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I’m listening to my feelings, not my logic. I promised myself I couldn’t do that, but this is more than a feeling. It’s like being back at that fire with my woman, covered in heat and filled with intent.
“Logan,” he snaps. “I need some information. Maybe we can make this work for a couple of weeks, but you know the games we’ve got coming up. Real hitters. Real scorers. I need your reflexes.”
I mentally go over the game schedule in my mind. It’s amazing that I didn’t do this during the flight, but somehow, I forced myself to fall asleep. It was only because I knew it would bring me closer to my woman sooner, or what felt like sooner, anyway.
“Yeah, you will.” I sigh darkly. “Listen, Coach. Give me two weeks. Then I’ll be home. I’ll be sharp, but I must take care of this.”
“Can’t you tell me anything else, son?” Coach Tremblay says. “You’ve never missed a single game, bar injuries. You’ve never walked out. You’re a quiet, hard worker. You’ve never let the fame go to your head. You’ve always just focused on the game.”
Pride rises in me, almost like I’m that little boy again, making patterns in the ice with my blades, driving my muscles to complete exhaustion. Then, finally, I could sleep. “I can’t tell you anything,” I say, “except that I need to be here.”
“The press is already asking questions,” Coach grumbles. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
I close my eyes for a moment. I’ve pulled at the end of her dead-end street. I know the address because I sent Michael some pucks last month. Few cars pass this time of night. The sun has set, and the air is cool, but it’s still far, far warmer than I’m used to this time of year.
“Tell them I’m handling a personal matter.”
“That will raisemorequestions.”
“Tell them anything, Coach. I don’t give a damn what they think. This is bigger than the press.”
He grunts. “Get back here as soon as you can. We need you.”
I hang up the phone, drumming my fingers against the dashboard. I came here in a rush, so intent on being close to my woman, my child. Now, I don’t know how to make that happen.
What will I do, knock on the door and say,Bonjour, Michel?
I lean forward when I see the car driving past me. She’s so intent on the road she doesn’t spot me. She probably assumes I’m a parked car, but I see her—my Emma. I almost smash the window of my car to get to her. She’s got that concerned flush in her cheeks as she drives away.
Am I really going to follow a woman? Apparently, I’m a stalker now. I came here to see her. I’m going to see her. Starting the engine, I pull onto the road, driving until she reaches the highway. The mechanics of following somebody are surprisingly easy. I keep my distance and watch. I’m not overly cautious or overly reckless. It’s almost like defending a player.
She drives out to the college, then a neighborhood next to it. We’ve been driving for about forty minutes. When she pulls up to the party house, something in my stomach drops with a dull thud. It’s like all the hope drains out of me. It’s another new, strange feeling.
Lights flash inside all the windows in the house. I hear the music from the end of the street where I’m parked. Young men and women dance and drink on the front lawn. Suddenly, I see myself for what I am—an almost forty-year-old man stalking a nineteen-year-old woman who just wants to have some fun.
So why did she tell me she was pregnant? Was that revenge for me leaving her on the balcony? She walks up the lane, disappearing into the crowd. I should drive away. I’m torturing myself. The team needs me. The coach needs me. I’ve made a goddamn fool out of myself.
I flew for five hours to be here to be with the so-called mother of my child. Chuck’s voice is in my head:Told ya, buddy. They all want their piece of flesh. On the lawn, two people kiss and fall onto the grass. People cheer and throw beer over them. It’s disgusting. I feel truly old, older than I am, ancient. I feel like running onto that lawn and telling them all to have some fucking self-respect.
Only a few minutes have passed when Emma leaves the party. She’s got her arm around a dark-skinned woman, clearly drunk, in a sparkly silver jacket and one silver heel. Emma walks awkwardly, one hand on her cell phone.
Then some masked douchebag comes running through the crowd. He’s shirtless, a jock, most likely. Fairly well-built. He’s wearing a large rabbit mask. Emma turns and starts waving her phone at him. Veins stand out on her neck. She looks like she’s yelling. Then the man does something very stupid. He reaches out like he’s going to put his hand on my woman and hurt her.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Emma
I’ve written stories about princesses trapped in layers of emotional turmoil, the sadness, resentment, and pain turning into tendrils that wrap around their legs and arms and hold them in place. It was supposed to be a piece about panic, and maybe it worked, but that’s not me. After what I just saw, I snap into action. Phone in hand.911on the line.
Now, the man in the rabbit mask has his hand wrapped around my wrist. His eyes gleam as he thrusts his face toward me. “Don’t be a melodramatic little slut. It’s all a bit of fun.”
“That girl was passed out!” I yell, but it’s too loud on the lawn with the party going. Nobody hears me. Chrissy is getting more difficult to hold, her body being limp since they clearly dosed her up, too. “Get away from me!” I try to wrench my hand back, but he holds me in place.
“Just settle do—”
Suddenly, the man is off his feet. It all happens so fast. Dad’s car grunts metallically when somebody shoves the masked man against it. I gasp, almost dropping Chrissy in shock. It’s Logan, his arms bulging out of his fitted black tee, his jaw clean-shaved, showing his lips twisted angrily.
Logan holds him there with one hand, then grabs the man’s mask, pulls it off, and lets it drop. He brings his face close to the man’s. Logan is like an animal, a fairytale protector erupting in rage.
