Page 27 of Hearts on the Line

“We’re done.” My voice cracks. “We’ll figure everything out, but first I need a few days to…”

“It was always someplace. And I liked it at first. I’m on the road a lot with the team, but you were gone when I was finished with the season too. I was lonely, and Stephanie was around.”

My chest aches, and tears well in my eyes. “You never complained. Never… me being busy wasn’t a problem.” An ugly laugh rips from my throat as I realize why, especially lately, he didn’t mind if I was on deadline or needed to squeeze in more work around wedding planning. “You’re drunk, and you’re mad. I get it. But I’m not going to sit here and let you tell me you cheated on me because I had my own life. That’s on you, Jason. Marrying me would have been a mistake. This just eliminates all the ugliness.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

I pull my phone away and flip him the middle finger. He’s still going on when I end the call and collapse against the brick wall.

I met Jason two weeks after my father passed away from cancer. My friends dragged me to that party because I refused to get out of bed for three days after the funeral. I threw myself into work because it was easier that way. Being around hockey again felt safe. Marrying a player was a life I knew, and I was so damn tired from chasing news around the world. I thought that come fall, it would be easier to work in New York with the team. Stay in one place, build a life with someone finally. I thought I was ready.

I thought Jason would be the one.

The harbor is quiet. A sailboat cuts across the horizon, and behind me, the church bell rings. And I stand here in this small in-between space as everyone mills around going to dinner with friends, or families are on vacation making memories, and I’m left, stuck.

I spin around and wipe my face. But I’m not going to stay stuck, even if that means I have to feel the bad with the good. I’m back, and I won’t let a shitty fiancé wreck my summer.

Let him call me a bitch. Let him be angry I walked away from our wedding. At least now I finally know the truth.

He never deserved me.

Chapter 9

Ethan

Brooks is on my couch, mindlessly strumming a few chords on his guitar with the baseball game on in the background.

I’m ready to call it a night, but there’s something missing.

Or rather, someone.

My phone rings, and I groan. Before I even answer, I think I know what this is about. And if Annie is involved, I can only imagine.

“Ethan,” Dan barks at me gruffly over the line. “Come get her.”

I’m already slipping on my boots before I answer, “Okay.” I’m not sure if I wince or chuckle when I hear the whoop in the background.

Brooks sets down his guitar. “I’ll help.”

We’re walking through the door of Markey’s five minutes later. It’s packed inside, which isn’t hard since the place is a few feet bigger than my boat. The dark-paneled walls are plastered with signed dollar bills and old police badges from across the state.

I scan the bar, pushing my way through, until I recognize that Dan wasn’t calling me about Annie.

It’s Sloane.

She’s standing on the bar with a backward baseball cap, wearing a tiny black dress, giving everyone a view of her thong. She clutches a bottle of ketchup as a mic, singing “Sweet Caroline.” I say singing, but it’s more yelling.

The crowd is gathered at the high-tops and at the bar, joining in during her sing-along. Annie has decided to be her hypewoman, running in front of the bar, flapping her arms up and down, shouting, “I can’t hear you!”

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Brooks mutters next to me.

Dan, an old friend of my father’s, points to the commotion in the back and shouts over the noise to take care of it. I nod, pushing my way toward the girls, past the small shrine to Jimmy Arden. There’s a picture of him hugging Sloane wearing his jersey, and for years, it’s the only photo of her I’d allow myself to look at.

I fucking hate the way the neon lights wash over Sloane and her smile. It just calls attention to her, every inch of her, including those long legs of hers. In the slip of an instant, I can’t fight the flood of what could have been.

I stop a few feet away and scratch my jaw, fighting back a grin.

“You came!” Sloane shouts, bolting upright. She straightens too soon, hits her face on the post, then tries to stand, only to whack her head on the low beam and crumple.