Chapter Seventeen
Nick nodded and shook hands with what felt like the millionth mourner. It seemed like all of Nebraska had come to pay their respects to John Sadler.
Or maybe they were here to gawk at his loser son. The one who was supposed to be the best, and yet he couldn’t even win a championship.
“It was a lovely service.” Mrs. Parker, the lady who used to occasionally babysit him and Nate when they were young, patted the back of his hand.
He wanted to snatch his back, wipe his sweaty palm on his pants.
But he didn’t, because it wasn’t her fault it was a thousand degrees in the house.
Or there were so many people crammed inside, he felt like he was suffocating.
His mother sat directly across from him on the couch—the same pink and green floral one they’d had since he was a kid—her black dress ill-fitting and old fashioned, even to his untrained eye.
Her auburn hair, now liberally streaked with grey, was pulled back in her signature bun, the severe style highlighting her sharp features.
Eyes dry, back straight, mouth tilted down at the corners in her usual expression.
Time had not softened her sharp edges, but honed them it seemed, until they were as sharp and deadly as her tongue had once been.
She’d never been a warm woman, always cold, always distant. When he was younger, he’d always been surprised when his hand brushed against hers and she wasn’t ice cold to the touch.
His relationship with his mother was so different than the one between Alex and Em.
A bright flare of pain burst through his chest at the thought of them, making his breath hitch. Mrs. Parker, probably thinking it was due to his grief, patted his hand again, gave a little squeeze, and then shuffled away.
He glanced around the crowded living room. A few of the mourners were familiar, but most of them he didn’t recognize. Which wasn’t surprising. It had been a long time since he’d considered this town, this house, his home.
The occasional pair of eyes landed on him, and then quickly flicked away. Heads bowed together, words whispered, too low to hear. Not that it mattered. He could feel them all judging him. Reminding each other of all the ways he’d failed his team, himself. His dad.
He stepped back, so he could lean against the wall, keeping himself partially hidden by the edge of the old brick fireplace.
That way, he wouldn’t have to look at the massive photo on the mantle, the one of him on draft day, wearing his brand-new Pirate’s jersey.
His dad stood beside him, his arm looped around Nick’s shoulders, wearing the biggest grin of his life.
The photo was nothing but a reminder of all of Nick’s wasted potential.
He pushed thoughts of his failure, of Alex and Em, away, locking them all down until he was ready. Or at least until today was over. He wasn’t in a place to unpack all of the shit with Alex. It just hurt too damn much to think about right now.
Keep moving forward.
It had always been his motto, the thing that kept him going. But he was just so fucking tired. Weary to his fucking soul. He scrubbed his hand over his face, the tension in his neck and shoulders making them sore.
A knock on the front door made his muscles twitch, his whole body ready to escape. Nate, who was closer, must have felt the same, because he sprang forward and hurried around the corner and into the foyer before Nick could so much as take a step.
The hushed hum of the crowd, combined with the clink of silverware on plates, meant he couldn’t hear anything. Not that he would have recognized anybody’s voice. Most of the people who’d paid their respects were vague, hazy memories of folks he’d known a lifetime ago.
His skin prickled, like little tiny pin pricks all over his arms and chest. He looked up.
Alex stood in the archway to the foyer, her hand on Nate’s arm. His brother leaned down, bringing his ear closer to hear whatever she was saying.
Nick was halfway across the room before he even realized he was going to move. It was like he was drawn to her, like she was the sun in the center of his universe.
She looked over at him. He damn near heard angels singing. They’d only been apart for a couple of days, but it felt like eons since he’d last seen her.
She wore a black dress, simple and understated, but elegant, just like her, along with a black cardigan.
A pair of black heeled boots hugged her calves.
Her hair was loose, hanging around her shoulders.
She had on just a touch of makeup—some mascara, a touch of lip gloss—and her cheeks were pink from the frigid temperature outside.
He slid to a stop in front of her, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.
What he really wanted to do was grab her, maybe shake her, maybe hold her.
Tell her how he felt about her, that he knew he didn’t deserve her.
