Afterward, he could tell Lauren all his problems. They would all come pouring out, every terrifying fear he had for the future. She would listen like the true partner that she was. Hell—she might even fire up a spreadsheet to try to find some answers.
Instead, he recalled his hand, letting her sleep. Something stopped him from going there. It was the bone-deep suspicion that this was all his fault. That hubris had finally done him in.
Waking Lauren to hear his nightmare suddenly felt like a colossally selfish thing to do. Instead, he watched the woman he loved as she slept. Lauren had plans to look at apartments in the city. Soon. If he opened her laptop right now he’d probably find it open to the New York Times real estate search engine.
The woman he loved needed him to move away to a new life in the city.
The woman he’d married needed his help on Long Island.
And the little girl who called him Daddy was hurting so badly.
He’d made different kinds of promises to all of them. As he blinked into the darkness, it became perfectly clear that he couldn’t get through the next few months without breaking some promises. Maybe breaking some hearts.
Lauren couldn’t fix it for him. And maybe he didn’t deserve to have her try.
He lay awake listening to Lauren’s gentle breaths, feeling his happiness slip away into the cool springtime night.
EIGHT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
APRIL 2016
“God, this is a total gongshow,” Lauren muttered to herself.
Watching game number five was like revisiting her old life. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t supposed to care anymore. It didn’t matter that she’d given up hockey. The stadium thrummed with energy. The thwack of the puck flying off a stick and the crash of skates into the boards was the soundtrack of her whole life. And not just the parts she’d shared with Mike Beacon.
Hockey slang had been a part of Lauren’s vocabulary since she learned to talk. If milk spilled from her sippy cup onto the kitchen table, her father would grab a “Zamboni” to wipe it up. If he and her mother bumped each other in the kitchen, it was a “hip check.”
Her grandfather had played for Long Island in the seventies. When she was born, her father was a veteran player for Detroit. When he retired, they moved to Long Island where her father became a manager—and then the manager—of the Long Island team.
The sport was in her blood. Becoming a hockey fan wasn’t a choice. It was her destiny. But that all changed two years ago.
First came the new job in Manhattan. She loved it, but it was the first time in her adult life she worked with people who didn’t follow hockey.
And then Mike had begun acting strangely. As she tried to narrow down their apartment hunting options, he grew distant. His ex-wife seemed to be leaning on him for a lot of childcare as the hockey season ended, too.
“Is something wrong?” Lauren kept asking him.
He shook his head, looking troubled.
A few months shy of her thirtieth birthday, she was riding home on the Long Island Railroad from a day of training at Nate Kattenberger’s corporate headquarters when her phone rang. A picture flashed onto the screen to identify the caller. She’d just gotten her first Katt Phone the week before, and had chosen this shot for Mike. He was smiling at the camera, a cupcake she’d baked in his hand.
“Lauren.” His voice was a dry scrape into the phone when she answered.
“Hi! I’m still on the train. But I should make it to your house in thirty.”
There was a silence, and Lauren wondered if the call had been dropped. “I’m not there,” he said roughly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
A chill broke out across her neck and shoulders. “Baby, what is it?”
“I . . .” She held her breath. “I moved back into the old house today.”
“What?” She replayed the sentence again in her head, but it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t mean his old house.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “I love you. Hell, I’ve always loved you. But my family needs me right now, and there isn’t any other way.”
“They . . . what?” she asked stupidly. “Mike, you’re not making a lot of sense. I need to see you. Where are you?”
“No,” he said haltingly. “My mind is made up. Shelly is sick.”
“She’s sick?” Lauren parroted like an idiot.
“Yeah. She’s getting chemotherapy now. Elsa is all freaked out.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
That’s when it started to sink in. This phone call wasn’t just some kind of crazy misunderstanding. He was serious. And he’d said he was leaving her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This is gonna be so hard, but I have to do it.”
“You don’t, though,” she argued. “We could change our plans . . .” His recent silences when she wanted to discuss apartment-hunting suddenly made a hell of a lot more sense.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
There was a click, and that was really it. Lauren was left sitting there on the LIRR, her phone still pressed to her cheek.
She had been completely blindsided.
Not only had that phone call meant a break-up, but it had also clinched Lauren’s exit from the world of professional hockey. She no longer worked in the team’s office. And after Mike dumped her, she stopped reading the sports section and she never set foot near a rink unless her boss required it. (He usually hadn’t, thankfully.)
For two years her relationship with hockey had been severed. Yet here she was again, watching game five of a play-offs series, in a posh corporate box beside her boss.
And so tense she was practically crawling out of her skin.
As she’d done for games one through four, Lauren had begun the evening assuring herself that she didn’t care who won. But the red-blooded energy of eighteen thousand fans in one room was too much for even Lauren to resist. And much like games one through four, by the third period she held her water bottle with a white-knuckled grip, completely absorbed in the action down on the ice.
She’d forgotten how this felt—the excitement thumping through her chest as the fans stomped their feet.
