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I’ve been doing exactly that for the last couple of months—okay, well…if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve been doing it for the last few years…
Scared to let go and move on to the next stage of my life.
Scared not to.
Woman enough? Or too much?
A good mom? How can I be good when I’m training so much and traveling so often? How can I be when I miss Muffins with Moms and am not in town to help Rox with her book report? How can I be a good example as a strong woman if I just give up my career?
It’s all messed up and terrifying and…it’s been easier to stick with what I know.
And all of that means I’m no closer to solving the shit in my head, my heart, my soul.
But I do finally find the courage to look up at Frankie. “You’re not ready,” he says. “And that’s okay.” His mouth kicks up. “Just try not to be too hard on yourself until you are.”
I suck in a breath, hold it for a long time.
Then exhale, managing to keep my tone light when I ask, “Have you met me?”
He doesn’t buy that lightness, I can see it on his face, but he doesn’t call me on it, just straightens with a groan and says, “When you’re ready to be done, new opportunities will arise. Some may be shit.” His lips twitch. “But one of those might be gold.” He fixes me with a stare. “Like being the Gold’s new goalie coach.”
I suck in a breath.
But he’s still talking.
“When you’re ready,” he repeats, and then snags the basket of pucks, carries it over to the boards, climbing through the open door. “See you tomorrow after the game,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
I look around the empty rink as though that will give me answers, and unsurprisingly, I don’t find any, so I…
Push it all down as I get up onto my skates, move through that open door, walking down the hall to the locker room.
I ignore the banana in my stall—swear to God, a woman talks about her love of the yellow, penis-shaped fruit one time and all of a sudden it’s a catchphrase.
Fucking hockey players.
Fucking locker room razzing.
Fucking brain that is all twisted up.
Ugh.
I change and shower, shoot the shit with the guys, and then—ignoring all manner of knowing looks from my teammates, all of whom are clearly far too familiar with my routine, far more familiar than they should be—I walk out of the practice facility, intent on my car.
So intent that I don’t realize what’s happening at first.
So intent that I don’t see the man coming up behind me.
Twenty-Nine
Stefan
“Wine?” I murmur as Brit comes out of Roxie’s room, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, giving me that beleaguered look of a parent whose kid. Will. Not. Just. Fucking. Sleep.
“It’s not a Cheat Day,” she says with a soft groan, starting to push the bangs off her forehead.
“Tomorrow is,” I point out. “And I think Rebecca would okay a single glass of wine after dealing with Queen Rox.”
Her lips twitch.
