31. “Far Behind”
Chapter 31
“Far Behind”
Sascha - Age 24, 1994
I tossed and turned restlessly all night. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop my brain from being consumed by thoughts of the past twenty-four hours. When I finally succumbed to sleep around 1:45 am, my body felt like lead, a heavy weight pushing down into my plush, queen-sized mattress.
My alarm beeps sharply at 6:30 am, and I struggle to pull myself out of bed. Every muscle aches, making it feel like I ran a marathon in my sleep. Side note: I don’t run. Unless being chased by a chainsaw-wielding serial killer. And honestly, even then, I might give up and accept my fate. That’s how much I abhor most forms of physical exercise, especially running.
This entire experience has been like a dream. Yesterday, I woke up at home with high hopes for landing the biggest account of my career and a “boyfriend.” Granted, it wasn’t the strongest relationship, but after this trip, that relationship will cease to exist.
So here I am in a strange city, tasked with working on a campaign I had no time to prepare for, all while trying to avoid the world’s most distracting force, Michael Tazman. Not that he’s outright tried anything, but he did show up in my room at midnight. There’s always tension between us and the promise of what could be if we crossed that line. It’s exhilarating and exhausting.
With a deep yawn, I shuffle over to the window and slowly draw back the curtains. The brightening sky outside reveals the beauty of this mountainous city. A light dusting of snow covers everything in sight, transforming the streets into a glittering winter wonderland. It’s a picturesque scene that only adds to my chest’s unfamiliar and overwhelming ache.
There’s a small coffee pot in the corner of my room, but I prefer to drink my coffee with creamer. All they have is that horrible white powder that clumps on itself and makes your coffee taste like glue. I’ll wait and find a cup later. I’m sure they have a break room in the office. This organization has a lot of money, so they better have some half and half.
Showering helps me wake up a bit, and by the time I’m finished and brush my teeth, I’m slightly more human. I was going to call a cab, but Jerry called and said there would be a car waiting for me at 8:30, which is kind of them. I scramble to get ready, pulling my damp hair up in a low ponytail.
I take a deep breath, looking at myself one more time, cocking my head to the side as I examine my hair, makeup, and wardrobe. It’s not my best work, and the effects of poor sleep are evident on my face, but it will have to do.
The ride is only ten minutes, and I hastily approach the building after thanking my driver. The cold air bites at my ears and cheeks before I’m granted a reprieve from the warm air circulating inside.
Setting my bag in the conference room, which will now serve as my temporary work home for the next few days, I go in search of coffee. I find a small kitchenette around the corner from the conference room with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. My senses tingle at the aroma. I’m a coffee girl. I drank it a bit in high school but became addicted in college. Thankfully, the refrigerator has half and half and whole milk.
I grab my morning tonic and walk back to the room. As I pass by, people look up and smile courteously, and I make a mental note to find the art department people to begin working on some ideas later.
It turns out that’s unnecessary because when I return to the conference room, I find a man sitting at the table, his brows drawn together in concentration as he shades in something on a sketch pad.
The woosh of air that accompanies me when I enter the room causes him to look up, and our eyes meet. My breath catches in my throat. Christ on a cracker, he’s attractive. Piercing ocean-blue eyes peek out at me from under dark-framed glasses. His eyes starkly contrast his inky black hair and olive skin tone. A slow smile spreads across his face as he takes in my appearance.
In one swift movement, he rises from his chair and strides toward me, his hand outstretched in greeting. “Hi. You must be Sascha. I’m Derek.” His voice is warm and friendly, his handshake firm and inviting. I can’t help but stare momentarily as I take in his perfectly tailored black suit pants that hug his muscular thighs and the white dress shirt that stretches across his broad chest.
He’s an undeniably attractive man, yet I feel nothing beyond an initial fleeting attraction. This turn of events annoys me with Taz. His re-emergence in my life has me unsettled.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” I respond, quickly pulling my hand away. I walk to the nearby table and set down my coffee while Derek follows behind with his megawatt smile. “So, Derek,” I start, “What can I help you with?”
