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There were pictures of Gigi and her dad at some of my games. They held homemade signs—with my name on them.
Fuck, they looked happy. Both beaming.
G was really young in the pictures, but you could tell it was her.
Those eyes.
That smile.
Mine.
It took me a good while to get through the entirety of the book. If there was anyone in the world more organized than Gigi, I’d be surprised. The attention to detail and design were outstanding.
When I turned the last page and shut the book, I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
I’d been playing this game for as long as I could remember.
So many years. Decades. Thirty-five fucking years old.
That book was like an ode to a life that was. She wouldn’t need many more pages to fill.
Thirty-five years old.
I was nearly done. I knew that. My goddamn knee knew that because it told me every day.
Almost done.
The front door had slammed a while ago. I’d lost all sense of time, but a flash of what G’s face had looked like when she’d seen what I was carrying—shit. She was going to be pissed at me.
Gigi
“Do not even answer that,”I said to Jillian as I sipped the glass of wine she’d given me. It was her method of calming me down.
Jillian laughed. “G, he’s not going to stop. You might as well rip off the BandAid and get it over with.” That was when my best friend betrayed me and stood to open her door.
Before he could say a word, I said, “We live here now.” God, could I be any more embarrassed? I should have burned that stupid book when he’d moved in. Why? Why? Why had I kept it?
Beau looked freshly showered. His hair curled up slightly at the ends when it was wet. Or sweaty. I bet he smelled amazing. Too bad I’d never find out.
His hands landed on his hips. “There’s no room for me.”
“Exactly, you’re not invited.”
He switched to French. “Geneviève, come home. Please?” His eyes and his voice pleaded.
I answered him back in French. “I’m embarrassed,” I said, sipping more of my wine.
Damn his sexy, sly grin. “Because I’m your hero? It’s okay, I like it.” Then his face got more serious—so did his tone. “Actually, it was a good reminder that I’ve been around too long and have about five minutes of my career left. I needed a minute to process that.”
Damn his self depreciating observations. “Pfft, yeah right. You? You’ll play forever. Whatever deal you’ve made with the devil is still good.”
His head fell back as he laughed. Damn, his deep, sexy, beautiful laugh. “Not true and you know it. How many hockey players do you know who still play at my age?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Come home. Make me forget how old I am,” he said, his voice raspy as it cracked partway through. It hadn’t occurred to me that my book of memories would make him sad. That made sense, though. He was definitely lucky to still be playing at his age. When I’d started the book he seemed immortal. Now I saw how human Beau Moreau actually was.
