Chapter 47
forty-seven
INDIGO
Something is wrong.
From the very first face-off, Sebastian’s movements have been wooden and slower than normal.
It’s difficult to tell from watching a televised game versus in-person because I can only see what the camera operator focuses on, but it looks like his teammates see it, too, because they keep saying stuff to him every time they skate past the crease.
“What is he doing?” Megan asks, wincing when Bash barely stops a shot he’d normally handle easily.
“Is he sick?” Lexi frowns at the TV. “Did anyone get a text before the game?” She wanders over to her purse and digs around in the black leather bag while the rest of the women check their phones.
“I didn’t.” I’m not surprised. Bash sent a text when they first got to the arena, but once he suits up, he doesn’t check his phone. It’s part of his process. Being in the right headspace is important, and he does everything he can to protect his peace.
The rest of the ladies give the same answer.
Then Lexi finds her phone, reads something with a frown, and mutters, “Shit.”
“What?” Isla stands from her spot on the couch and wanders over to her blonde friend and looks over her shoulder. It doesn’t take long for her face to crumple into a frown too. “What the fuck?”
When both of them look over at me with serious expressions, my stomach gives a lurch. “What’s wrong?”
Did something happen to Bash before the game? Are his parents okay? Did he get hurt?
“What happened?” I ask, the words sharp on my tongue. “Did he get hurt before the game or something? You two are freaking me out.”
“He’s fine,” Isla rushes to say, her hands up in a placating gesture.
It does nothing to make me feel better.
“Then what?” My skin crawls when every eye in the apartment focuses on me. “I swear to god, if someone doesn’t tell me…”
“Here.” Lexi hands me her phone. “It’s probably easier if you read it yourself.”
It takes a moment for my eyes to focus on the words filling up the screen. When I finally do, my hands begin to shake.
“What. The. Fuck?”
I’m vaguely aware of the women crowding behind me, reading over my shoulder. Every new word floods my belly with acid and rage, and I’m so consumed with it that it’s difficult to focus on the article.
“That lying piece of shit,” Lola hisses. “I’m going to pull his spine out through his asshole and choke him with it.”
“I’ll help you, baby,” Megan says darkly. “That’s the ex?”
Lola lets out a little growl. “Yes. The one that showed up on our doorstep a couple of days ago.”
“He’s here?” Mira asks. “Good. Because we’ll help you jump him.”
A strangled laugh tears out of my throat. “Why would he do this? I told him we were done. I told him to go home. What could he possibly have to gain from this?”
“He’s a selfish, despicable weasel.” Lola wraps her arms around me from beside me and squeezes tight. “He must think he’ll benefit. I just can’t figure out what he thinks this will accomplish. Isn’t he worried about your dad firing him?”
I shake my head. “Doubt it. If my dad didn’t let Ryland go after he dumped me, I doubt he’d fire him for something like this.
Hell, if I called Dad about it right now, he’d probably say something about how there’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Because for him, there isn’t. He doesn’t understand how different things are for me. ”
A commotion on screen draws my attention just in time to watch the Sharks piling up in a group, celebrating a goal. Sebastian’s head hangs in defeat.
“Shit.” My breathing is shallow as I watch Ryder and Griffin skate up to Bash and say something to him.
When Bash shakes his head, Griffin grips the cage of Bash’s helmet.
His expression is serious when he says something else before pressing his helmet to Sebastian’s.
They exchange another few words, then the ref calls everyone to the face-off line.
My chest is tight. “He saw the article, didn’t he?”
Lexi nods. “Unfortunately, yes. Ryder wanted us to be aware, just in case. We don’t want you being harassed by reporters.”
“Oh my god.” What did Bash think after reading that? Does he believe that my breakup with Ryland was temporary? Could he actually wonder if this thing between us isn’t real? Is he worried I’ll walk away from him?
I already left him once without a word.
“Hey.” Lola grabs my face with both of her hands and forces me to look at her. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. Ryland is a piece of shit, but Bash loves you. And you love him. You’ll get through this.”
“It’s my fault he’s off his game.”
“First of all, no. We are not responsible for how our guys play,” Lexi says definitively. “Second, if anyone is to blame, it’s that shithead ex of yours.”
I know she’s right. Logically, I do. But as I try to track the puck on the large screen in front of me, as I watch Bash struggle to stop another shot attempt, I can’t help feeling like I am responsible. I am to blame.
He got hit that first game we went to because he was distracted by my presence. He’s distracted now because drama and bullshit follow me everywhere.
I’m the common denominator.
“She’s right,” Megan says with gentle authority.
“Hockey is as much a mental game as it is muscle memory and skill. But there are a million things that can throw a player off before the game even starts. We learn to push through it. And if he’s not succeeding at that tonight, that’s on him.
It could just as easily have been a player from the other team trying to get in his head or something their coach said in the locker room. It’s not on you.”
I nod, because what else can I do? But as the first period gives way to the second, and the second gives way to the third and Bash lets three more goals through, the weight of it all feels crushing as the final buzzer sounds and the Rogues lose four to two.
I may not be the entire reason the Rogues got their third loss of the series, but I certainly contributed to the defeated expressions and hanging heads of the guys as they leave the ice.
Guilt consumes me.
I’m trying not to hyperventilate as the phone rings.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Bash’s voice is dull when he answers, and I screw my eyes shut.
“Hey, handsome. How are you?”
“Been better,” he says with a sigh. “The more important question is, how are you?”
Of course, he’s worried about me. But is he also worried I’m going to walk away? “I’ve also been better. I’m assuming you read the article?”
“Yep. Unfortunately, I saw it right before the game.”