Furrowing his brows in confusion, he responds, “I’m from the art department. Didn’t Jerry inform you we’d collaborate on this project?”
“He did mention it,” I stumble over my words. “He didn’t mention that I’d be working with someone. I wasn’t sure when that would happen.”
Derek’s lips curl into a knowing smile. “Sorry for catching you off guard.”
“I have some initial ideas, but I’m still working them out. Can we meet after lunch?”
“Of course,” he agrees easily. “I’ll swing by and check in with you later.” He leaves the room and takes his woodsy, masculine scent with him, allowing me a moment to clear my head and drink some coffee before getting into my work.
I could use a break from thinking about hockey apparel as lunchtime approaches. Just as I’m about to ask Jerry’s secretary, Pam, for a recommendation on where to grab food, a burst of warm air and the scent of fresh soap fills my workspace as Michael charges in. His broad frame takes up most of the doorway, and I can’t help but notice how good he smells.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deep and rich.
I look up from my work to meet his gaze. “Hi,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”
“I finished practice and thought I’d check if you’ve had lunch,” he replies with a charming smile.
“I haven’t,” I admit, feeling a pang of hunger at the mention of food. “I was about to go grab something and bring it back here. I don’t have a lot of time to go out.”
“I knew that would be the case,” he says casually. “So, I asked Pam to order something. It should be here soon.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “You did?”
He nods, still smiling. “Yes. I wanted to do something nice for you. You still like Chinese food?”
“I love it,” I reply, my stomach grumbling at the thought of moo goo gai pan.
Michael saunters over to where I’m working, taking in the scattered papers on the table with interest. My heart races as I quickly move to block his view, not wanting him to view my sketches yet. His presence is distracting enough as it is without adding in the possibility of judgment on my work. Watching him play last night ignited something within me. He’s so good when he’s in his element, and it was impressive to watch him command the ice. Now, it’s my turn to show him what I can do in my element. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it, but I want to do well for him and me.
Our food arrives ten minutes later as Pam brings in the fragrant containers and sets them on the table. The tangy aroma of meat and vegetables fills the room, and we both sigh, satisfied. We continue chatting casually as we eat, but I can’t help but sneak glimpses of Michael. He’s happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this way. Not in a long time, at least.
He smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he talks animatedly about life here and some of his teammates.
“Hey,” I interrupt, holding up a piece of cashew chicken with my chopsticks. “Can I ask you a question?”
A sly grin tugs at the corners of his mouth before he speaks, “Shoot.” His eyes meet mine with a playful wink.
“What did you do to land yourself in trouble here?” I ask, unable to resist my own curiosity.
His expression changes suddenly, shifting from relaxed and carefree to a stormy anger that crackles in the air around us.
I realize I may have overstepped my bounds. “I’m sorry,” I quickly apologize. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Michael lets out a long, weary sigh and carefully sets his chopsticks down on the plate before him. “It was Brian,” he says with a hint of resignation.
My nerves immediately start to prickle at the mention of Michael’s older brother. While I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt, every time Brian Tazman enters Michael’s life, it brings nothing but trouble. “Why am I not surprised?” I seethe through gritted teeth.
A small smirk tugs at the corner of Michael’s lips, a knowing and conspiratorial expression. “I had only been here a couple of months,” he begins, his tone heavy with frustration, “and he showed up one day before a game, higher than a kite and looking for me.”
The memory seems to replay vividly in his mind as he recounts it, causing his jaw to tighten and his eyes to narrow in annoyance. “He’d just gotten out of jail, I guess, and hadn’t talked to our father in years. Feeling desperate, he decided to find his little brother, who happens to be an NHL player.”
“Shocking!” I sneer, rolling my eyes and causing him to meet my gaze with a smug smile.
“So here’s the story,” he begins, leaning closer as if sharing some juicy gossip. “He shows up uninvited, raising hell and screaming my name. Security had to drag him out, of course.”
I scoff at the absurdity. “That’s hardly your fault. How is that a reflection on you?”