Ask her if maybe, just maybe, she could see beyond the fuck up he’d become and take a chance.
But he didn’t. Because he was a coward.
She’d already made herself crystal clear back in Seattle. Whatever was between them had been casual, temporary, unimportant. And there was no way he was setting himself up to get kicked in the teeth again. He might be a fuck up, but he wasn’t a fool.
Keep telling yourself that.
He pushed the snarky thought away, tried to relax his shoulders. Set his expression to something as neutral as possible. Not let her know just how much seeing her again was both ecstasy and agony.
“Hi,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm. Her fingers brushed against him in a sweeping motion, which she probably thought was soothing. It wasn’t. Her touch burned.
Part of him wanted to snatch his arm back, to get away from her and her sweet, coconut scent. And the terrible sympathy in her glassy eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. My flight out of Denver got postponed due to the weather.”
“Thank you for coming.” His voice sounded like he’d been hit in the chest with a rogue elbow. He cleared his throat and pointed at his brother, who was standing way too close to her. “You remember my brother, Nate?”
She gave Nate a shaky smile. “I do, although I don’t remember him being quite so tall.”
A small smile played at the edges of Nate’s lips. “Yeah, my growth spurt kicked in after you left.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Alexandra. It really means a lot.”
And that was enough of that.
“Come on.” Nick grabbed her hand and dragged her through the sea of people milling around the living room. Not that there was much dragging. She came along pretty willingly.
Without conscious thought, he headed for the stairs and the relative safety of upstairs.
Although it was just as hot on the second floor—he had no idea why his mother kept it hovering around four hundred degrees in the house, other than to maybe try and melt her icy heart—but at least he felt like he could breathe again.
He pushed open the door to his old bedroom and pulled her inside. Flipping on the light, he closed the door and then leaned against it, his heart thumping like he’d just finished one of her grueling workouts.
She had her arms wrapped around herself and was wandering around the room, looking at all of his stuff. Nothing had changed in here in the last decade and a half. It was almost like a shrine to his younger self.
Trophies balanced on cheap shelves, medals hanging from nails hammered into the walls.
His signed, framed Mario Lemieux jersey—one of the prizes for winning MVP at one of his tournaments—still hung on the wall across from his bed.
Minor hockey team pictures were scattered around, all a virtual timeline of his life.
How fucking sad was that?
He shoved his hands in his pockets, afraid they might go rogue and do something stupid, like touch her. The feel of her hand in his, while he’d dragged her through the house, had been like a brand on his palm. “What are you doing here?”
She turned at the gruff, almost accusatory words, her arms tightening around herself. “I didn’t want you to do this alone.”
He tore his gaze away, unable to look at her any longer.
It was like looking directly into the sun.
Brilliant and warm, but oh so painful. He swallowed, the lump in his throat growing as big and as hard as a puck.
He stared at the MVP trophy he’d won the first year he was in minor hockey.
Back when he loved the game, before all the pressure.
Before all the potential had been wasted. “Where’s Em?”
“She’s spending the next couple of weeks with her dad. For spring break.”
He could sense her moving toward him, but he didn’t look, just nodded. “Right, right. I forgot. I hope she has a good time.”
“She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry about your dad. She would have called, but she didn’t know what to say.”
He nodded again, keeping his focus on the cheap trophy. Her coconut scent surrounded him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was afraid that if he looked at her, he’d give in to his need to touch her, to hold her, to never let her go.
But he couldn’t do that. She was a distraction—had been since the moment he’d met her—and now, more than ever, he needed to focus.
“Nick?”
The emotions he’d been pushing, pushing, pushing down for the last few days welled up inside him, making his chest tight, his eyes hot.
The telltale tingling began in his fingers, sweat prickling along the back of his neck, his stomach diving through the floor.
He gulped in a breath, but it sounded like a sob.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
His vision blurred. He pushed away from the door, half turning, scrambling for the handle. He had to get out of here. Needed to go, get away. He couldn’t let her see him like this. All broken and bruised and bleeding, his guts spilled on the floor.