Of course he did. Fucking Ryland. I’m going to castrate him. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I can’t believe that asshole said any of that.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it for a beat before asking a question I’m scared to hear the answer to. “You don’t believe any of it, right?”
“No,” he answers instantly. Vehemently. “Absolutely not, sweetheart.”
Thank god.
“Were you worried I would?” His words are softer now, any frustration giving way to a gentleness that makes me even angrier on his behalf.
Neither one of us deserved to deal with this today, but he’s the one who is paying more dearly for it.
The commentary surrounding his performance tonight has not been kind.
The interview with Ryland started going viral after the second Shark’s goal.
By the time the Rogues had lost, it was everywhere.
Of course, that means he and the rest of the team were dodging questions about it every other question during post-game interviews.
I haven’t escaped the fallout. As soon as online commentary started, my friends banned me from all social media, and I’m well aware that the things people are saying about me are less than kind.
But they’re only insulting me. They’re questioning Bash’s skills, his accomplishments, and whether the Rogues should pull him from upcoming games in the finals if they want to have any hope of making a comeback to win the Cup.
Because, after tonight, they’re down three games to one, which means they have to win every single remaining game to earn the Cup.
“Indie?”
“Sorry. I… I don’t know if I was worried. Things with us are still so new, and I did walk away from you ten years ago, and I…” Sucking in a deep breath, I try to calm my rapid pulse and whirring thoughts. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were questioning me.”
“Hey. No, I’m not. I don’t. Fuck.” He blows out a breath that sounds like static through the phone. “I hate that I’m not there.”
“Me too,” I whisper. I grab the extra pillow off my bed and hug it to my chest. After the game, Lola brought me home to our rental, and after changing into pajamas, I climbed into bed and haven’t moved since.
Paralyzed by worry and a consuming anger at Ryland, all I could do was stare at my phone and wait for my boyfriend’s name to fill the screen.
We lapse into silence, and I focus on his rhythmic breathing. It’s not difficult to imagine his expression when his breaths are harsh and jagged. I wish I could run my fingers over his brow to smooth the furrows I know must be there. If only I could kiss his stubbled jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
He inhales. “For what, baby?”
“For complicating your life. For being a distraction during the most important series of your career. God, Bash, this is my fault.”
“Indigo Rose Bloom. Are you serious right now?” Frustration bleeds from each word.
“I…”
“This isn’t your fault. It’s not mine, either, even though it feels that way.
I had an off game.” There’s a weighty pause, then he sighs.
“Okay, a few off games. But none of that is on you, or even that dipshit ex of yours. That’s on me.
But as my teammates so forcefully reminded me tonight after the game, the losses aren’t all on me. Even if my brain tells me they are.”
Despite the serious nature of the conversation, I can’t help smiling at the frustration in his tone when he talks about his friends. Like it pains him to admit they’re right, and he isn’t solely responsible for the outcome of their games. “They told you that, huh?”
He chuckles mirthlessly. “Yeah, well, I had a bit of a breakdown in the locker room after the game, so they kind of had to.”
“What?” I sit up in bed, the pillow I’d been clutching falling to the side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry. It’s like I told you the other day.
I don’t want to let my parents and my team down.
I don’t want to let you down. The pressure I’ve been putting on myself caught up with me, I guess.
” The stress and exhaustion in his voice can’t be faked, and my chest twists because I’m not there to comfort him.
I hate that he’s been crumbling under the weight of his own expectations.
“But the thing is, Rosebud, yeah, this may be the most important series of my career, but it’s still just that. My career. And you come before that. You always will. Always would have, if we’d been together for the last ten years. I need you to know that.”
When my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest, I pick the pillow up again, hugging it as I hold the phone. “I’d never ask you to put me before your career.”
“I know,” he says. “But if you did, I would.”
“Me too,” I tell him.
“I know, baby.”
Silence falls between us again, but this time, his breathing is slower, more even. Sighing, I lean back against the headboard. “You’re not out of this yet.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts,” I say, cutting him off. “You guys are going to win this. I feel it. And I’m going to be there, cheering you on, when you do.”
I feel the sigh he lets out all the way down to my bones. “You’re right. We can do this. I can do this.”
“You can.” I’ll say it a million times if I have to. Whatever it takes to get him to believe it. He’s one of the best goalies in the league. If anyone can pull this off, it’s him.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably be less distracted?” I offer.
Sebastian chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that?” The last word is warped by a yawn that triggers me to yawn.
“You should get some sleep.”
“You’re probably right. I don’t want to be tired on our date tomorrow. Will you be home when our plane lands?”
I consider it. Things have been so chaotic and distracting the last few days that I haven’t gotten any writing done, and when I sit down at the rental and try, I can’t seem to focus.
“I think I’m going to head to The Bean House and do some writing.”
There’s a rustling over the phone, and I can picture Bash trying to get comfortable in his hotel bed. “Are you sure? I’m worried you’ll be harassed there.”
It’s a concern I share, but I’ve enjoyed my freedom here in the Twin Cities.
I’ve gotten used to it. And I’m not alone now.
I have a network of friends who don’t live or work far from the coffee shop, and every one of them would come sneak me out the back door if I called them for an extraction.
“It’ll be okay. Lola’s going to drop me off.
She and Megan are hanging out tomorrow, and I can call her in for backup if I need to. She can be scary.”
“She sure can be,” he says, chuckling. “And I know Megan can throw a punch if it comes down to it. Okay, well, just be careful, please? I can pick you up there.”
“That would be nice.” I try to fight another yawn but don’t succeed, which Bash seems to find funny.
“Night, Indie. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Bash. Sweet dreams.”
I fall asleep thinking of him.