“In Moscow? Coco, my heart nearly stopped when you showed up at my suite.”
“I remember.”
He just blinked, staring at her. Then, “Wait. You don’t think…that I didn’t want to see you?”
“I didn’t know what to think.”
“And…after?”
She drew in a breath and lifted a shoulder.
“You don’t think that was just a one-night stand for me, do you?”
“One of a series, maybe.”
“One of a…who do you think I am?”
“I don’t care who you are—”
“Well I do!” He scooted forward and grabbed her wrist. She tried to twist it away, but he didn’t let it go. “Coco, listen to me. Look at me, please.”
She gritted her teeth. Looked at him. His eyes were earnest in hers.
He let her wrist go. “I admit I let my publicist create a few stories, but none of them are true. I am not a player—”
“Please—”
“You are the only woman I’ve ever been with!”
“What?” She stilled, looked at him.
He held up his hands as if grasping for something, then curled them into fists. “Coco. I’ve been faithful to you since that first night. I meant it when I said you were my one and would be my only.”
Even as she stared at him, she heard his voice, soft in her ear, young and eager, but oh so ardent. I love you, Coco. You are my one. And you will be my only.
“That was five years ago,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said.
“And not once—”
He shook his head.
“But, Natalya said…”
He frowned. “Nat? From the train Nat?”
“She was my father’s chief of security, and she found me in your suite that next morning. Told me that not only was I jeopardizing my son’s safety by being with you—clearly, my father feared my telling you the truth—but she said that…” Oh, she didn’t want to say it.
“Said what?”
“That I was just one of many girls you’d slept with in Moscow.”
A word emerged from his mouth, one she’d never heard him say. But it about summed up her opinion of Natalya.
“She lied, Cookie. Sure, I had a party in my room, but I swear, that was all. Deke and Kalen and a bunch of other guys were there, and it never ended up with…well, anything but some crazy pranks. I swear to you that I’ve never loved anyone else. Physically or emotionally.”
Crazy tears burned her eyes. She pursed her lips, nodding. “But it doesn’t matter, because…”
“Because what? Because you don’t want me?” He nodded harshly. “Yeah, I get that part.”
What—? “No! That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure looks like it. I practically begged you to leave with me—”
“I told you I couldn’t, and now you know it was for Mikka’s safety.”
“It seems like it was about spite. Paying me back for breaking your heart.”
“Seriously? Wow, you think I’m that person?”
“No! Or, yes. I don’t know. I came back to that hotel room with flowers and another stinkin’ marriage proposal in my head and you were gone. Vanished.”
“If you were so brokenhearted, why didn’t you say anything? You know it’s been me on the hockey forum—”
“Pride.”
She stared at him. He looked away, his expression wretched.
“I thought you didn’t want me. But I couldn’t stop talking to you. Holding out hope. I think somehow I got it in my head that you were in trouble. And…then you were.”
Then she was.
And he’d come running to save her. Only to discover…Mikka. Oh, Wyatt.
His voice softened, and he looked at her, his beautiful eyes glossy. “Cookie, if I could, I’d start all over with you. Do things right. Honor us both.”
She drew in her breath, needing to know the truth. “Wyatt. Do you…do you like Mikka?”
His mouth opened. Closed. He swallowed, and a tear dripped onto his cheek. “He’s amazing,” he said, his voice shaking. “He’s so amazing I can hardly breathe around him. I’m crazy about him, Cookie.” He reached out and took her hands. “Thank you.”
She frowned.
“Thank you for keeping him safe. For taking care of him. For not…for not doing the easy thing and…” He shook his head. “Thank you for having him. I promise you will never be alone in this again. I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She wiped her hand across her cheek. “I’m so afraid you’re going to get hurt…that you’re both going to die because of me.”
“And I’m so afraid that if I close my eyes, when I open them you’ll be gone.”
She let a beat pass. “Then maybe you should lock the door.”
Another beat. Then a small, sweet smile hinted up his face. “It’s already locked.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said. “I’m a goaltender. My job is to foresee trouble and stop it.”
Huh. Maybe he could keep her safe.
He slowly dropped to his knees before her, between the two seats. “I’m not going to get hurt, Cookie.” He took her face in his hands. “Have you not met me? I’m the tough one of the Marshall family.”
She took his face in her hands. That beautiful, amazing, handsome face.
He might have seen trouble coming, but it had found its way into the compartment anyway. “No, Wyatt. You’re the softie.”
Then she kissed him.
Wyatt. Sweet, romantic Wyatt, who wore his heart outside his body, despite his tough act. He tasted of coffee and a husky, deep familiarity that she could never forget. But instead of swooping her into his arms, he kept the kiss gentle, calm, his mouth tender against hers. Maybe because she was trembling.
Or maybe because he was.
He leaned back then and met her eyes. “In case you’re wondering, tonight’s a no. Because we are starting over, Coco. But I am going to find a way to wedge myself onto that couch and hold you.”
She laughed as he did just that, tucking her close to him, her head on one of his arms, the other around her waist, warm, heavy. Solid.
