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Love?
It’s different with Rowan. She never made me feel like she was jealous of the game, like I might have to choose. I feel like I would do whatever it took to fit her into my life. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what it.
If only I didn’t screw things up so badly.
“Mason,” she yells. “Look at me. Pay attention to me.”
I suck on my teeth, looking at Lexi and wondering how I ever put up with her whiny attitude.
“Pull yourself together, Lexi and give me a reason not to get that restraining order. Why would you do all of this?’
“Because until right now, I cared about you and I wanted to help you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. That’s definitely not it.” Then I narrow my eyes. “The coach was paying you to start fights between me and Dylan. You’re hard up for money, you were living a certain lifestyle you can’t afford any more, you’re panicking because the modeling dried up, and you saw a way to get back at me for breaking things off, and make a profit too.”
I start rambling off all the reasons that would actually make sense.
“You think you’re so smart,” she sneers.
I stare at her. Her cheeks are tiger-striped with mascara now. Her nose is running. Her eyes are red. Her face is twisted in a frustrated snarl of rage. How could I ever have found her attractive? She’s ugly to the depths of her very soul.
“Well, smart enough to dodge that bullet,” I say, waving at her. “If you come near me, or Rowan, again, I will get that restraining order. Goodbye for the last time, Lexi.”
As I walk off, she screams a stream of curses at me. I shrug and wave my hand to flag down a cab.
My head is whirling. I believe Lexi when she says the coach was behind it, but why?
I need to talk to someone that I can trust, someone who won’t stab me in the back. Someone who could actually have a chance of figuring this out. That leaves me with very few options.
I try to call Rowan. Yes, maybe I’m also using this as an excuse to talk to her again, but I know she’s always in my corner, even when I don’t deserve it.
It goes to voicemail immediately. Again.
I call the front desk at her office and ask to speak to her. “Who’s calling, please?” the receptionist asks.
I close my eyes and scowl. If she knows it’s me, she won’t answer. “Uh, I’m a potential new client.”
“She’s very busy. I’ll need your name and phone number and a few details,” the receptionist says primly.
Damnit. Blocked by the gatekeeper.
I hang up.
When I get back to my apartment, I realize I only have one option. Sitting on my couch, with Puck sprawled across my lap chewing a yak cheese chew bar, I call my father.
“Morning, son. I saw the news reports of your event last night. I’m proud of you for what you’re doing for those kids,” he says.
“Wow. No jab about it being hockey-related?” I say in surprise.
“No, I’m trying to cut back.” He chuckles at his own witticism. Then he sighs. “When I hired Rowan, on your recommendation, we had a heart to heart-to-heart about my worries about you and the game, and I guess she helped me to see sense.”
A knife wound of pain slashes across my heart. Of course Rowan helped him see sense. She’s great that way, clear-headed and supportive but honest. She’d rather speak truth and suffer the consequences than spin comforting lies.
“I fucked up there, excuse my French.”
“That you did. And if you think that’s French, I need to call your French tutor and get a refund.”
“I think she’s like seventy years old now? And retired?”