“YEAH!” Nate stood up from his seat, along with eighteen thousand others, as forwards Beringer and Trevi raced down the ice, playing keep-away with the puck.
Beringer passed, and Trevi took a shot. Lauren’s heart leaped into her mouth. But it was just barely deflected by the D.C. goalie, damn it. Then Trevi was slammed into the boards by a defenseman, a blatant hit from behind.
WHAT? Lauren’s inner hockey fan shrieked. “No penalty? That’s bullshit!”
Her heart banged inside her chest as the third period ground on, the score a 2–2 tie.
When there were only four minutes left in the game, everyone in the Bruisers’ box braced as a Washington player charged the net. Lauren leaned forward in her seat as Beacon dove into position, deflecting the puck. Another D.C. player zoomed in for the rebound, and there was a scrum in front of the net—pads and skates and sticks all scrapping for control.
Then an opposing player fell right onto Mike, knocking him down with such force that his shoulder unhooked the net from its peg into the ice.
Lauren stopped breathing.
The next few moments happened in slow motion. The offending player picked himself up off Beacon’s body, which wasn’t moving.
Get up! She commanded him silently. A whistle blew, and players and officials congregated.
Mike’s leg moved. But that was all.
“It might be nothing,” Nate said. “He probably wants to hear the penalty called, and give his guys a moment to breathe before they restart play.”
She processed her boss’s words, but her gaze would not budge from the ice. All the adrenaline of the moment hit her like poison. Her s
tomach ached, and her head spun.
“Lauren.” Nate prodded her elbow. “Breathe.”
She whipped her chin in his direction. It was his fault that she was sitting here, witnessing any of this. This wasn’t her life anymore. Mike Beacon wasn’t her cause, damn it! Nathan made a calm gesture toward the ice. “There he goes.”
When Lauren looked down again, Mike was already putting a hand on the ice and pushing himself up.
She didn’t relax until he shook himself and got to his feet. The linesman conferred with the ref, and a penalty was called.
“Nathan,” she demanded in a low voice. “Why am I here?”
“Because the team needs your help,” he replied immediately. “And two years is a long time to miss out on hockey.”
“I was just fine without hockey,” she pointed out.
Nathan raised an eyebrow, looking so smug she felt like strangling him. “No matter how often you say otherwise, you love hockey.”
Seriously? “Please tell me I’m not here right now because you were staging some kind of intervention. That’s fucked up, Nathan.”
His eyes went back to the surface of the ice, where the puck was in play once again. “It would be more convenient if you were afraid of me like everyone else is.”
“Good luck with that.”
He snickered. “Your boy is back in action.”
“He’s not my boy.”
Nathan didn’t argue. His attention had already turned back to the team, which was enjoying a power play thanks to the penalty called against the player who took out Mike.
With a shaking hand, Lauren took a deep pull of her water. I hate hockey, she reminded herself. And Mike Beacon is nothing to me. But the sight of his body lying still on the ice had made her feel cold inside. Damn him.
And now she was eyeing the clock, wondering if the Bruisers could capitalize on the power play. Feeling the old pull.
There were less than three minutes left, and they would decide her fate for the next two weeks. If the Bruisers scored, it was on to the conference semifinals in another city—another seven-game series. A hundred more chances to feel the weight of Mike Beacon’s eyes on her in airport terminals, buses and hotel lobbies.
Or.
If they couldn’t clinch the series tonight or in the next two games, it would all be over. A week from tonight she could be back at her desk in Manhattan, worrying about Nate’s next international software trade show.
Why did that sound disappointing all of a sudden?
She risked another glance at the rink, where Leo Trevi was making a new charge at the opponent’s net. Defenders scrambled into place, but Trevi snapped the puck back to Castro, then evaded the player who tried to check him.
Lauren went completely still inside. Then, with two minutes and forty-two seconds left on the clock, Trevi received the puck again, quickly passing backward to team captain O’Doul.
Who flipped the biscuit into the basket.
O’Doul’s girlfriend, Ari, let out an earsplitting shriek of joy as the lantern lit behind D.C.’s goalie. The stadium went nuts, some fans moaning and others hooting with victory.
Lauren stared at the scoreboard as the goal became official. The Bruisers were a few cautious minutes away from going on to round two.
Beside her, Nate rubbed his hands together. He didn’t yell or even smile because the game wasn’t officially over yet.
It was, though. Lauren knew in her gut that Brooklyn would advance. And she was stunned to realize she was a little thrilled by the idea. Nate and this team had worked so hard for two years to rebuild the franchise.
Not that I care, Lauren reminded herself as the puck dropped on the next faceoff.
Both teams skated with electric, sweaty energy as the clock wound down. With forty five seconds left, D.C. pulled its goalie. They needed a goal to push the game into overtime.
They didn’t get it.
Leo Trevi scored on the empty net, and then it was all over but the cryin’. When the buzzer sounded with its deafening glee, fans began streaming for the exits and pundits everywhere began speculating over who the Bruisers would meet in the second round.
