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“Holding,” Carter says. “I’m holding it tighter than a clam’s ass at high tide,” he adds, winking at Jake, who looks like he wishes he had more shit to throw at Carter.
“So what are you brooding over, Nolan?” Jesse asks. “We’re all sick of watching it, by the way.”
“Nobody’s asking you to watch,” I say.
“Classic brood,” Carter says. As usual, there’s mischief and amusement flickering in his blue eyes. He runs a hand through his mop of brown hair, then pulls a face I think is supposed to resemble mine. He even lowers his voice in an attempt to sound like me, too. “Nah, bros. Can’t hang tonight. I got a few pussies lined up. Didn’t catch their names. Later, dudes.”
Maddox sticks his head up from the seat beside Carter, grinning as if he wants to get in on the joke. Maddox is big and burly, with the disposition of a superstitious golden retriever. “No, wait,” he says. He scrunches his forehead, obviously working his brain overtime in desperation. “I’m Nolan, and I’m gonna let you score on me tonight, ladies.”
There’s an awkward pause. Carter gives Maddox’s shoulder a squeeze. “Because he’s the goalie?” he asks kindly, almost like Maddox is a small child. “I see what you were going for there, big guy. Good try.”
Jesse laughs to himself and turns back in his seat before pulling out his phone. He’s probably texting Andi. The two of them are always texting or talking on the phone when he’s on the road.
“You can all fuck off,” I say. “I’m not brooding or wallowing. I’m just living life simpler than I used to. I don’t expect anything out of people, so they never let me down anymore.”
Maddox shakes his head. “That’s just depressing, dude.”
Jake lowers his voice, leaning closer to me as the plane picks up speed for takeoff. The noise covers the sound of his voice. “You could always talk to Mia when we get there. See if you two could work your shit out.”
I stiffen, but pretend not to hear him over the engines. Talking to Mia isn’t in my plans. Two years ago, we spent a month flirting with the idea of dating. Or maybe we did date. I don’t even know.
All I do know is it was exciting as hell, because I hadn’t ever met anyone quite like her. She was so damn driven and talented. For once, she was somebody I could admire instead of somebody who constantly gushed over the fact that I played in the NHL. On top of that, we both shared an obsession with cooking.
As soon as I brought up the idea of taking things to the next level with her, she broke things off and ghosted me. She wouldn’t answer my texts, take my calls, or make eye contact with me. And right around the same time, my mom—the only family I have left—decided to bail on our relationship to go back with my shitty dad.
To call it a low point for me would be the understatement of the fucking century.
“I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’?” Jake asks when I don’t respond.
Work my shit out with Mia? Yeah. That’s a resounding “no”. I close my eyes. “Wake me up when we land.”
There’s a long pause. “Yeah, sure,” Jake says.
3
MIA
Caroline and Andi offered to stick around for “the confrontation”. I didn’t find their dramatization particularly helpful, and I told them I could handle it just fine on my own.
I mean, yeah. I do feel a little like I just survived a small assassination attempt on my life, my dreams, and my sanity. First, I find out Grams is trying to play matchmaker between me and Nolan. Then, I discover my “friends” knew he was the one behind the opening of Taste, and neither of them wanted to admit that little nugget of very important truth to me?
Banished. I’m going to banish all of them into freaking exile.
As soon as I figure out how to survive the next couple hours. I’m pacing in the small rental, gnawing on my nails like they’re cobs of corn and I’m at the Louisiana State Fair, and my hair is probably a wreck.
It’s getting dark out, and based on the date written on the welcome cards, Nolan is supposed to be here tonight. That means “the confrontation” is close.
Note to self. Stop thinking of it as “the confrontation.”
I pace another small circle, then go rigid when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel outside. I rush to the window and push aside the curtain.
A black SUV with the headlights on is rolling to a stop in front of the cabin.
“Shit,” I hiss. I slam the curtain shut, run two steps away from the window, then run back to the window and pull them open again. “Shit, shit, shit,” I repeat, bouncing on my toes.
Is it too late to run away? I could always dive head-first through a window, roll into the darkness, and sprint to freedom. That’s an option, right?
But my feet are glued to the ground, eyes fixed on what’s happening in front of the cabin. The trunk is open and I can’t make out the men standing around the car except for dark silhouettes behind the headlights. But one glance at their size and shape tells me they’re hockey players.
