Chapter Thirty-Nine Choices
JULIAN
The alarm on my phone doesn't even get the chance to vibrate. My eyes snap open at exactly four fifty-nine, my internal clock turning over before the silence of the room can be broken.
The pale, gray light of dawn bleeds through the curtains of the guest bedroom, casting soft shadows across the small mattress.
Hadley is curled on her side, half on top of me in the small bed, and buried in the thick down comforter.
One of her small hands is tucked under her cheek, her brown hair splayed across the pillow.
She breathes in a slow, even rhythm, looking so delicate, it makes my chest ache.
Carefully, shifting my weight an inch at a time so the old springs don’t groan, I slip out from beneath the blankets.
The chill of the room hits my bare chest, but I ignore it, moving with the silent, practiced precision of a man who spent his childhood learning how to navigate a house without making a single floorboard creak.
I reach for my jeans and a heavy charcoal hoodie from my duffel bag, pulling them on in the shadows. I grab a stray piece of scrap paper from the nightstand and a pen from my pocket, scrawling a quick, uneven note:
Running a few errands before breakfast. Be back soon. Don't let Mrs. Clay burn the coffee.
I set it on her side of the table, lingering for one more second just to watch the slow rise and fall of her shoulders.
She is absolutely stunning. Her dark hair is a messy halo against the pillow, and her face is soft with sleep.
I can’t deny it anymore. I am completely, utterly gone for this girl.
She has bypassed every single one of my defenses without even trying, and the thought of leaving her feels like ripping away a piece of my own ribs.
Still, I force myself to turn my back on her and slip out the door.
My boots are in my hands as I descend the narrow stairs. My watch reads six-fifteen. The meeting with Coach Williams is at eight at a private diner downtown, but I need to get out of the house now. I need the cold air to clear the suffocating fog in my brain.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, sliding my feet into my boots and reaching for the brass handle of the front door.
“You always were a terrible liar, Julian.”
The raspy voice cuts through the quiet house. I freeze, my hand hovering an inch over the deadbolt. I let out a slow breath through my nose and turn around. Damn it. I was hoping she’d sleep in since it was a holiday.
Mrs. Clay is sitting in the worn armchair in the corner of the living room, a thick knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She doesn't have a light on, but her sharp, intelligent eyes are locked dead onto me in the gloom. She has a mug of tea resting in her lap, the steam rising in lazy curls.
“Grams,” I rumble, dropping my hands into my hoodie pocket. “It’s 5:15 in the morning. You should be asleep. Yesterday was a long day. There’s no reason for you to be up like normal.”
“What about you?” she fires back as she sets her mug down on the side table. I wince at her sharp tone, feeling a little as if she slapped me. She stands up, her joints popping slightly in the quiet room, and gestures toward the kitchen. “Slinking around before sunrise. Come with me.”
I hesitate, my chest tightening. I look at the front door, then back at her tiny, fragile frame. Damn it, I don't want to have this conversation, but I have never disobeyed this woman in my life. Sighing in defeat, I follow her into the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath my feet.
“Sit down,” she orders. When I shoot a glance toward the clock on the stove, she speaks more firmly. “I said sit.”
I obey, dropping into a chair beside the kitchen table.
She doesn't turn on the overhead light, just the small amber bulb above the stove. She turns around, crossing her thin arms over her chest. When she looks down at me, it makes me feel like the scrawny, terrified thirteen-year-old who used to hide in her pantry.
“I saw everything yesterday, Julian,” she starts, her voice dropping into a softer register. “The way you walked around her. The way you looked at her when she wasn’t watching you. You’re completely transparent.”
I stiffen, my jaw locking. “She’s a friend, Grams. She’s going through a rough time with her family, and I’m just…'”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she interrupts, pointing a stern, wrinkled finger at my chest. “You are in love with that girl. It’s written all over your face.
It’s in the way you breathe when she’s in the room.
I may be old, and I’ve been a widow a long time, but don’t play me for a fool.
You go to this meeting today, you risk everything you have - with Hadley and with your team. ”
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, sudden rush. I stare at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What?”
