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After that damn tape leaked, her plan was the best way to handle it.
And I’m fucking it all up.
I’m fucking up her strategy, and I’m fucking up my chance to be with her.
I take another breath.
Tomorrow, we fly to Canada for our game on Tuesday, but then we’re back in town for a game Thursday. I’ll call her after that game.
Then I feel like a coward because I know I’ll text instead of calling. But then we can set up a time to talk next weekend. We can figure out a way to make this work.
Chapter 72
Natalie
I shakehands with the owner of the Minnesota Sleet. “Nice to meet you. I’m Natalie.”
“Of course, of course!” The man who looks like Santa clasps my hand between both of his. “I was so thrilled when I heard you married one of our own.”
My smile slips a bit before I’m able to catch it. “He’s a special guy.”
Oh. My. God. A special guy?
Is Luke my grandson?
Santa doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with my statement because he nods. “He really is. We’re lucky to have him. This season is gonna be something exceptional.” He finally drops my hands.
“Oh yeah?” Dad chimes in. “I haven’t had time to follow them much.”
The other man beams. “We have a great group of guys. A number of them have been playing together for years, so they just instinctually know where to go, how to find the openings. Really mature lineups.”
As my dad replies, I look out onto the ice below, wondering where Luke is right now.
I feel like a total fraud, even as I’m dressed for the occasion, wearing an oversized Anders jersey.
Since I knew we were going to be watching from the owner’s box, I classed it up with a bright white turtleneck underneath and a pair of dark-wash jeans with ankle boots.
At least I look the part of a player’s wife, even if I don’t feel it.
I tap my fingers against my thigh, wondering if Luke will find out I’m up here.
They usually show shots of the expensive box seats during breaks, so he’ll probably figure it out.
And he probably won’t be happy about it.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Sorry, Dear. I wasn’t thinking,” Santa tells me. “My crew up here can get you downstairs so you can say hi to your husband before the game. Maybe see some of the underbelly of the arena.”
“Oh, um, okay.” I answer the only way I can. BecauseOh god, please, nowould raise some questions.
My dad gestures for me to go ahead, so, against every wish inside my body, I walk out of the suite and follow one of the arena employees to a private elevator.
We ride down in silence, and when the doors open, I put a hand up to stop the employee from following me. “I know the way.”
They nod and stay put when I step out.
I know I’m being rude, and what I said was a complete lie, but I’d rather be lost down here by myself than escorted to the husband who can’t be bothered to acknowledge my existence.
As I walk through the empty concrete hallway, a little of that pain I’ve been working to bury for the past several days starts to push back up.
