Chapter 25
25
ECHO
I approach the batting cages warily. Ryan is the only one here. He swings and makes contact with a cracking sound. The ball flies away. Almost immediately, the machine lobs another one at him.
I stop behind the cage. It only takes him a moment to notice me. He presses a button and the balls stop coming, then he leans the bat against the wire and faces me.
“Hey.” His smile is awkward. Hesitant. “Thanks for coming. I know you probably didn’t want to.”
He’s right. When he messaged me the invitation, I almost ignored him, but my need to know what he has to say outweighed my caution.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I wince, irritated by how prickly I sound. I promised myself I wouldn’t come in with all guns blazing, but the past few days have been overwhelming and my nerves are rubbed raw.
“You are.” His smile softens. “And I’m glad.”
I cross my arms. “So, why are we here?”
He gestures at the empty space—a large, open indoor area with fake turf. “This is my favorite place to come when I need to think, or to work out some anger. I thought maybe you’d like to try it.”
I arch one of my eyebrows. “You think I’ll hit a few baseballs and immediately forgive you?”
“No.” The side of his mouth quirks. “But it’s as good a place to start as any.”
He picks up the bat and indicates for me to enter the cage. I shift from foot to foot, considering my options. I could still run away. Just turn, leave, and block his number. But he has been a good friend to me over the years, and whether he had an ulterior motive for befriending me or not, I miss him.
“Fine,” I huff, rounding the fence and stalking toward him.
He passes me the bat. “Stand over here.”
I move to the spot he’s motioning at and grip the bat. I’m not sporty, but it isn’t my first time hitting a baseball…even if my skills—and my hand-eye coordination—leave a little to be desired.
“The ball will come from there,” he says, pointing to the hole in the front of the machine. “If you think you might miss, just step back and make sure you’re out of the way. You ready?”
“Sure.” Maybe it will be cathartic.
He presses the button again, and a couple of seconds later, a ball rockets toward me.
I scramble backward. “Whoa!”
He grimaces. “Sorry. Forgot to turn down the speed.”
He hits the button before the machine attacks again and messes around with a dial. “Take two?”
“Go on.” At this point, I’ll just be happy to escape unscathed. I’m still not sure what he thinks he’ll accomplish by bringing me here.
The next ball is slower, and I swing the bat, making contact. It thumps into the ground a few feet away and rolls. Another comes at me, and I hit it more softly.
“Nuh-uh,” Ryan chides. “Bash it as hard as you can. Don’t even think about where it goes. Just swing and hit. Got it?”
I grit my teeth. He makes it sound easy, and perhaps it is for him, but he’s been playing since before he could spell. I smack the next ball, trying to ignore the fact it skims the grass rather than traveling a decent distance. Then I hit another. And another. Before long, I fall into a rhythm, and it’s oddly satisfying.
By the time the machine runs out of balls, I’m sweating and breathing heavily.
“Nice work.” Ryan carefully takes the bat from me, as if worried I might use it against him, and offers me a high five. Reluctantly, I slap our palms together, but I narrow my eyes, so he knows he’s not completely off the hook.
I look around and spot his water bottle behind us; I uncap it and drink. When a bitter, slightly salty taste fills my mouth, I sputter.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, outraged.
His mouth twitches, but he manages not to laugh. “Electrolyte solution.”
“It’s terrible.”
“But it’s lemon and lime flavor,” he protests. “Everyone loves citrus.”
“Not when it tastes like that.” I wipe my lips on the back of my hand. “I’ll have to buy a coffee now to rinse my mouth out.”
He rolls his eyes. “You poor soul.” Then his expression turns serious. “Can we talk?”
For a brief moment, I ponder the idea of rejecting him, but he’s making an effort, and surely, I owe it to the past three years of our friendship to at least hear him out.
“As long as we can get coffee first.”
“Do I look like an idiot? Of course I’m getting you coffee.”
He takes the drink bottle from me and, together, we pick up the balls and return them to the machine. Then we head to a cafe a block away. It’s almost empty, which is surprising so close to lunch time, but when I sip my caramel mocha, I realize why. The coffee is terrible.
“This is so bad,” I murmur, not wanting the server to overhear me.
