“I’m sorry I don’t feel like fucking you tonight, Emmy.”
I shrug, placing both my hands on his shoulders and wiggling even farther into his space because I need to be closer to him, to feel him, and to understand what’s turned his normally shining eyes a shade as dark as the twilight sky. “That’s fine. But I’m not going to leave until you tell me why you’re so upset.”
“I don’t want to talk to you about my problems. We’re not friends.”
My lungs seize. “Okay.” I take a step back, hoping that little flutter I feel in my eyes is not a tear. There is no way in hell I’m going to let him see me cry. There is no way a few words from Grayson West are going to make me cry.
Noticing my reaction, Grayson reaches for my hand and grasps it with a sigh. “I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay if you did,” I lie, my voice small and choked.
He scrubs his free hand over his beard. “It’s not okay, and I didn’t mean it.”
There’s a minute of heavy silence during which I work my way back between his knees.
“I thought we had a good day today, Grayson.” I keep my voice quiet, and although I still keep some space between us, all I really want to do is crawl into his lap and wrap him up in my arms.
“We did.”
“And yet here we are with all our clothes on.” I brush his hair out of his eyes, letting my fingers linger, working themselves into his golden waves.
He gives me a small half smile. “I haven’t skated since I moved to LA.” He tilts up his head, meeting my gaze. “Today was the first time in more than fifteen years.”
“How come?” I ask, genuinely interested in his answer.
His hand settles on my waist, subtly pulling me an inch or two closer. “I was supposed to go pro, in hockey. It was my entire life from the time I was four years old. I had a full ride waiting for me, scouts already poking around. It was all determined for me before I was even old enough to vote.”
I already have so many questions I don’t even know where to start, but I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to interrupt him, and I focus instead on smoothing back his hair.
His fingers tighten on my waist. “My dad had been my coach since my very first team. Before that, he trained me: running drills, skating every morning, shooting pucks every evening. I was only in kindergarten.” He huffs out the last words with a laugh, although there’s no trace of humor in his voice.
“So then what happened?”
He gently tugs me down to his lap. “My junior year, I was failing my theater arts elective and the teacher told me I could get extra credit if I’d audition for the school play.” He shrugs, his eyes drifting down to my chest. For once it’s not in a salacious way; rather, it’s simply at eyelevel, a resting spot as I see his gaze focus in and out. “Even with a scholarship waiting for me, I had to graduate high school first. So I auditioned.”
“And you got the lead?” I loop my arms loosely around his neck.
He laughs again, but this time it’s genuine. “Hardly. It was only a small speaking part, but from the moment I stepped onto that stage opening night, I was hooked.”
“It’ll do that to you.”
“At first, my dad didn’t seem to care too much, as long as I kept up with hockey practices and drills, but it didn’t take long for my focus to slide and shift. When I told him I wanted to audition for the next play, even after I’d already passed the class and finished my required elective, he told me I had to choose: acting or hockey.”
“I imagine that choice didn’t go over very well.” I rest my hands on his shoulders, which are tense beneath my fingers.
“That’s putting it mildly. He was never one to heap praise, even when I did exactly what he wanted. When I went against his prescribed life plan for me, he basically cut me off.” His arm tightens around my waist. “I auditioned forMy Love on Topin secret, moved to LA with the money I made from it, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Wait. Are you fucking kidding me?” My voice is louder than I intended, and definitely louder than it should be given the seriousness of the moment, but I can’t control my volume any more than I can control the anger humming through my veins.
The corner of his lips rises just a touch. “No, I’m not fucking kidding you.”
“Jesus, Grayson. That is beyond shitty.” Grayson and I haven’t spoken about my dad yet, and I don’t want to bring it up now, because this sure as hell isn’t about me, but father relationships are a touchy subject for me. It’s been the big elephant in nearly every room I’ve walked into for the past four years, feeling lost without him. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Grayson. Even if my dad didn’t always agree with my decisions—like giving up acting after only one failed attempt—I know with every fiber of my being that there is nothing I could’ve done to push him out of my life completely. At the end of the day, he always, always supported me. And my heart hurts for Grayson, knowing he didn’t get to experience that. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, are still going through it.”
“It’s not your fault.” He tugs me a little bit closer, letting his head droop and press against my shoulder. “A lot of times I wonder if I should’ve just listened to him. I could’ve gotten a free education, gone pro, probably done all right for myself.”
“Did playing hockey make you happy?”
“Sometimes.” He raises his head. “I think it could’ve made me happy. Probably more so if he wasn’t always there telling me to push harder, go further. I was always waiting for the moment when I would be enough, when he’d be satisfied. But now I’m just a mediocre actor, making mediocre movies, and he’ll never be proud of me.” His voice catches on the last words, as if he’s thought them a million times but never before voiced them out loud.