Lauren chugged her bottle of water and wondered how all this would end.
• • •
As the evening progressed, Lauren found it much easier to rustle up the proper amount of loathing for hockey. She stood for hours on weary feet at Nate’s side as he took questions from journalists and conferred with Hugh Major, the general manager, over stats and predictions. During the play-offs, these sound bites and analysis—always Lauren’s least favorite aspect of the game—were dialed up to eleven. Reporters were everywhere, nabbing players for a few words of commentary wherever they could find them.
She found herself inspecting her manicure as Mike Beacon was interviewed a few feet away from her in the corridor.
“Michael—that was quite the athletic save you made during the first period,” a sports reporter said into his own microphone, while a cameraman filmed them. “Great work getting your glove into that corner! What was going through your head while you dove for that puck?”
Lauren knew him too well to miss the irritation in his answering chuckle. “Honestly? A few different four-letter words. I know the highlight-reel saves make for good video, but that kind of save only happens if I’ve read the scene wrong in the first place, and have to make a quick and desperate correction.”
“Got it,” said the announcer with an uncomfortable laugh. “Nicely done, then. Good save, as they say! Heh-heh.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Hard. But then she caught Mike watching her. And when their gazes met, his lips twitched with amusement. Do you believe this guy? his expression seemed to ask.
She smiled before she remembered that they didn’t do this anymore. They weren’t each other’s port in the shit storm of life.
The moment was over anyway because her boss stepped up to ask her, “Did you reach Rebecca? I need to make sure she knows about her doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”
“I tried,” Lauren told him. “But she didn’t answer her phone. I didn’t think you’d want me to keep trying. It’s almost eleven.”
Nate frowned. “Call my landline.”
“Your . . .” Lauren was confused. “At home?”
He gave a curt nod. “She’s staying with . . . at my place for a little while. It’s more peaceful there.”
More peaceful my ass. “I’ll try your landline,” she said, pulling out her Katt Phone. “But, Nate? Why didn’t you just call her yourself?” If her life was up for discussion, he could take a poke or two. Fair was fair.
Nate’s eyes flared. “Are you too busy right now to make the call?”
“Not at all,” she admitted. But why am I the only one who gets called out for ducking people?
“If you reach her,” he began, as if her moment of disobedience had never happened, “tell her that the car will be there at nine fifteen instead of nine thirty tomorrow morning, because traffic in the Battery Tunnel can be nasty.”
“Yes, sir,” Lauren said a little too flippantly. She tapped the number for his mansion on her phone and listened to it ring while he walked away.
“Hello?” Rebecca answered just as Lauren contemplated giving up. “Lauren?”
“Hi. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. I just didn’t know if I should answer Nate’s phone. But the caller ID said your name so I figured I was supposed to answer. Did you know there are computer screens in every room of Nate’s house? They blink on when you walk past them. I’m all creeped out.”
“Why, um . . .” Lauren didn’t make a point to start conversations with Becca. But she was dying of curiosity. “Why are you there?”
Becca groaned. “It’s weird, right? But I wasn’t doing so well, and I mentioned to Nate that my sister
and her idiot boyfriend were back together and making a lot of noise in my apartment. I couldn’t sleep and I was all stressed out. Nate showed up the next day with empty suitcases and told me to pack for an extended stay. I have to wonder—is his Manhattan empire crumbling without you at the helm? Because the man really doesn’t want me to take any more sick leave.”
He’s in love with you, idiot.
She couldn’t say it, though. So she made a noncommittal noise instead. This was exactly why she never got chatty with Becca. It put her in an uncomfortable position every time Nate’s behavior came up. “I should run,” she said. “But Nate needed you to know that a car will pick you up for your doctor’s appointment at nine fifteen tomorrow, not nine thirty. He’s worried about traffic.”
Becca sighed. “He’s worried I’ll miss this appointment that he pried out of some neurology genius. The guy was already booked for months. Although I don’t know what one more doctor will really add to this equation.”
“Well, good luck,” Lauren said, sounding abrupt to her own ears. All the women in the Bruisers organization already thought she was a harpy. It was just that she became so freaking uncomfortable whenever she had to spend time anywhere near Mike Beacon.
“Night!” Becca said, cheery even with a head injury. Figures. “Tell Nate I said congrats!”
“I will. Good night!”
She hung up. Mercifully, the journalists seemed to have gotten their fill. So Lauren went to make sure that the travel team had already handled everyone’s ground transportation.
NINE
Even though it was late, by the time the bus left the rink, the players wanted to celebrate. Instead of taking them back to the hotel, the team bus took them to a big, old-school tavern, with a gleaming copper bar and wood paneling.
Lauren had been wearing heels and a suit for far too long, and socializing with the team wasn’t her style. But it was raining, and there were no cabs in view on the street.
She was starving, too. A little something to eat in a quiet corner of the bar would be a good idea. And she could regroup, and call herself a car. One of the players held the door open for Lauren, so she stepped inside.