Page 12 of Put a Rink on It

I unlock the door and throw it open, met with the sight of a disheveled Nero. Even with his unstyled, messy brown hair, bags under his hazel eyes, day-old stubble, and wrinkled clothes, the man is a sight for sore eyes. And not only because the man has the market cornered on handsome. I haven’t seen him in person for a few months, not since the fundraiser for one of Walsh’s friends last August.

“Nero. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t wait to be invited in, and as soon as he’s inside, he wraps me up in his arms from behind, knocking the blanket away. He smells like he had a late night last night—a hint of stale beer layered above the tobacco, amber, and vanilla of his cologne—but it’s so darn familiar, I don’t mind. Plus, clearly something’s up—an explanation for what he’s doing here forthcoming.

I melt into him, the shock he’s in my house wearing off the longer he clasps me to him. My thoughts drift to what brought him here. Is it something with the trade? Something with the team? Something with his family? Why now? Why so early?

He’ll tell me eventually, but my mind isn’t satisfied. “Why are you here so early? What the heck time did you leave Connecticut?”

“I made a mistake. It’s a big one. Maybe the biggest ever in my life. Epic.” His voice is low, strained, almost suffocating, like it took a lot of effort to push the words out.

“Do you want to talk about it? What can I do to help?”

He’s always been the strong one in our friendship. The one I could lean on when things in my life were going to shit.

Transferring colleges.

Having to start over again.

My dad losing his job.

My brother’s teenage pregnancy.

Nero was there through all of it, a FaceTime or phone call away. Or when and if I really needed him, a plane ride.

It’s my turn to be there for him, whatever he needs, however he needs to fix this mistake. I can help him. We’ll get through it like we always do—together.

His grip on me loosens, and I twist in his arms and peer up at him. Lines of worry crease his forehead. The man has one of the most stressful jobs imaginable, and I’ve never seen him this anxious. This distressed. Not even when he ended up in the penalty box multiple times in Game Seven of the finals. He didn’t lose his cool then. Not like this.

I cup my palms around both sides of his face. “Nero, talk to me. Start from the beginning.”

His gaze finds mine. There’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen. Fear? Regret? Something about an epic mistake niggles my brain. Is his epic mistake signing with the Nautilus?

He releases a forced chuckle with no humor in it. He motions his head toward the couch. “We should sit.”

“I’ll make coffee.” I pull from his arms, but he doesn’t let me go. I don’t mind being in his embrace, but I wish I knew what was bothering him. My earlier question remains unanswered. What made him drive here so early? I try again. “What time did you leave Hartford this morning?”

“After last night, I couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well get an early start. Hardly anyone on the roads at three-thirty. It was nice, peaceful, the calm before the storm.” He blows out a breath, and one arm shifts from me to his hair, leaving it wilder. “What I have to tell you had to be in person, not a phone call. Fortunately, I can drive to you now, Ships.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Coffee would be good.”

“Coming right up.” This time, he allows me to snake out of his arms. “Double cup?”

“Yep.” I’m halfway to the kitchen when he mutters, “So my new team thinks I’m married,” his words stopping me in my tracks.

Spinning on my heels, I ask, “What? Why?”

Why would they think that? He’s always claimed he’s too busy for a girlfriend, let alone a wife. “Hockey comes first” is his direct quote on the matter whenever the topic comes up. There have been women he’s hooked up with, not that I know the details—no thanks—and a few he “dated” off and on, but no one worth noting. No one who stuck around long enough to be considered a girlfriend, even the one after college.

I hate that it makes me giddy that he hasn’t found his person yet. I should want him to find the woman he’s going to settle down with. I should want him to be happy.

I do. I want him to be happy. But I don’t want some woman coming in and disturbing the harmony of our relationship. The thought of losing what we are to each other is too hard to bear.

He’s sprawled on the couch, his ass nearly hanging off the cushion. I have to avert my eyes from his spread legs in his gray sweatpants. “Because I told them I am. I told them I had a wife.”

“You told them you have a wife?” Confused, I reiterate his statement as a question.

“Yeah.” He hangs his head, as if he’s telling a story about someone else instead of himself.

“But you don’t have a wife. You don’t even have a girlfriend. Unless you’re keeping that from me.” I can’t hide the hurt in my tone. We don’t tell each other every detail of our lives, but the big things we’ve always shared. His having a girlfriend would be big.