“Is it?” He looks surprised. “Mine is fine. Maybe you’re just more of a coffee snob than me.”
I glare at him but can’t deny it. “Perhaps they make better oat milk coffees than dairy-based coffees.”
His face is full of doubt, but he keeps his mouth shut.
“So…” I guess there’s no better time than now to get to the point. “I’m glad you invited me to do this. I miss spending time with you. I just have trouble with the fact I don’t know where your friendship for me starts and your obligation to Tyler ends.”
He wraps his hands around his coffee mug. “Everything I’ve ever done with you has been because I wanted to. Well,”— he smirks— “everything except that time you made me watch the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.”
I laugh at the memory, and it breaks some of the tension between us. “Yeah, but you made it clear you didn’t enjoy that by cringing every two seconds.”
He shrugs. “How else was I supposed to react to women in pretty dresses hunting men for their wallets—or rejecting them for the same reason?”
“That’s what you took away from Pride and Prejudice?” I shake my head. “I need to get better friends.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” His gaze is serious now. “BBC aside, I love spending time with you. I don’t want to lose you.”
I close my eyes and release a pent-up breath. “Maybe you don’t have to.”
When I open my eyes again, his face has brightened.
“Really?”
Our conversation reminds me of evenings of laughter, shared study sessions, and confidences exchanged about almost everything.
“We could take it day by day. I don’t have many friends, and I don’t want to lose you either.”
“I’d like that.”
We smile at each other, and for a moment, everything feels right with the world, but then Ryan’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen.
“Damn. I have to get going.”
I frown. “Where to?”
He hesitates, visibly torn. “The hockey game. I told Tyler I’d be there.”
“Oh.” I deflate a little. It’s strange for me, now having to think of Tyler and Ryan as friends. “It’s the last game before the playoffs, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He stands and pushes his chair back. “You should come with me.”
Excitement flickers in my gut, but I squelch it. “I think it’s best if I don’t. I still don’t know what to do about Tyler, and if I turn up, it might complicate things.”
Plus, seeing him will make me want to be in his arms, and that won’t help my objectivity at all.
He glances at the time and sits again. “Talk me through everything that happened with him. All I know is that you were together in high school but broke up—it was his fault—and that he desperately wants you back.”
So I tell him.
Despite the rocky place our friendship is in, I confess everything. Our secret relationship. Our plan to go to prom together. The way Tyler stood me up and then humiliated me. Even the rape—although I gloss over the details.
No one needs to know that I still have nightmares featuring the scrape of concrete against my cheek and the helplessness of being pinned down.
When I’m finished, he pulls his sleeve over his hand and dabs beneath my eyes. It’s not until I see the damp spots on the fabric that I realize I’m crying.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he says. “I’m glad that asshole is behind bars. As for Tyler, he has a lot of ground to make up, but I can see what’s behind the shitty decisions he made. Can’t you?”
Yes. That’s what makes this so hard.
“He was trying to protect you,” he adds. “Even if it was misguided.”
“I know,” I whisper, wiping the wetness from my face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so emotional.”
He places his hand on mine. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
When I start to protest, he holds his hand up to stop me.
“No, I mean it. Anyone would be upset after reliving what you just did. I’m sorry if you felt like you had to. I didn’t mean to push.”
“Actually, it feels good.” I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth. “It’s…freeing…that you know. I’m tired of keeping secrets.” And of having them kept from me.
“That’s a relief. I’d hate to set you back.” Ryan rubs his lips together, and something tells me he has more to add but isn’t sure whether to go for it.
“What?” I ask.
He opens his mouth but takes a moment to put his thoughts together. “Tyler always struck me as a bit of an asshole, but he genuinely seems to adore you. I totally understand if you never want to see him again—honestly, that might be the sanest thing to do—but I truly believe he’d do anything for you.”
I don’t reply immediately. In some ways, he’s right. After all, Tyler paid Ryan to watch over me for years, and he put his own happiness aside in an attempt to protect my future, even if he shattered my heart in the process. Nothing has worked out as he intended, but the good intentions were there.
