring and the most sprawling low-to-the-ground sectional sofa that I’ve ever seen. It probably has its own zip code.
Holy. Cow. I knew Chase had money, I just never imagined he’d be so good at spending it.
There’s an open-plan kitchen, long and sleek, at the far end of the space.
A lengthy stone-topped bar separates it from the dining area opposite.
And over the kitchen area rises a loft level, which houses a well-stocked home gym.
Wow, I think as I shed my coat, hanging it on a hook beside the door, where I get an oblique glimpse through a doorway to the bedroom, also lined with gracious windows as well as a king-sized platform bed made up with a puffy comforter in slate green.
The place is so stunning that it takes me a moment to advance toward the kitchen, where the refrigerator is open.
And to spot the willowy woman standing in front of it.
“Hi, I’m Marnie,” she says. “You must be Zoe. I wondered who that extra portion of guacamole was for.”
A woman. Oh my God. His girlfriend is here. My heart climbs into my throat, and stays there, which makes it hard for me to squawk out a greeting. I manage. Just barely.
But I can’t stop staring at her. She’s tall. Really tall. Statuesque. Her thick hair is caught up in a braid down her back, like I used to wear. Maybe Chase has a type. It would almost be funny if I weren’t dying inside.
“All right, Chase,” she says with a smile.
Fuck. She even has a dimple. “For lunch tomorrow you’ve got a quinoa bowl with lean proteins—chicken, salmon, or turkey.
Warm it up, but add the avocado and fresh greens after, so they stay crisp.
For dinner tonight you’ve got the enchiladas—chicken and bean.
Whole wheat wrappers, so it’s almost healthy. Now I’ve gotta run. Time for yoga.”
“Thanks, Marnie. Really appreciate it,” he says.
She squeezes him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy it.”
Then she leaves. No kiss, which seems weird, but it’s just as well, because I’d probably die of distress.
At the door she stops and turns around. “And no more cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery. I saw the box in the trash.”
Chase smiles at her suddenly, and I’m hit with a lightning bolt of familiarity.
Because it’s a real smile—the kind I used to get.
For a moment I feel joy fizzing behind my breastbone.
But then it hits me that his smile is aimed at someone else, and I realize I’m probably going to need several of Billy’s cupcakes to recover from this evening.
I wonder how late that place is open.
Then Marnie is gone, the door closing behind her. Chase and I are going to dine together for the first time since the Obama administration. And I have no idea how to get through it.
Chase is moving around in his kitchen, pulling two plates out of a cabinet. They’re expensive-looking handmade pottery. “Let me just plate up our enchiladas. They’re my favorite. And Marnie’s guacamole makes me cry.”
It’s probably going to make me cry, too. “She seems nice,” I manage.
“She should be at these prices,” he mutters.
I play that sentence back inside my head. And then my gaze lands on one of the containers on Chase’s counter. There’s a sticker on it that reads Marnie’s Meal Service.
“She’s… your personal chef?”
Chase glances up at me. “Mine and a bunch of other players. You probably saw her van in front of the building. She drops off once a week.”
I’m an idiot. And yet a happier one. My lungs expand, and I feel like I can breathe again.
“I don’t have time to shop,” he says, and I realize he thinks I’m judging him.
“Of course you don’t!” I say brightly. “You should hire the personal chef. All the personal chefs. And nice goal against Florida, by the way. Gold star!”
He squints at me, probably to figure out why I’m suddenly babbling. We lock eyes, and suddenly I can’t look away. It’s so weird to be standing here, watching the twenty-nine-year-old Chase move around his sleek kitchen. It’s like visiting an alternate universe.
I finally drag my eyes off him and glance around the room again.
The giant low sofa against the windows is so welcoming.
There’s an equally massive coffee table stretched out in front of it, with a few books and magazines on top, making the space feel lived-in.
This isn’t a show home. “Your place is so nice,” I whisper. “It’s not what I pictured.”
“What were you picturing?” he asks. “My dorm room in Filbert Hall?”
“I never saw your dorm room,” I point out. “And I don’t know what I expected. I used to spend a lot of time trying not to think about your life, to be honest. Just putting that out there. I know it’s awkward.”
He studies me, and for a split second his expression softens.
But then he busies himself prepping our meal.
This involves a sauce and some cheese, and the broiler of his fancy oven.
Meanwhile I inspect the objects on a low bookshelf—a couple of game pucks on little wooden stands, and a gleaming Rookie of the Year award.
Then I move to stand near the soaring wall of windows to watch the sky turn purple over New Jersey.
“All right, let’s eat,” Chase says eventually. He uses hot pads to carry our plates to the table. “Oh, we need the lights.” He taps a panel on the wall, and the table is suddenly lit by a soft glow from the fixtures around it.
He fetches a handful of silverware and two glasses. “For drinks I have some fizzy water in a couple of flavors. Or maybe a beer…”
“Water is fine,” I say quickly. I don’t want this to feel like a date. Too confusing. I take one of the glasses and fill it from the tap.
Inevitably we settle at the table, where the most incredible plate of food has been set down before me.
There’s bubbling cheese and a blob of bright green guacamole on the side of magazine-perfect enchiladas.
The high-end lighting—and the proximity of my first love—make the space feel terribly intimate.
Or maybe that’s just me. “Thank you for dinner. You didn’t have to do this. ”
“You know I’ve always liked feeding you,” he says, which is something the old Chase would say. Then he sighs. “Look, I apologize for my tantrum the other day. It just never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be able to skate together anymore.”
“Yeah.” I study my plate without really seeing it. “And I’m sorry I made it personal when you got frustrated.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I hope I didn’t cause a rift between you and your mom over something that happened so long ago.”
I pick up my fork and sink it into the tantalizing enchilada in front of me. “You didn’t cause a rift, because I haven’t asked her about it. I believe you, though. She lied to me. She probably did it all the time.”
He takes a bite of his dinner and watches me, thoughtful. “When we were young, I noticed all the ways you and I were the same. That’s all I noticed, though, and it kept me from understanding a few things about you.”
“Like what?” I breathe.
He busies himself with his food for a second. “I was forced to grow up fast. No mom, and a dad who resented me. I made all my own decisions from too young an age. But things were just the opposite for you—nobody ever let you make your own choices. You were too valuable.”
“I had to win medals. Make everybody proud.”