Chapter 4 Brody #2
Tyler
DUDE. Who is she?! Way to go!!!
Another from Kalen.
Kalen
Bout time you settled down, Candy!
Team group chat exploding with questions.
And then, at the bottom of my notifications:
Rick
Management will love this. Keep it going. This is exactly the image we needed.
I pocket my phone. Look down the empty street where Chloe disappeared.
Someone explain to me how, within the last ten minutes, I’ve somehow:
found the woman I’ve been looking for;
claimed her as my girlfriend without asking;
got a viral photo taken;
made her think I orchestrated the whole thing;
let my phone call prove her worst assumptions;
confirmed I’m exactly the fake, performative person she thinks I am.
Solid work, Kane. Really stellar.
The wind cuts through my jacket. My breath comes out in clouds. My hands are cold, shoved deep in my pockets.
What am I doing?
The smart move: Go home. Leave her alone.
The Rick move: Capitalize on this. Make it work. Get her to play along somehow.
The right move: I have no idea what the right move is anymore.
But if I do nothing, she’s going to find out about the photo from Barcelona from someone else. From Maya. From her own phone blowing up with strangers asking about “Candy’s girlfriend.” From her face being tagged in posts she never consented to.
And that’s not fair to her.
I pull out my phone. Stare at it. But I don’t have her number.
Never did.
Barcelona was perfect and anonymous, and I ruined it before I could get the details that mattered.
I could probably set up camp at the Ironclad.
Or.
I could go after her right now.
Chase her down the street like I chased that purse thief. Risk making everything worse. Prove I can’t take a hint and don’t understand boundaries.
The January wind makes the decision for me.
I start walking.
Even if I’m crossing a line I have no right to cross.
Even if this is the worst decision I’ve made since leaving her in Barcelona.
CHLOE
Don’t run. Don’t cry. Don’t look back.
I’m speed-walking down Hennepin, which I’d say is pretty risky, considering the icy state of the sidewalks combined with my track record for clumsiness.
But a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, and right now, all I can think about is putting as much distance between me and Ironclad as humanly possible before my carefully constructed composure shatters into a million pathetic pieces.
Two blocks to the bus stop. Just two blocks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t even bother looking.
It’s Maya. I know it’s Maya because that’s the way my life goes.
When it rains, it pours, and Maya will be there to see it.
And I can’t deal with that right now. Nope.
Right now, I have the exact emotional capacity for one thing and one thing only—catching the Number 10 so I can fall apart in the privacy and discomfort of a dimly lit vinyl bus seat.
“Chloe, wait!”
No.
His voice behind me. Footsteps getting closer—the quick rhythm of someone taller, faster, not emotionally destroyed.
No no no no no.
“Please, just—give me five minutes!”
I don’t stop. Don’t turn around. Just keep walking because, if I look at him, if I see those eyes that made me feel—what was that word that Jessa used?
oh, special—for one perfect night in Barcelona, I’m going to lose it completely, and I absolutely cannot handle a public breakdown on Hennepin Avenue in the dead of winter.
The bus stop appears ahead. Glass shelter. Metal bench. That useless digital sign that never works right.
Route 10 – 4 minutes
Four minutes until escape.
I can do four minutes.
I reach the shelter and finally—finally—turn around. Arms crossed. Chin up. Game face on. Never mind that my game face probably looks more “about to cry” than “unbothered.” Red-rimmed eyes or not, I’m not going to break that easily.
An older woman is sitting on the bench, bundled in a puffy purple coat, shopping bags at her feet. She glances up, sees us, and immediately looks back at her phone with the expression of someone who’s witnessed exactly this kind of drama before and knows to stay out of it.
Smart woman.
Brody stops a few feet away, breathing hard. His breath comes out in white clouds between us. Not from the running—he’s a professional athlete, this is nothing—but from something else. Stress? Desperation?
Can’t be that.
Doesn’t matter. I’m a stone wall, remember?
The cold is already vicious. Single digits at least, maybe lower. That Minnesota cold that bites through thin coats and reminds you that winter doesn’t care about your problems.
“I said don’t follow me.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a small miracle.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. The wind immediately messes it up again. “But you need to hear this. What happened in Barcelona—”
“I don’t need to hear anything.” I pull my coat tighter. The fabric is thin, not nearly warm enough. I should’ve replaced it last year, but rent took priority. “You made your choice six months ago.”
“Someone took our picture.” The words come out fast. Urgent. “That night. At the café. And…I panicked.” He stops. Breathes. More clouds between us. “I didn’t want to drag you into my drama.”
