Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JAMESON & LAUREN
JAMESON
The number of fans that turned out for a charity game with a bunch of guys who haven’t played in the NHL for years is a true testament to how deep the Rebels pride runs in Boston.
We took the ice to the same fanfare of music, lights, and cheering that I remember from home games.
In some ways, it doesn’t feel like it’s been a decade since I did this for a living, in other ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.
The crowd did the Rebels chant at the end of the first two periods like they always do, and now we’re tied 2-2 with only minutes left in the period.
The fans are going wild. They can’t decide who to cheer for when it’s Boston v.
Boston, so they cheer for everything anyone does.
And the fact that there’s nothing on the line but bragging rights means we’re all having a good time on the ice.
Except Donaldson. The man is in his fifties, but he must still skate and run drills every fucking day because he’s as good as or better than the rest of us.
And he’s trash-talking my team like we’re not all on the same side here: the side where we do this for fun to raise money for a great organization. No, he’s here to win.
As he brings the puck down the outside, I misjudge his trajectory, so when I cut left he goes to my right.
Luckily, our goalie blocks the shot with a shoulder check, and I’m there to grab the rebound.
I take it around the back of the net and Donaldson’s right behind me, but I cut him off at the net and get enough separation to bring the puck straight up the middle.
By the time I hit center ice, two of my teammates have caught up to me, and I pass it off to one of them. He takes a shot on goal, but it’s blocked and I’m in the perfect position to get the rebound. Right as I pull my stick back to shoot, I’m checked from behind.
It’s so completely unexpected that I fly forward, face-first, and even though I manage to get one hand out to break the fall, my chin connects with the ice.
It hurts like a motherfucker and is bleeding like one too.
I hear the collective gasp of the audience as I push up to my knees while holding my blood-soaked chin in one hand.
I turn and look up at Donaldson right as the athletic trainer comes up with a towel to put pressure on my wound and helps me to the bench to evaluate the damage.
Both referees and a linesman are on Donaldson and he’s sent to the penalty box with a five minute major, even though there’s less time than that on the clock.
Back on the bench, the athletic trainer says I need to see the team doctor, but I refuse to go to the training room because I don’t want to miss our power play—honestly, my team winning on this power play in the last few minutes of the game would be justice for Donaldson’s infraction.
“You’re probably going to need stitches for this,” the trainer tells me as he cleans the cut, “or you’re going to wind up with a jagged scar.”
“Can you just tape it up for tonight and I’ll take care of it tomorrow?” I ask, holding the gauze he gave me against my chin and hoping the pressure will stop the bleeding.
“I can patch it up, but you’re not going to get as clean of a scar as if you have the doctor stitch it.”
My eyes are still on the ice. “Whatever.”
“Once the bleeding stops, he can finish the stitches up in ten minutes. Why wait?” He crosses his arms, and when I glance over at him, he’s annoyed.
I focus back on the ice, where my team has just scored a goal I missed because I’m dealing with the pissy trainer.
Why does he care if I have a scar? All I want is to celebrate on the ice with my teammates, and then go see Lauren.
That said, she may not like it if I bleed all over her face, so maybe I should take care of this.
“Fine,” I say, eyeing center ice where the players are lined up to shake hands, “but first I’m going back out on the ice to wrap this up.” A cheer rises up from the audience when I skate out to my teammates, still pressing a bloody piece of gauze to my chin.
After my stitches, I shower and change as quickly as I can, skipping the celebration in the locker room so I can go meet Lauren.
I saw her for a brief minute before we took the ice, but since she was working, I couldn’t push her up against the wall and kiss the shit out of her.
She was so in her element, telling everyone what to do and where to go, and it was unbelievably hot to see her exert control as she orchestrated media coverage, sponsors, and even the players.
I can’t wait to get back to her place tonight and show her how much I missed her. And then we need to have the hard conversation I’ve been dreading since I learned about Sophia.
I find her on the club level, exactly where she texted me she’d be.
She’s got her head tucked in conversation with her friends Jackson and Sierra.
She’d told me they were going to be in town for the weekend, and staying at a hotel in the city.
