Chapter 8
SLOT SHOT: QUICK RELEASE FROM THE HIGH-DANGER SCORING AREA
Standing in my kitchen where I attempted to hard boil eggs for the first time in my life, I realize two key things.
The first is that I obviously slept through the part of my life where I learned to be self-sufficient and the second is living in Willow Creek might be good for the local economy if I can’t figure out how to cook.
Sneering at the leaking yolks pooled at the bottom of the silver pot, I mutter, “I should have paid more attention when people used to cook for me.”
Just that quickly, I recall Amy was the first person to care for me in that way. She was appalled at the amount of fast food me and Mark ate.
Mark moaned, “We’re pathetic in the kitchen.”
She laughed, a sound that once again sends shivers down my spine due to our recent interaction. “Yeah. You’re pathetic all right.” Then she went into the kitchen and made us chicken, sweet potatoes, and broccoli.
Remembering the love with which those meals were prepared, I’m reminded of the doubts I’ve been having about her since I saw her a few days ago.
Frustration has me flinging the pot into the sink.
Just like the first time we met, I can’t get her out of my mind.
At that moment, my phone lights up with a text.
Mark:
How are things in the country?
Me:
Discounting the fact I can’t cook worth a shit?
Mark:
We knew that.
Mark:
Go to The Honeyed Hearth.
My certainty that he knows Amy is here is absolute. He, too, must have run into Amy there. My fingers hover over the keys. I hesitate in discussing my run-in with Amy with him, though I’m not quite certain why. Instead, I divert his attention.
Me:
If I eat there too often, I’ll need to work out constantly.
Mark:
Just don’t do anything to mess up your head.
I want to text him too late, but I refrain.
Instead, I pull up my Notes app to make a grocery list for my second venture into Willow Creek. Hopefully shopping for groceries will be less dramatic than buying coffee.
Every aisle I go through in Cedar Market, I’m bombarded with surreptitious glances and whispered conversations. I make it halfway down the produce aisle when someone approaches me, eyes narrowed. “You look familiar.”
I offer a polite smile. “I get that a lot.”
“You’re the hockey guy.”
There it is. I nod. “I used to be; yes, ma’am.”
Her lip curls. “Well. We’ll try to keep out of your way.”
I sputter, “Excuse me?”
Haughtily, she declares, “We’ve seen what happens when someone gets on your wrong side.”
Amy. “Actually—” I don’t get a chance to formulate a thought, let alone speak, before she storms away. I call out, “Nice to meet you!”
I receive absolutely no response, which leaves me unsettled. What has Amy told the townspeople about me? Setting aside the thought, I quickly race up and down the aisles, grabbing things I know I can survive on without cooking—milk, deli meat. Green things I can eat raw or microwave.
I’m reaching for a loaf of bread when I hear a peal of laughter that plucks at every single one of my heartstrings.
She’s here. Much like it did the day I saw her, my heart squeezes tightly.
My limbs lock. My soul aches at its sound as flashes of late nights and early mornings skate through my mind faster than anything I could outrun on the ice.
I turn before I can warn myself not to.
Amy’s at the end of the aisle talking with a man. Her animation sucks me back through a vortex of time when she used to talk to me in much the same manner—hands waving, happy voice. Jealousy rips through me. I grip the cart handle so hard my knuckles turn white.
My heart is laid open when he says something to her to make her laugh again. Then it hits me—Amy isn’t mine to be jealous over. Not anymore. I made certain of that.
She’s free to flirt. Go on dates. It doesn’t matter what the knowledge of that does to my insides. Ignoring the trembling of my heart and the tightness of my muscles, I study her from a distance.
Her looks have only enhanced in the years between college and now.
Her long dark hair falls in a glossy sheen down her back.
Her porcelain skin glows. If anything, she looks younger now than she did in those final moments in her dorm room—like she’s shed an emotional burden she no longer has to carry.
Yeah, dude. The burden was you.
Then I realize there’s a cluster of students surrounding her. Despite the laughter, she radiates authority now. She fulfilled all her dreams.
