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My chest tightens as I realize why the camera is so intent on zooming in on her legs. Her skirt is over her waist. Baring all.
She’s not wearing panties. Christ.
I quickly close the video and try to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Instead, I scroll down to see more results. So many gossip pages, so many forums. Are they all talking about Mackenzie? My stomach twists.
How can I not remember this? The results are from 2007. What was I doing then? I frown, trying to think. I was twenty-four. Mackenzie must have been twenty.
Then it comes to me. I was playing in Sweden that year. On a loan from the Razors. The gossip didn’t make it over the Atlantic.
I turn my phone off. I’ve seen enough. No wonder she changed her name. No wonder she doesn’t want people associating her with her family. One Google search and you’d know her intimately.
And now all I can think about was the way she looked at me when she asked me to do three things.
Like she expected to scare me away.
* * *
MACKENZIE
On the way home from visiting Gramps, I picked up a bottle of wine and an enormous bar of chocolate and I’ve been steadily demolishing them both throughout the night. As soon as I got into the apartment, I showered and changed into my pajamas – and yeah, I put Eli’s hoodie on, too.
It’s warm and it’s comfortable and I need all the comfort I can get.
I told him to Google me. Which means he’ll see that video.
He’ll probably read all the comments, too. And find out that I was supposed to skate onto the ice with the rest of my family to congratulate my dad on getting an award. I hadn’t wanted to do it. But he’d wanted us all there, and I was twenty years old. I felt I was old enough to skate over to meet him.
The lack of panties thing was something else entirely. Unknown to my parents, I was dating a hockey player a few years older than me. He’d asked me to go bare for him because it was sexy, and being the idiot I was, I did it.
It doesn’t matter that it was almost sixteen years ago. Or that I’m a grown woman who’s built a career she loves. When I think of that video, I’m back there in that arena, wanting the guy to love me.
Wanting my family to love me, too.
But instead I had to deal with having my face, and other parts, splashed all over the internet. Not to mention those damn magazines you used to get at the front of the aisle.
Mostly, I don’t think about it anymore. It’s in the past, where it needs to stay. But now and then I see the video getting shared again.
It’s low level gossip. We’re not the Kardashians and it’s not a sex-tape. But it still mortifies me. And if people find out at work, they’ll look at me differently.
Maybe Eli will, too.
I pour another glass of wine and swallow a big mouthful, telling myself that everything’s going to be okay. If Eli’s put off by the video, then this wasn’t supposed to be.
So why does my chest hurt? Why do I want to throw myself on my bed and let the comforter muffle my screams?
The door buzzes, and I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven. I walk to the intercom to see a grainy image of Eli Salinger on the video screen. And my heart does a little leap.
“Hi,” I mumble. Because I can only assume he’s here about the video.
“Can I come up?” he asks through the speaker.
It must be raining outside. His hair is wet and so is his jacket and I know he’s here to tell me that it’s too much. He doesn’t want me anymore.
I press the button to open the door. “I’m on the second floor.”
By the time I slide open all the locks and check my hair in the mirror to make sure it’s not sticking out ten different ways, he’s here. I open the door and he’s standing there, his eyes soft as they meet mine.
He’s definitely seen it. He knows. I wrap my arms around my waist, ready to get it over with and get back to my chocolate.