I know they all have plans together tomorrow, so hopefully they won’t mind me stealing her away tonight.
I reach out and tap Lauren’s shoulder once I’ve come up behind her, and she spins around, pressing her entire body into mine and squeezing her arms around me so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“Missed you,” I whisper against the top of her head as I breathe in the scent of her.
“Missed you more,” she says, then tilts her chin up and gasps when she sees the stitches along my jaw. “I didn’t realize it was that bad!”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The area is still numb, but I’m sure it’ll hurt again once the novocaine wears off.
We chat with Lauren’s friends for a few minutes, and I’m about to suggest I take Lauren home when I hear, “Jameson!” The man’s voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. When I glance up, I see Lauren’s neighbor, Greg, barreling toward us.
LAUREN
Jameson looks uneasy as the man approaches us. Seems like the guy’s a fan, and it makes me wonder if this happens a lot, or only at games.
“When we met the other morning,” he says, holding his hand out for Jameson to shake, “I didn’t realize who you were. Then there you were tonight, on the jumbotron!”
“Yeah,” Jameson says, pulling his hand back. “Good to see you again. Could we catch up another time?”
“Sure. Good to see you,” the man says, then as he turns to leave, he catches sight of me.
“Oh, you’re my new neighbor. I see you and the kids coming and going, but with the weather I haven’t really had a chance to introduce myself.
I met Jameson the other morning when we were both taking the trash out real early. ”
The guy seems nice enough, so I extend my hand. “Hi, I’m Lauren.”
“I’m Greg. I’m so glad you’ve done so much to the house. The last owners were just starting a renovation when he died in a ski accident—”
Jameson puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Like I said, let’s catch up later.”
“Wait!” My voice is surprisingly firm, given that I feel like I can’t breathe. “The last owners? Plural?”
Greg looks at Jameson, who gives him a nearly infinitesimal shake of his head, so slight he was probably hoping I wouldn’t notice. “You know what,” Greg says, “I already told Jameson everything I know about Josh and Sophia. I’ll let him share with you.”
Jameson closes his eyes and his jaw ticks.
“Nice to meet you, Lauren,” Greg says, and then he’s walking away.
“Let me see if I got that right. Josh was renovating that house with another woman, who he presumably was having an affair with? And you knew about it?” I need to get control of myself, because I’m fuming and I’m technically at work.
But I’m confused, and upset, and horrified that he could know something like this and not tell me.
Jameson’s voice is low and reassuring when he says, “I only found out the other morning as I was leaving, and I planned to talk to you about it tonight.”
Behind me, I feel Jackson and Sierra’s hands on me—supportive and reassuring. I take a deep breath and look up at him. “So you’ve known for three days?”
“Not even, and I was in LA—”
“You weren’t in LA when you found out!” I know my anger should be directed at Josh for his betrayal, more than at Jameson for knowing about it and not telling me immediately. But it’s hard to direct your anger at someone who’s dead, and Jameson is standing right here.
“I didn’t want to say anything until I had more information to share with you.
Which I just got last night,” he says, and when I raise my eyebrows at the idea that he’s had that information for twenty-four hours, he plows on with, “but I wanted to tell you in person, so I could be there for you when you were understandably upset.”
He reaches out like he’s going to take my hand, but I step back. Jackson and Sierra each wrap an arm around me, supporting me.
And then tears are pricking my eyes even as I will myself to be stronger.
I just helped run one of the most successful fundraising events in the history of the Rebels, and I’m standing here about to cry, instead of basking in the success of my big night.
Why? Is this what happens when I let another man into my life?
He hurts me just like the first one did?
“You know what?” I tell Jameson as I hold back my tears. “I can’t talk about this right now. I have a few things to wrap up here for work, and then I’m leaving with Jackson and Sierra because I need a girls’ night. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can talk about this then.”
“Lauren, no.” I hate the pain that rips through his words, but he caused this—he could have told me the truth as soon as he learned it. And now I need some time to wrap my mind around all of this.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Jameson.” My voice doesn’t leave room for argument, and neither does the fact that I turn and walk away from him. Away from the one person who swore up and down that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.