Wait. “What drama?”
He hesitates. There’s something in his expression—shame, maybe, or exhaustion—that makes him look less like “Candy Kane, media-trained hockey star” and more like the guy from Barcelona who told me about his fear of letting people down.
“My dad was in a big poker game. And he…” He sighs, and it works its way into my body like a hot-oil massage, letting down my guard.
“He owed money he didn’t have to people who don’t exactly take IOUs.
I had to bail him out, literally and figuratively, and”—his voice drops lower, and it sort of sinks into me—“I didn’t need the press knowing about my life. ”
Oh.
That’s not what I expected.
I was prepared for excuses. For charm. For some smooth explanation that would make me feel stupid for caring in the first place. But this?
This feels almost…real.
Don’t fall for it, Chloe. You are a stone wall. A STONE WALL. This is Brody “Candy” Kane, notorious charmer, hockey-world sweetheart. It’s his job to protect his image. Do. Not. I repeat, DO NOT fall for it.
But there’s this tiny, traitorous part of my heart—the part that felt that pitter-patter when he said girlfriend, the part that’s been wondering for six months what was so wrong with me that he had to vanish—that is whispering: Maybe it wasn’t about you not being enough.
Stop. Stop.
“So what? You panicked, and you just left?” I’m trying to keep my voice level. My hands are shoved in my pockets, fingers already numb. “Without a word. Without—”
“I’m sorry.” He steps closer. Not crowding, just…closer. I can smell his cologne now—something expensive and woodsy that brings back Barcelona in a rush. “I know that doesn’t fix it. But I am.”
My phone buzzes again. Insistent. I pull it out with stiff fingers.
Maya calling…
Perfect timing, universe.
I look at Brody. At the phone. At the digital sign. 3 minutes.
“I have to…” I gesture with the phone. “It’s my sister. She’ll keep calling if I don’t—”
“Answer it.”
I swipe to accept, turning slightly away for some semblance of privacy, even though we both know the older woman and probably half of Hennepin Avenue can hear everything.
“Hey, Maya, I’m kind of in the middle of—”
“Derek just saw a photo.” Maya’s voice is tight. That particular tone that means she’s upset but trying to sound reasonable. “Of you. With Brody Kane. Chloe.”
“What?” My mind is swirling. A photo of me…and Brody? Heat rises to my cheeks as I think back to the picture of us captured in Barcelona. “What photo?”
“It’s you and Brody inside what looks like a restaurant. From today.”
I let out a sigh of relief and immediately suck it back in. Oh no. Is this your girlfriend? the girl inside had asked. Oh…no, no. “It’s…complicated.”
“Complicated?” Her voice climbs. “He’s Derek’s teammate. They don’t exactly get along. And you—” She stops. Recalibrates. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
There it is. The subtext I’ve been hearing my whole life, wrapped in sisterly concern. I’m over my head, out of my league. Tell me something I don’t know.
“And he has a reputation,” she says, almost whispering it, like we might be in a hair salon, talking behind a copy of People magazine.
“A reputation for what, exactly?” I know I shouldn’t ask. I already know I won’t like the answer.
“For dating models. Influencers. You know—” Another pause. More delicate. “You’re not exactly his type, Chloe.”
No duh. He’s standing there, looking away from me, his hands in his pockets, and she’s right.
He’s gorgeous, with those shoulders, and dark hair and blue eyes.
And then there’s me…flyaway hair tangled around my shoulders, chin turtle-tucked into my jacket collar, fully aware that I look ridiculous, bundled up like the Michelin Man.
Maybe he had a touch of heatstroke that day in Barcelona.
“I’m just worried about you getting hurt. And”—the real concern surfaces—“I don’t want anything to mess up the wedding.”
There it is.
Don’t mess up my perfect wedding with your poor life choices, Chloe. Don’t embarrass us by being with someone out of your league. Don’t exist too loudly.
My free hand clenches in my pocket. The cold metal of the bus shelter presses against my back.
“Wow. Thanks, Maya. But I think I can handle myself.”
“Can you? Because this seems really sudden, and with the party this weekend—”
I’ve already lifted the phone away from my ear. “I gotta go. I’ll call you later,” I say into the icy wind and hang up before she can respond.
Then I stand there for a second, phone in hand, trying to remember how to breathe. The exhaust from a passing truck hits me, diesel fumes mixing with the metallic smell of cold air.
The digital sign changes. 2 minutes.
“Your sister?” Brody asks quietly.