It sickens me to realize it happened without me by her side.
She says something I can’t hear and there’s a large groan from the kids. Edging closer, I’m just in time to hear one of the boys protest, “Ms. Delgadina, that’s not fair.”
She retorts, “Math is fair, Malik. Your bagging habits are not.”
The other kids rib him good-naturedly as they scatter toward the registers, still arguing. That’s when she turns. Our eyes meet over the display of artisan bread.
Immediately, her expression switches from joy to something unreadable. Deciding one of us has to break the ice, I push my cart forward until I’m right in front of her. “Amy.”
Her gaze flicks over my face. “Mr. McCallister.”
Not Bren. Not even Brennan.
“Surprised to run into you here,” because despite all the things we’ve left unsaid, none of them come out. Then again, none of them seem appropriate for a small town grocer.
Her voice is clipped. “It’s the only grocery store in town. Has been that way my whole life.”
Feckin’ hell. That’s right. Willow Creek is Amy’s childhood hometown.
Before I can recover, she continues, “I wouldn’t expect a celebrity of your caliber to remember a little detail like that about a girl you walked away from. I mean, we can't all be photographed eating at Michelin star restaurants.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.
I wince recalling the paparazzi documenting the public lie I portrayed of happiness. Mentally kicking myself, I wish I hadn’t listened to Mark when he said it was good for me as a public figure. If I’m jealous over her talking with a man in a grocery store, how much did those photos hurt her?
That’s when I admit to myself that everything except the game I dedicated my life to was just armour. A shield to keep the pain of an Amy-less life at bay.
I feel the chasm between us widen. I try to bridge it. “So, I overheard at The Honeyed Hearth that you’re a teacher?”
“Head of the math department at Willow Creek High School.”
“That’s incredible. Really, incredible. You’re young for the position, right?”
“Youngest in the county.”
“Congratulations.”
Her armor lowers for a moment. Her lips curve slightly and I feel my stomach flip over the tiny spark of life on her gorgeous face. “They’re great kids.”
“I’d imagine they would be if they’re yours.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
I hate when her mask drops and there’s wariness in her voice when she asks, “Why did you move here?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Of all the places, you choose my hometown to move to?”
“I didn’t know you lived here,” I protest weakly.
“Right, like Mark wouldn’t mention he ran into me.”
Called it. Still, I protest, “He didn’t.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.” Her dismissal is frustrating. That’s when it hits me, I did the exact same thing to her, but worse. “I just…moved here.”
“Well, I hope you feel you made a good choice.” Her tone is patently disbelieving.
I clear my throat. “I, uh, guess I better finish up my shopping. I needed groceries and I don’t know if there’s a website to order them to be delivered.”
Amy juts out her chin. “I wouldn’t know. I trust very few things online.”
It feels like she just nailed me with a slap shot in the nuts. I don’t get a chance to absorb the blow when she says politely, “Good luck shopping.”
I want to say hundreds of things. Ask her out for coffee. Talk this out like the adult I am instead of the hotheaded jackass I was. Instead, I read her body language and murmur, “You too.”
She passes by me to head to her class. When she does, I catch a hint of her perfume. It’s the same one she wore in school—clean, citrusy, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. Surprisingly, she pauses. “Brennan.”
Just her saying my name causes my heart to trip. “Yes?”
“I already have closure from the past. Don’t penalize yourself when you find out the truth.”
I’m about to question what she means, but I’m distracted by the way her steady gaze pins me in place. It sends a frisson of electricity through my body. And it gives me hope.
Maybe Amy isn’t as ambivalent to me as I assumed.
I don’t even realize she’s walked away; I’m so absorbed in my thoughts. I’m uncertain how long I stand there with clenched fingers gripping the cart.
We spoke.
The world didn’t end.
I’m counting that as a win.
Instead of settling the ache inside my chest, it drives my need to seek her out even more. She may not have questions, but I do.
And the biggest question of all, what am I missing?