Now, thanks to him, I have a whole lot more to work through with Dr. Rodriguez, but perhaps, with enough time and therapy, Tyler and I could have a relationship again. It wouldn’t be like the one we used to have, or even like the one we were building these past weeks. Instead, it would be fresh and honest.
We know all the goods and bads now. All the rights and wrongs we’ve done. There’s no reason we can’t eventually try again.
Ryan’s phone buzzes, reminding me that he’s supposed to be on his way to the game.
I get to my feet, ignoring the slight wobble in my knees. “You need to get going or you’ll be late.”
“Nah.” He stands too, but makes no move to leave. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. I’ll drive you home and get one of my friends to pick up my car.”
My eyebrows knit together. “You can’t miss the game for me.”
“Of course I can.” He sounds exasperated. “It’s just a game, Echo. Not even the biggest game of the season. Tyler probably won’t even notice I’m not there, and if he does, he’ll understand. To him, your wellbeing comes first.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I muse. “But who puts him first?”
“Pardon?” he asks.
“Never mind.” I wave my hand dismissively. The answer is clear anyway. No one puts Tyler first. As far as I know, he’s never had anyone other than his sister in the stands purely to support him. His father attended all his games, but not because he cared about Tyler’s life. He deserves better.
“Take me to the game,” I tell Ryan, drying away the final traces of tears from my cheeks.
He purses his lips. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I raise my chin. “I want to be there.”
A slow grin transforms his expression. “Then let’s go.”
Half an hour later, we shuffle into the stadium with half the student body and push through the crowd to seats a couple of rows back from the ice. My stomach rumbles. I should have eaten something at the cafe, but I was tied in too many knots.
The teams are already skating, and I spot Tyler easily. He and one of his teammates are warming up the goalie. Two of them pass the puck back and forth so quickly I have trouble following it, before a third player receives it and shoots it over the line.
They circle around to repeat the drill, and as they do, Tyler raises his eyes to search the stands. When they land on me, they widen, and then light with so much joy that even looking at him makes me feel like a voyeur. He taps his fist over his heart and blows me a kiss.
A few people turn toward me, but the moment wasn’t obvious enough to capture much attention.
Ryan nudges my shoulder, and gestures toward the coach. It takes me a few seconds to notice Soraya in the stands just behind him.
“Do you know if she’s single?” Ryan asks.
I turn to him slowly. “Soraya?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at his hands, his cheeks flushing.
Wow. I didn’t see that coming.
“I don’t, but I’m sure I could find out.”
He raises his eyes briefly, his lips quirking. “That would be great. Only, don’t mention it to Tyler. I like my organs being on the inside.”
“I won’t.” I look over at Soraya again. She’s completely focused on the ice. She’s pretty, anyone could see that. She’s also strong and vulnerable at the same time. Whatever his motivation, Ryan has been good for me. Perhaps he could be good for her, too.
We watch without talking as the warm up finishes and the game begins. Tyler is on the ice from the start, along with the same two guys in the front line from last time: Welch and Anaheim. They’re absolute magic, scoring in the first two minutes. As soon as the puck crosses the line—directly from Tyler’s stick—his eyes find me in the crowd.
Butterflies flutter in my gut. How does a simple look have the power to affect me so much?
The other team comes back strong, whizzing past our front line and taking a shot on goal. The goalie deflects, and one of the defensemen collects the puck on the rebound and sends it winging back to Welch. A few minutes later, there’s another goal on the scoreboard.
It’s the last one Newbury scores until the third period.
Their opponents make up a goal and then focus on defense, doing their best to make sure the puck never gets as far as the goalie. In the beginning of the third period, their center flies up the ice the instant the puck drops, catching Newbury by surprise, and manages to score.
The home crowd boos. The score is tied now, with only nineteen minutes to go. Tyler doesn’t look at me, but there’s determination in the way he squares his shoulders and lowers his chin.
The score holds.
With thirty seconds left on the clock, one of the defensemen gets the puck from the other team, and Newbury’s defense line moves forward. Together with the front line, they skate in formation toward the opposition goal, passing rapidly between themselves.
Anaheim takes aim, but the goalie swats the puck away. The left defenseman recovers the puck and shoots it across to Tyler, who slips it past the goalie’s skate, into the corner of the net.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, and the players stare at the scoreboard for a long moment, waiting to see whether the goal was fast enough. The second it appears in red lettering, they swarm Tyler. Hugging. Back clapping. Cheering.