“You think it’s ok abandoning the Night Hawks for the Ironclads,” she states. “I understand why you’re doing it. You’re a free agent now. I’m old, Julian. I am not stupid. You’re trying to negotiate a move back here, but it’s a mistake.”
I swallow hard and shake my head, clasping and unclasping my hands in my lap.
“I’m doing it for you,” I murmur, my voice rough.
“For me?” She furrows her brow. “What does that mean?”
I let out a breath and shake my head. “Look at you, Grams. You’re pale. Tired. Leaning on the counters when you think I’m not looking. You’re splitting your posture because you’re in pain. You’re sick, and you’re alone in this house. I can’t be in Denver while you’re…”
“Julian!”
Her voice snaps through the air, cutting me off.
Anger flashes in her eyes, but it dissolves in an instant and is replaced by a deep weariness that makes my stomach drop.
She steps forward and takes a seat next to me, reaching out to grab my hands.
Her skin is paper-thin and cool, but her grip is firm.
“Listen to me,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
“I’m an old woman. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life.
I loved my husband, I built a home, and I have lived the way I wanted to.
I do not want you making life-altering decisions out of a misplaced sense of guilt or obligation to me.
I’m fine. My arthritis has gotten a little worse, and I got new meds I needed to get used to, but that’s it. I’m healthy as a horse.”
“It’s not an obligation,” I choke out. “You saved my life.”
“And you filled mine,” she counters, a tear welling in the corner of her eye before she brushes it away.
“Because of you. Because of that stubborn, bruised little boy who refused to let the world break him, the later years of my life have had purpose. They’ve been full of love.
I consider you my son, Julian. I love you more than words can say.
Which is why I need you to stop worrying about me and live your own life. ”
Her words hit me like a lead weight. I look down at our joined hands, my chest heaving as I fight the suffocating pressure in my lungs.
“And,” she continues, her voice softening, her thumb rubbing the back of my calloused knuckles. “Your life, Julian? That isn't here in Chicago. It’s in Denver…with Hadley.”
I let out a long, ragged sigh, shaking my head as the reality of my situation crashes back down.
“None of it is simple, Grams. You don’t understand.
Hadley is twenty-one. She’s younger than me.
She’s Coach’s granddaughter. She’s as off-limits to me as a woman can get.
Besides, I’m broken. I’m a mess. I don’t see how any of this will actually work long-term.
I’m an acquired taste, and not a good one.
She won’t want this long-term. Plus, my team doesn’t really need me.
They’ve already got a fresh new guy to step in and take my place.
Chicago would also make it easier to have financial stability when I retire. I just…”
Before I can finish, Mrs. Clay drops my hands, her expression hardening.
“I’m disappointed in you, Julian,” she murmurs.
I blink, stunned. “What?”
“I didn’t raise you to be a coward,” she says, her voice ringing with an absolute, undeniable authority.
“I didn’t push you toward hockey because I wanted you to make money…
I did it because you love hockey. And I didn't teach you to just sit back, fold your hands, and let life happen to you because you’re too afraid of getting hurt.
I taught you to live your life. To fight for it.
That girl up there? She is wonderful. And if you walk away from her because you’re too chicken-shit to risk your own heart, then I failed you. ”
She turns her back on me, grabbing her mug of tea from the counter. Without looking at me, she walks out of the kitchen.
The gray Chicago traffic is a blur outside the windshield of Mrs. Clay’s old Toyota Corolla. I borrowed it since our conversation actually made me miss my train. Her words echo over and over in my head. Live your life. Fight for it.
By the time I pull up to the upscale, private diner near the Ironclad’s stadium, my jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache. I kill the engine, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look fucking wrecked. He suggested the diner for a more ‘laid back’ conversation.
More likely, he’s trying to make me feel more relaxed so I’m easier to convince to sign on the dotted line.
Sighing, I shake my head and get out of the car and head to the diner.
I push open the heavy glass front door, and the smell of expensive coffee, maple syrup, and polished leather hits me.
As soon as I walk in, I see Coach Williams sitting in a booth towards the back.
Another man is with him, but he stands as soon as he spots me, says something to Williams, and hurries to leave.
He gives me a polite smile as he passes by.