“Go to sleep, Cookie. You’re safe now.”
So, maybe there were such things as happily ever afters.
9
If Wyatt didn’t move, he couldn’t destroy anything.
Every morning should start like this. The sun cast in around the drawn shade of the train compartment in streams of gold and red, and the clack-clack of the tracks as the train moved was already coaxing him back into sleep.
Wyatt couldn’t remember when he’d slept so well. Maybe it was the way Coco was tucked into his arms, small and perfect, her head below his as he lay on his side. Her legs were trapped inside his, his arms around her body, and she too slept, her breaths deep and peaceful.
Maybe because they didn’t have anything to regret.
No. He’d held on to that word as kisses deepened last night, as he’d moved up to draw her into his arms, curling onto the couch with her. But the no in his heart had risen, instead of a warning, to a sweet, perfect line of protection.
As if he’d nabbed a puck in the crease, stopping the sirens of failure.
No. Because his words had thundered in his head like a voice. If I could, I’d start all over with you. Do things right. Honor us both.
She smelled good, and he drank it in without guilt. That, and the feel of her skin against his lips as he pressed them to the side of her neck.
She roused, glanced over her shoulder at him. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispered and let a grin slide up his face. “We’re almost to Vladivostok.”
She reached out and lifted the shade, wincing as the sun crested into the room. “Yeah. I can see buildings—looks like we’re getting close. What’s your plan?”
His plan. He liked that she asked that—as if she were depending on him. As if she trusted him.
&n
bsp; Maybe that’s what happened when a guy said No for the both of them.
“I remember from our itinerary that our flight leaves pretty early. I think we’re on a charter, but I don’t know for sure. I’m going to catch the team at the airport and make sure you get on that flight.”
She said nothing, just curled her hands around his arm. Her thumb moved in small circles, tiny eddies of warmth.
He refused to let his mind travel anywhere but right now, right here. Her, fitting perfectly in his embrace, their tomorrows unblemished. “You’re so small. I was always worried I’d crush you.”
“I’m pretty durable,” she said.
“Yes, you are.” He kissed her behind her ear. “I have some time off before the season starts back up. Maybe we could go to Montana. I’d love for Mikka to see the ranch.”
She drew in a long breath.
“He’s going to be okay. I’ll get him the best medical treatment, whatever it costs.” It hadn’t occurred to him that Mikka didn’t have medical insurance. But it didn’t matter. Money was the least of his worries.
“I wish I could believe that. It just feels like, well, good things don’t happen to me.”
He was about to argue with her, however, when—
“I wanted to be a Marshall with everything inside me.”
Really? He must have made a noise that accompanied his surprise because she nodded.
“I looked at your lives, compared them to my broken one, and did everything I could to belong to your family.”
That thought took a swipe out of him. Because sometimes he felt he’d spent his life trying to run from his overachieving family. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Your mom, maybe. She was always so at peace with her life. Safe. She had all these kids and your dad so clearly loved her, and I wondered what it might feel like to have a family like that.”
Oppressing with the expectations? The competition? “My family was far from perfect.”
“Yeah, I know. I saw the fights you and your brothers got into. But at the end of the day, you all ate dinner together. You prayed together. You showed up for each other.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Especially since, “My father only attended one of my hockey games my entire life.” Shoot, he wasn’t sure why he’d said that. He didn’t want to destroy her vision of his family, but— “He hated that I played hockey instead of working the ranch.”
She rolled over then. “Wyatt, that’s not true. He was immensely proud of you. Like I said, he never missed one of your games on TV.”
“Probably because my mother watched them. She came to my live games.”
Coco frowned, as if sorting through her memories.
He rolled to lean against the back of the couch. Oh. He let out a moan as fire shot up his stiff bones to his hips. He’d wedged himself onto the couch like a pretzel and now his body was fighting back.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just…this couch is tiny.”
“Maybe you’re just too big.” She grinned at him. “But maybe that’s why you’re such a great goalie—you take up most of the net.”
He let out a rumble, half laugh, half irony. “I used to play wing.”
“You did?”
“Until I was thirteen. I think that’s what makes me such a good goalie—I was a great wing. I knew how to handle the puck and make goals.” He closed his eyes, almost feeling the chill of the rink in his nose, down his spine, mingled with the sweat of his efforts. “I loved to hear the roar of the crowd when I’d steal and take it down the ice. And when I scored…”
So different from now when the only cheering he heard was when he failed.
And of course, that was for the opposite team.
“In fact the last game I played wing happened to be the only game my father saw. I had a great game that night. I couldn’t believe he was in the stands, and I wanted to impress him. It was against this team from Missoula—we were in a tournament in Helena, and I was hot. I scored three times. We were up five to four when I stole the puck again. I was chased by one of their defensemen, and he slammed me into the boards—which, by the way, was illegal in peewee hockey. But it happened, and I was mad. I’d lost the puck, lost the goal, and he took me down. I could hear my dad in the stands shouting at me. ‘Get up. Get back in the game!’ I just lay there on the ice, like an idiot, and his shout shamed me. I sort of lost my mind. I got up and just tackled the kid who’d hit me.”
