Chapter 12
Twelve
Leo
My phone buzzes but it’s not the person—the woman—I want to be texting me.
Which makes me even bigger of an asshole than I previously thought.
Because I really should be talking to Shannon.
I haven’t even seen her since last week, and that was a drive-by at the bar.
We’ve barely texted aside from me confirming the date and time for her birthday celebration.
But do I text her back now?
Nope.
Instead, I scroll through my messages and find the chain I started with Harper.
Which contains precisely one message.
From me.
With no reply from her.
I can’t even see if she read it because she has her read receipts turned off.
I might have gone over to her apartment again—and not to doorbell ditch a box of supplies on her porch this time—if not for Aiden mentioning Luna had met up with her and Faye for breakfast at Molly’s this morning.
Hopefully, the ginger candies mean she’ll keep the food down.
I look down at my phone screen, read the words for the hundredth time since I sent them.
LEO: How are you feeling?
God, what a dumb question. She’s probably feeling pregnant and pukey, same as she had yesterday.
My fingers hover over the screen and I pause, trying to think of something smart to say.
Like, How are you feeling now?
Or, Did you puke today?
Or maybe, Will you give me one of those ultrasound pictures?
“Christ,” I mutter, shoving my phone in my gym bag. It’s just lucky one of the guys hasn’t caught me mooning at my phone. Hell, it’s a fucking miracle they haven’t tackled me to the floor and beaten the shit out of me for doing what I did to Harper.
Not just the knocking up part.
But the rest of it.
I know the women know what happened, know they think I blew her off because I’m an asshole—I definitely felt the multitude of dirty looks they tossed my way in the aftermath of my actions.
They just don’t know why—
I shake my head.
It doesn’t matter why.
“Yo, Ricky!” I hear.
I glare over at Smitty. “What?”
“You going to actually work out or just dissociate all afternoon?”
I move over to the floor, grab a mat, and start stretching. “I am working out.”
“To actually get ready for the season or to stare at your phone?”
I roll my eyes but don’t engage, and thankfully Smitty gets distracted by some insane exercise that Sawyer is doing.
It involves a barbell, a resistance band, and a fuckton of Bulgarian split squats…
Oh, and plenty of me staying far, far away so I don’t get dragged into having to try it.
I still do a lot of hard shit, though it doesn’t feel that way.
There are exercises on my training docket I really don’t enjoy, but—and maybe it makes me even more of an asshole—I like working out.
I like lifting heavy shit. I like just being here in the weight room or on the ice or in the locker room.
I like feeling like part of a team. A family.
Because mine is such a goddamned nightmare—
“Fuck!” Smitty booms, reracking the barbell. “Goddamn but you’re a monster, Cupcake. That shit is hard.”
Cupcake is the nickname Smitty’s given him.
And no one knows where he got it from.
But that’s Smitty.
I watch as Sawyer takes his place and does another of his crazy exercises, this one designed for strength and agility and balance.
And it looks interesting enough—although still devious—that I try it too.
“God,” I groan, collapsing to the mats when I finish the first set.
He laughs, but I know my quads will never be the same.
Mostly because I’m definitely adding it into the rotation.
I recover, power through a second—and third—set then make my way over to the bike. I push my cardio and my legs to the limit, generally doing what Smitty accused me of avoiding earlier—getting ready for the season.
The team has had some time to rest and recover.
Now we’re gearing back up.
Sawyer grins as Smitty attempts another one of his exercises but doesn’t otherwise engage with our wombat-fearing teammate.
Instead, he snags a towel and moves to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water fortified with electrolytes before hopping on the bike next to mine.
“What are you doing after this?” he asks, taking a long swig. “Want to grab a beer?”
No.
I want to go to Harper’s shop, make sure she’s feeling okay.
But the intensity with which I want exactly that has me grinding my teeth together and shoving down that urge.
I still don’t want to get a beer though.
I want to go home and mope and think about how fucked up my real family is and how I can’t let that fucked-up-ness taint the bright light that is Harper.
I want to go home and drink myself into an early bedtime where I don’t dream of her.
Unfortunately, neither of those will happen.
My family will eventually fuck shit up.
And I will sure as hell dream of Harper—I haven’t had a night without her haunting my dreams, not since I woke up next to her and knew I couldn’t ever have her.
Not truly.
“Leo?” Sawyer presses, swiping at his face and smirking over at me. “Or should I call you, Ricky?”
“You do and you die,” I mutter.
“Now you’ve gone and dared me.”
“Except I know your secret, remember?”
His rhythm falters, just for a second. “You were as drunk as I was.”
“And yet…” I hold his gaze so he knows I’m serious. “I remember everything.”
“God you’re annoying.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He scowls but doesn’t comment further.
And I refocus us on the conversation at hand as I lie, “No time for beers. I have plans tonight.”
“With your woman?”
I shrug. “Who else?”
Because he doesn’t ask which woman.
And dropping groceries at Harper’s place counts as plans, right?
Certainly, having beers on my couch and playing Expedition 33 counts too.
Either way, he just says he’ll catch me next time as I finish up my miles on the bike and hit the showers.
Harper’s car isn’t at her kitchen, so I send a delivery—no doorbell ditch this time—to her house then park on the street and watch until she brings it inside.
I don’t know if soup and fresh bread and a bunch of bland food is exciting, but I figure it should be easy on her stomach.
In that time, Shannon’s messaged me a half-dozen times.
Asking if we’re meeting up.
Telling me she’s decided to go out with her friends instead.
Saying she’ll text me in a few days.
Not exactly white picket fences and happily-ever-afters and…
Babies.
No.
I have that with another woman.
“Stop,” I mutter, shoving a hand through my hair and forcing myself to drive back to my place, feeling like shit the entire way. Because I know I’m being an asshole to Shannon too.
I need to end things with her.
But I’m not going to do it right before her birthday, especially after I all but cajoled her into a celebration with the Grizzlies family.
She wanted a fuck fest and to keep it casual.
I was the one who convinced her to spend it with the guys and their women, thinking if I focused on her, I would forget about—
Harper.
Who’s pregnant.
Who needs the money from the contract.
Who I can’t cancel on either.
Meanwhile the thought of a fuck fest with anyone except for her makes me sick.
And none of this shit even matters.
Because Harper is the one thing I can never allow myself to have.