6 #2
She twists her mouth. “First of all, stop calling me Max. And second, the girl you knew is gone. People grow up, they live and learn, and when they get hurt, they build walls.”
As if she’s forgotten why she came into the room, she tries to walk around me, but I step in her way, blocking the door.
“Maxine…” Her name sounds like a warning, but what I want to say sticks in my throat, too heavy to come out.
“What, Mitchell?” she spits back, slamming her hands onto her hips.
“You need more faith in people. Even the ones who’ve let you down.”
Her eyes travel over my face as if she’s waiting for the punchline to some joke. When I don’t speak, she sighs and drops her hands. “If only it were that easy.”
She walks out, leaving me with the ghost of what she won’t say, of what she’ll never admit to. But I’m sure whatever she’s holding back is cutting her from the inside out.
The wounds from our past are still festering underneath her strong surface. What’s worse is that whatever she thinks I shouldn’t hear, I absolutely should. I deserve every single criticism she wants to level at me and every bit of anger she’s carrying.
After all, every wound she has is my doing, just like every morsel of pain I hold on to is her fault.
Max
“Even if you don’t want to, you have to trust me,” Mitch says, following me into the back office like some sort of suckerfish. “We’ll turn things around.”
From the linen closet, I pull out a bottle of window cleaner, a roll of paper towels, then cast a deep, doubtful glance over my shoulder at him before slamming the doors shut.
“The brewery’s grand opening,” he says, “could be a huge opportunity.”
I groan, my brow pinched. “Could you please stop?”
“Stop what?”
“Acting like you care,” I say.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You actually do. You could leave.” I point to the door behind him. Then, I wave my hands around the room, the cleaner sloshing around in the bottle. “You could forget about all this, and us. Hell, you’ve done it before. Just go. I’ll send you a check in the mail.”
“It doesn’t work that way. And I’m not leaving,” he states, crossing his arms.
I scowl, but then release a defeated sigh. I’m too tired to argue with him about this any longer. “Fine, stick around. But after the opening—”
“Sorry, Toots,” he says, cutting me off.
Toots: a super insulting nickname Mitchell used to use. A reminder of my small size. I used to find it annoying, but now I fucking hate it.
Picking up on my seething anger, he blocks my way out, standing in the doorway wearing that smart-ass smirk. “I’m not leaving after the opening. I think I’ll stay a little while longer.”
“What do you mean, a while?” I ask, digging my fingernails into the paper towel roll to dampen my irritation.
“Not sure exactly.” Without getting out of my way, he stares me down.
“Don’t you have a team to go back to or something?”
“Things are… complicated.” Lost in his thoughts, his eyes bounce around the room, but his focus is far off. “With the brewery and this place, I might as well stick around for a few more weeks. At least.”
“And to be with your dad,” I remind him.
His jaw clenches with his frown. “Yeah, that too.” He shrugs as if dealing with his sick father is a minor inconvenience, like his car being in the repair shop.
The momentary break from my anger doesn’t last long.
It crawls back from my belly up my throat before I can take a deep breath to stamp it down.
“Oh, I get it. The league doesn’t want you, and since you have nothing better to do, you figure you’ll hang around here and butt into everything.
” I can almost feel my words punch him in the gut.
“No. The league wants me,” he says defensively, his nostrils flaring like a bull getting ready to attack. “This is a voluntary break. My choice.”
“Pfft. No, it isn’t. We’ve all heard the rumors.”
He swings the door shut behind him and moves forward, his severe gaze unyielding, forcing me further into the room. “What rumors?”
“You’re unrestricted, but no one’s interested.”
He balls his fists and draws a deep breath. “Glad to see you’ve been keeping tabs on my career. I thought you hated hockey. That it’s ‘Neanderthal bullshit’,” he says, using air quotes.
“I don’t need to follow it to know what’s going on. This is a small town, remember? People like to talk about their number one star.”
“Technically, Spencer’s the number one star,” he says, his face serious, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “And what are they saying?”
“Find out for yourself. Now, get out of my way.”
He crosses his arms, leaning against the door, and I hear it click shut.
I puff out my cheeks. He’s not about to let me go. I know that much. And the sooner this conversation is over, the better. “They’re saying you don’t play as well as you used to. That you’re getting old and you’re being shopped around,” I add with a flourish of my hand.
A hard swallow makes Mitchell’s throat bob, and my eyes linger on his thick neck for far too long. “Those are all lies.”
“Oh, are they?” I press my lips together, nodding. “How’s your hip?”
Everyone has heard about his surgery last year to fix an injury we all watched him sustain during the playoffs.
I still remember watching the game with Hunter and Spencer, hearing their horrified gasps when Mitch fell.
The ghostly reminder of how it felt seeing him sprawled on the ice, unmoving, still makes my stomach lurch.
Mitchell knocks his hip with his fist. “Never better.”
I almost believe him until I see his left eyebrow twitch twice in quick succession—the same tell he had when he was younger.
“Whatever,” I reply. “Keep lying. That’s what you’re good at.” I reach around him for the doorknob, but he doesn’t move. “Seriously, do you mind? I have things to do.”
He doesn’t budge. I’m about to shove him out of my way when he reaches behind him and opens the door, but only a little. I wedge myself through the narrow opening and pretend not to notice the thrill that rushes through my body when my arm brushes against his chest.
Zayne is quietly studying at the desk, but I feel his buzzing, curious energy, and how he’s dying for gossip after overhearing our argument. It wouldn’t be too hard to overhear—the hotel is as quiet as a church.
He looks up, mouthing, “You okay?” and I nod, feeling Mitch not far behind. I busy myself with cleaning some nearby surfaces.
“Despite what you may believe, Max, I’ve never lied to you.”
There’s no missing the accusation in his words. I spin around and glare at him. “I told you to stop calling me Max.”
He raises both hands. “Sorry. Maxine.”