I smile and clap. Beside me, Ryan hollers his support.
It’s official. Newbury is going through to the playoffs.
When the players have finished celebrating, they shake hands with the other team, and someone passes their coach a microphone. He says a few words about teamwork, and how the team will go the distance, and the stands erupt. Honestly, I think he could say anything, and the audience would go wild.
When he’s done, I expect the theatrics to be over, but instead, the coach gives the microphone to one of the players.
Tyler.
“What’s going on?” I ask Ryan as Tyler strips off his helmet and tosses it to Ruiz.
“No idea,” he replies, but the smile flitting at the corner of his lips makes me think he’s lying.
Tyler clears his throat, and it echoes through the stadium. Someone cheers. Because of course they do.
Tyler is red-faced and sweaty. He mops his damp hair off his face and raises the microphone.
“Hi, everyone.” He sounds surprisingly nervous. Public speaking has never been an issue for him before, which makes me even more curious about what’s happening. “I just have a few words to say before everyone takes off.”
His gaze lands on me again, sparkling blue, even from a distance.
“We had a good game tonight, and it was a team effort, like Coach said. It helps that we all wanted to make the playoffs, and that fueled us. It’s a nice change for me to be fueled by something other than desperation.”
There’s a confused murmuring. My stomach tightens. What is he doing?
“My father was an asshole—excuse me, Coach,” he adds when his coach tries to snatch the microphone back. “I trained hard to avoid his punishment. But he died months ago, so it wasn’t fear that helped me win this game. It was love.”
A group of girls nearby make a collective ‘aww’ sound, and a couple of them glance at me. A guy on the opposite side of the stadium jeers. My heart is beating a rapid rat-a-tat-tat while I stare at Tyler with no idea what he’ll say next.
“Love of hockey, my favorite game, but also love of a woman who’s as magical as a shooting star.” He blows me a kiss and winks, but the slight tremble of his voice belies his nerves. “Whether or not you love me, I’ll always love you, Echo Dean.”
“Holy crap,” I breathe.
This maniac. This absolute maniac.
I can’t take my eyes off him as he returns the microphone to the coach and skates off the ice. With this announcement, he’s making it clear that I’ll never be a secret part of his life again. There’s no putting the cat back in the bag. I’d bet at least a dozen people filmed his little speech on their phones and are already uploading it to the internet.
“Did you know he was going to do that?” I ask Ryan.
He shrugs. I narrow my eyes. Of course he did. That’s probably why he invited me along. Then he reverse-psychology-ed me into doing it. The question is: what am I going to do now?
“I have to go,” I say, brushing past Ryan. He shouts something over the crowd—many of whom are still eying me curiously—but I don’t make out the words.
I push through the crush of spectators, making my way to the changing room, but by the time I get there, the team is already inside.
I wait by the door, pretending not to notice the looks I’m receiving from strangers, until the players begin to emerge. The first one out is the winger, Welch, who winks at me and touches two fingers to his forehead in a little salute.
Another guy follows, a big bear of a man I recognize from the defense line but whose name I can’t remember. He gives me a thumbs up.
When Tyler finally exits, his hair slicked back and wet from the shower, freshly dressed in dark pants and a button-up shirt with a duffel bag over his shoulder, my breath hitches. Somehow, I always forget how gorgeous he is until he’s right in front of me.
When he sees me, a grin spreads across his face. He reaches for me, as if about to pull me into an embrace, but then stops.
“That was quite a speech,” I say, far calmer on the outside than I am on the inside.
He cocks his head. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah.” I can hardly deny it when he bared his soul in front of so many people. “It was sweet.”
“Sweet enough to earn me one last chance?” he asks, achingly hopeful as he steps closer.
I close the distance between us and kiss him. He grips my hips, his hands hot even through several layers of fabric. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of menthol and some kind of spicy aftershave.
“One last chance,” I whisper as I draw back. “But there can’t be any more secrets between us.”
He grabs me around the waist and spins me in a circle, then lowers me back to my feet.
“No more secrets,” he promises.