He’d lost the roar of the crowd in the swell of fury in his ears.
“There were penalties on both sides, but it didn’t end there. I was so angry this kid had turned my dad against me that after the game, when I spotted him in the tunnels, I jumped him. He was a big kid—bigger than me—but I didn’t care. I lit into him. His entire team came out before mine did, and pretty soon I was at the bottom of the pile, biting, kicking, being kicked, bleeding, fighting in this sort of crazy red haze. I didn’t even hear the shouts of the parents until my dad was right there, in my face, hauling me up. I’d broken my nose, my lip was torn, and my eye was swollen. But I could see his disgust just fine. He looked at me and shook his head, and said, ‘Who are you? This isn’t how a Marshall behaves.’”
His throat thickened, even with the memory. “I was shocked. I thought he’d…I dunno. Stick up for me, maybe. Or say something about the game. But he was ashamed of me.”
He looked down at her. “The rest of my brothers sort of worship my dad. Like he was some paragon of wisdom and spiritual fortitude. I saw him as judgmental and biased. He loved his cowboy sons. Me…not so much. That night he said, ‘Either change your name or change your ways.’”
She was frowning and put her hand on his face.
“Why did you change your position?”
He made a face. “His words got to me, at first. I started thinking that maybe he’d like it better if I saved goals instead of making them.”
“You changed for him?”
“It seemed like a way I wouldn’t get into so many fights. A goalie has to be steady. Tough. Unflinching. I thought maybe that’s what he wanted me to be. Once I got there, I discovered I was good at it—better, even, than being a wing. But it didn’t matter—my father never went to another game.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. But I took his words to heart and decided to change my name, at least on the inside. I poured myself into hockey, into my team, and I eventually moved in with my coach, in Helena.”
“I remember. I really missed you.”
Her eyelashes made her eyes seem huge in her face. “I missed you too.” He moved, and another spike of heat riveted into his hips. He winced.
“Something is wrong, Wyatt. What’s going on?”
“It’s my hips. I just need to stretch.”
She made to disentangle herself, but he held on. “I’m fine.”
“Really? Because now that I think about it, you seemed pretty sore after your game the other day.”
The fact that she’d seen his game went straight for his heart and squeezed. Wow, he’d missed her. He reached up and wove his fingers through her short hair. “I like it black. It’s mysterious.”
“Stop changing the subject. Are you hurt?”
He ran his thumb along her cheekbone. “Yeah. Maybe. It’s a goalie injury—it’s called a labral tear, or a tear in the fibrocartilage around my hip joint.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you need surgery?”
“Not yet. I was supposed to rest it after last season and maybe do some PT, but, well, I was busy.”
“Running around Russia trying to find me?”
He made a noise, caught by the desire to kiss her nose.
“Wyatt—”
“Yeah, so maybe I’m not good at resting. But there’s also this other goalie—Kalen. I took his place a couple years ago when he had surgery for his labral tear and…”
“And you’re worried he’ll take your place if you slow down.”
“I�
�m not in that much pain.”
“Yet.” She sat up. “If you continue, could you take yourself out permanently?”
He lifted a shoulder.
“I know I said you were a softie, but you’re also just like your brothers. Stubborn and too tough for your own good.”
“Hey—!”
“I once watched Knox get bucked off a bull, limp to the side of the arena, and the very next round, climb on the back of a bareback bronc. And get thrown again.”
“My father always said you had to get back on the horse—”
“Your father was the worst of all. He went out riding alone in some back field—”
She stopped, her eyes wide. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. He was as driven as the rest of us—and got in over his head.”
“Hockey is your life. Don’t mess around with this.”
For a second, Jace’s words roared back at him. What if it crumbled? What would you have left?
Wyatt was staring at it. Or at least half of his answer.
The other half was on his way to Seattle.
“I can’t quit now, Cookie. What if Mikka needs treatment? He has no US insurance—and treatment costs money. My contract is up in a year. If I’m injured, no one is going to pick me up.”
“This is where your mother would say, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding.’”
“Really? You remember that?”
“It was on a plaque in the kitchen. Hard to forget. But she said it too. And other verses. She used to stand at her kitchen sink, singing hymns. Be Thou My Vision…”
“I remember that. My dad’s favorite hymn. He had it written on a piece of paper on his desk.”
“I know you don’t want to be like him, Wyatt, but the fact is, you are a lot like your dad.”
He recoiled.
“I mean that in a good way—you’re tough. Driven to leave a legacy. And now you want to provide for your family.”
Wyatt pushed himself up from the couch. “Funny. Sometimes when I’m playing, I look up in the stands, just like I used to when I was twelve, and I wish…I imagine that he’s there. Watching me.” He gave her a chagrined smile. “Silly.”
She took his face in her hands. “Not silly. Not silly at all.”
Wyatt Page 16