“But wait, there’s more.” He leans back, relishing in the suspense. “He waited for me in the parking lot after the game.”
My temper flares, and I curse under my breath. “That son of a bitch.”
The words spilled out of his mouth in a jumbled rush, punctuated by shaky breaths. “Yeah. He was such a mess. Coked out of his mind,” he says, his voice full of emotion. “He started talking about how I owed him for everything he’s done for me.”
My hands balled into fists at my sides as my anger boiled over. “You don’t owe him shit! They owe you! All of them owe you years of your life! Your mom, your dad, and your piece of shit brother!“ I push back out of my chair, ready to fight his entire family if they dare to hurt him again. I cannot forgive the people who abandoned him. All of them. No matter what, I will never be okay with that. I can still see that little boy standing there waiting for his parents to show up, clutching his sad little lunch box with tears in his eyes. I want to tear them apart.
But before I can do anything, he’s up too, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his chest. Despite the heat radiating from him, I feel chills run down my spine.
“Ssh. It’s okay, Sash,” he murmurs soothingly into my hair.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down as I nestle into the warmth of his chest for a brief moment. Eventually, I push back and ask, “So what happened?”
He hangs his head, shame and regret etched on his features. “He kept pushing me. I tried to escape him, but he wouldn’t let it go. Kept telling me what a fuck up I am and how I don’t deserve everything I’ve got.” He pauses, taking in a shaky breath before continuing. “He punched me in the face, and I maintained my cool. But when he did it again, something inside me snapped, and I fought back.” His eyes meet mine with a mix of fear and defiance.
My heart breaks for him, knowing the pain and turmoil his family has forced him to experience. But I also feel an overwhelming sense of pride in him for standing up for himself.
“I’m proud of you,” I say softly.
He nods gratefully, the corners of his lips turning into a small smile. The relief in his eyes is visible as he speaks. “Jerry and the PR people really saved my reputation. It never looks good to the media when a player kicks his own brother’s ass in the parking lot at work—justified or not. They helped me out big time.” As he continues, I can sense a hint of regret and self-awareness in his voice. “But they also saw that I’m young and maybe a bit impulsive—“
“Maybe a bit,” I joke, trying to ease the tension. “It’s all so very ‘Cats in the Cradle.’”
“So they wanted to keep an eye on me,” he explains, giving me a side-eyed look at my snarky comment. His expression shifts slightly, revealing a mix of emotions—determination, vulnerability, and a touch of sadness. “Jerry knows I don’t have any family, so he and I meet up once per month and talk about how things are going.”
I cock my head to the side and study him intently. He looks like the same Michael Tazman I’ve always known—tall, athletic, and infuriatingly gorgeous. But there’s something new about him now. A bit of wisdom in his blue eyes. A sense of maturity in his demeanor. He’s grown up and matured into the person I always knew he could be. It warms my heart that he’s embracing his potential.
“Good for you,” I tell him sincerely. When he gives me a skeptical look, I reiterate my words with more conviction. “No, I’m serious. It sounds like you’re doing awesome.”
He nods confidently, a proud smile spreading across his face. “I am.”
“Just don’t let them slither into your life again,” I urge him firmly.
“Never going to happen,” he confirms with a shake of his head. The determination in his tone assures me that he is serious.
The corners of my mouth turn up into a genuine smile. “Good,” I say to him, feeling the warmth of his presence. But our moment is abruptly interrupted as Derek enters the room. We both turn to look at him, and he seems visibly embarrassed to have barged in.
“I’m sorry. I can come back,” he offers hesitantly, sensing his intrusion.
“No, no, please come in,” Michael says warmly. “We were wrapping things up.” We quickly cleared the table together, and I felt Michael’s strong arms wrap around me in a comforting hug. “Thank you for having lunch with me,” he says softly before pulling away. "I’ll see you later.”
As he exits the room with the same grace that he entered, I can’t help but be captured by his charm. Even the Clark Kent look-alike won’t be able to keep my mind from wandering back to Michael for the rest of the afternoon.