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I have about a minute left to fix this. And I can. It wasn’t supposed to play out this way, but I can spare her at least a little torment. I just have to figure out how to get her to hear my words.
“No.” Tristan’s face is cloudy. “God, I’ve been so fucking stupid. I thought I could trust… I thought for one night I could let someone else…” She shakes her head again and turns away, lifting her almost-forgotten cup to her lips. Her hand is shaking and I want to wrap her in my arms, tug her into my chest, hold her tea for her, buy her a million gallons more, anything. “I made a stupid mistake last night. I knew better than to take an edible on a work trip, but I was nervous and let that sway my decisions.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, and I’m so focused on the pale skin of her slim neck that I almost miss what she’s saying. When I do, shame grips both my shoulders and shakes me until my teeth rattle. A gummy. I knew. I knew something was different with her last night. I suspected when she met me in the lobby. Knew it when I barged in on her and Beau’s conversation. I let her drink that pink cocktail. I bought her another later. I told myself she was drunk, but I was there to protect her and fuck… I failed.
I’m not a stranger to marijuana. It’s off-limits during the season thanks to random drug testing. And pot’s a downer. Great for nerves or performance anxiety on the ice, but not the best choice for athletes trying to improve their game. That doesn’t mean a lot of players don’t indulge in the off-season. Doesn’t mean I haven’t.
Marijuana isn’t the taboo subject it once was, not with so many states legalizing its use. My family was introduced to the plant before public opinion shifted. Turns out cannabis can be super helpful for chemo patients, especially when fighting nausea. That doesn’t mean being high was ever on my radar for Tristan last night, and it should have been. The friendly chatter, the easy smiles, the hooded eyes. There I’d stood, thinking it was me. Thinking she was finally comfortable with me. And then I let her add alcohol on top of it. I didn’t protect her at all.
Is it possible to die of shame? Because I think I might. My organs feel heavy, squeezed into a space not big enough to hold them. Not embarrassment. That’s different. Shame that seeps into my bones, whispering against the edge of my ear, “You were supposed to keep her safe. You didn’t.”
“I’m going to lose my job here and there’s no one I can blame but myself. I knew better than to let my guard down. I’m smarter than this. How could I be so stupid?”
Tears shimmer across her irises and my arms ache to reach for her again.
“You aren’t stupid.” I reach for her anyway, brain be damned, but she steps away, putting a foot between us. “We need to have a chat, Tristan.
We have maybe thirty seconds left and there’s something we need to discuss before we get on the bus. Something about last night. Something that could change everything. I just need a minute of her time. Her undivided attention.
“Talk. Right.” Another humorless laugh. “No. I don’t think so. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to give me some space to figure all this the fuck out before we land back home. I’ll set up a meeting with Mr. Seever and beg to keep my job. You will not look at me, talk to me, or draw attention to the fact that we have matching wedding bands. Got it?”
We could also take the bands off, but I don’t say that.
“I can do that.” As long as I only have to leave her alone for the flight. I don’t think I can manage beyond that. “But you should know—”
“Goddammit.” She paces a few steps away and then marches back to poke one razor sharp nail into the divot between my pecs. My kitty cat has sharpened her claws. “I need space, Vic. Please. I already messed up once this weekend. Let’s try to get back to Quarry Creek without any more incidents. Do you think you can do that?”
It feels wrong to push her right now. Wrong to keep trying to give her the words she doesn’t want to hear. Maybe it can wait. I can give her today—the bus ride, the flight home—and then we can talk about how to face this head on. Together.
I open my mouth, close it. Open it again. Close it once more as she glares in my direction.
“C-captain?” Ólaffson is standing just inside the revolving door, looking a little like an injured baby deer surrounded by hungry wolves. He might be insane—the way all goalies are—but he still has some amount of self-preservation. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. We’re out of time. “Coach s-sent me to g-g… to remind you we’re leaving.”
“Thank you, Ragnar,” Tristan smiles and even though it’s not meant for me, I swear the lights in here shine brighter and my heart skips a beat. “We’re on our way.”
She pushes past me, still clutching her chai tea. For once, there’s no red lip print around the plastic top. She didn’t stop and put her armor on this morning. Ólaffson steps out of her way, hinging like he’s bowing to a queen. He is. And I can’t help but swallow down my grin as I see her board the charter bus, all with a shiny gold band still hugging her ring finger.
“Congratulations,” the goalie says and I think he’s the first person to seem anything other than shocked. “I’m h-h-hap…gladyou have each other.”
I run a hand through my hair and head for the bus, too. Coach is probably having a litter right now, waiting for us. Sometimes being captain and the lead goal scorer has perks. He’d never even consider leaving me behind. Well… he might consider it, but he wouldn’t do it. As I climb the three steps leading past the driver, I have to duck my head to avoid seeking my kitty cat.
She’s frothing mad now, and I’ll give her some space to cool off, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go. I’m happy to have her too. And I intend to keep her.
Claws and rules be damned.
Vic makes it a lot longer than I thought he would. I was sure the minute we hit out cruising altitude, he would slide into the seat next to me and force a conversation I’m not sure I’m ready for. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for it, which isn’t an option. Everyone heard Jack in the lobby. Anyone who wasn’t a witness to the news had been filled in on all the details by the time we got to the private airstrip. It’s like a perverse game of telephone. Each new telling adds more details.
Victor Varg and Tristan Grant were a little chummy at The Velvet.
Tristan Grant was a thawed-out version of herself.
They left together.
Victor and Tristan picked out simple gold bands at a local wedding chapel overseen by a pot-bellied Elvis wearing fake sideburns.
Victor couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could Tristan.
Tristan had the best orgasm of her entire life. Waves of pleasure cresting again and again with the raging force of the actual ocean.
