Ice Hot

by Tracy Goodwin

  What did I expect would happen? I’m incapable of relationships. It’s the reason I’ve avoided them at all costs. Because deep down, I’ve always known that I’m toxic—just like my father. He drank, he gambled, he did anything he could to get away from me. In turn, I’ve been running from him, from commitments, ever since.

  Since meeting Serena months ago, I haven’t returned any of his calls because I didn’t want that toxicity to ruin what I have with her. No matter how hard I tried, that Chase family poison has now leeched into Serena’s life, all but destroying her.

  Puck whimpers, placing her head on my lap. “I know what I need to do.” It’s the last thing I want to do, but what I want doesn’t matter. All that matters is the woman I love. Love…I love her. The weight of that word is nothing compared to the all-encompassing need to protect her that comes with it and the realization that I will sacrifice anything to make her happy.

  It’s about Serena. Being with me is demolishing Serena’s life and her career. She’ll hang on, though. Because she loves me, too. Let’s be honest: she wouldn’t have suffered in silence if she didn’t.

  She loves me so much that she won’t let me go. Not even after I was such an ass to her this afternoon. Strategy may be one of my strengths, but right now it’s leaving me with few choices. I’m stuck with Gallagher. There’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t abandon the Nighthawks. I’ve got to see this through.

  As long as we’re together, she’s Mike’s leverage over me and he will continue to squeeze her until he breaks me, which will never happen. So, Serena will suffer instead. I have no doubt he will destroy her. Hell, the fissures are already showing their cracks. I can’t allow that to happen. Not anymore.

  I’ve got one option. Only one. Because I may be stuck with Gallagher, but Serena isn’t. Since she won’t protect herself, I must do it for her. I have to let Serena go. Because I love her and that’s what’s best for her.

  I change as Puck does her business outside, then grab my keys. What happens next will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. It’s also my only choice. I head to Serena’s knowing damn well that I can’t allow her to be attacked, to be poisoned because of me. I won’t. The hatred for her is growing at a rapid rate. I need to cut her loose so she can be happy, so her business doesn’t suffer any more harm.

  Protecting her means breaking her heart. And mine. But it’s not about me or what I want. I can’t let her see how much this guts me. Instead, I need to give my most convincing I don’t give a fuck performance. That’s the only way she’ll cut me loose. I’ve got no choice but to be a world-class asshole. Which will hurt her even more, because of her past.

  “Shit!” Slamming my palm against the steering wheel, I speed down the Long Island Expressway to Manhattan. There’s barely any traffic, so I’m heavy on the gas pedal. Faster, then faster still, I mull over of all the ways that I fucking hate Mike Gallagher.

  That rage fuels me. Because if I concentrate on losing Serena, I will lose my shit. Knowing that pushing her away means breaking her heart…I’m not that guy. I’m not Evan Asshole. Only I will be—after tonight—in Serena’s eyes. The realization festers like an open wound. It fuels pain, frustration, and more rage. Infinite rage. Because just when I love someone, truly love Serena, I’m robbed of that. By a shit like Gallagher.

  I hate him. I’m going to make him pay.

  Chapter 14

  Serena

  Fuming in my living room, with dim lighting and nothing but the usual street noises, I wait on the sofa with my legs tucked beneath me and refill my glass from a bottle of white wine that I’ve been nursing for the past hour. A confrontation is imminent, and I am more than ready for it. Hell, I’m itching for it.

  Who does Chris think he is? Like I can’t handle things on my own. Like I’m some helpless female. Bullshit. I’ve been handling things on my own for a long time. Way before Chris ever entered my life.

  That’s why I told him to fuck off and hung up on him after our first fight. I’ll be damned if I let him patronize me. The fact that he hasn’t called back means one thing—he’s on his way. And I’m ready to take him on.

  Though I haven’t seen the competitive side of him in action, he warned me early on that he gets off on being in control. What I did by yelling at him and hanging up must have enraged him. Then there’s the fuck off to end all fuck offs. Men like Chris don’t take kindly to talk like that. Chris will confront me. If not by phone, then in person. Oh, how I love the power of deduction! Since my cell isn’t ringing, he’s going to do it in person.

  Here’s the thing, though: I’m equally pissed, if not more so. Because while my life and business are now a bona-fide shit show, I tried to protect him so his own career didn’t blow up. How does he thank me for my selfless gesture? He yells at me, criticizes me, berates me. He tells me what I should have done.

  Should have, could have, would have. He totally missed the point. I’m not giving in. Nor is my rage abating any time soon. The wine has done nothing to dull the anger that is seething beneath my jean-and-T-shirt-clad exterior. Though I’m barefoot, I’m dressed. My damn jeans may be causing me so much pain that I feel like they’re crushing my internal organs, but I look hot. Makeup intact, it covers my flushed cheeks from the mixture of rage and wine that’s been stewing since my last conversation with Chris. Yeah, I’m ready for a fight. To quote my favorite fight song from Demi Lovato: I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry.

  He’s never seen this side of me, and certainly never seen it directed toward him. Everything has been easy between us. I’ve been easy. Let’s be honest, I haven’t been much of a challenge. No, I fell for him hard, and that’s on me. I knew a relationship with him would be difficult. I knew the press would be brutal. But I was naïve in thinking that it wouldn’t hurt my business. Personal attacks are one thing. I expected people would bully me about my weight; I expected the questions about why he chose to be with me. I didn’t expect that I would be blamed for problems with the team. Besides, I’ve always respected Chris’s career. Why the hell would I sabotage his team? And why the hell has no one come forward from the team to deny the rumors? Ignoring them isn’t helping anyone. Well, it isn’t helping me. It may be helping the team hide a dirty little secret—that one of their own players is a whiny bitch who wants what he can never have: Christian’s popularity and fame.

  Was there an upside? In the beginning, yes. My business saw a bump in sales after we were first seen in public together. Our website crashed, sales went through the roof, our profits were huge. It was great while it lasted, but I knew better than to think it would be permanent. Of course, the tide would turn against me.

  Because I love Chris, I was too enamored to see things clearly. To think logically. My defenses were down for the first time since Evan Asshole. I gave Chris all of me, and I took everything he offered me. Granted, I never confessed to loving him. I’m not that needy, or stupid. We were solid, though.

  Even steel can crack at just the right pressure, at the right temperature. Chris and I are that steel, withstanding an onslaught of intense compression and molten flames. What happens next will dictate what I mean to him, what our relationship means to him, and for the first time, I’m so frightened that a tremor shoots through my hand, causing the wine to slosh in the glass. That’s before my doorbell rings, causing me to jump. I plop the wineglass on my coffee table and smooth my tight T-shirt as I walk to the door. Slowly, I make him wait.

  This is the end. I don’t know where the thought came from, but it causes my eyes to blur. Blinking to clear my vision, I decide that whatever happens, I will not cry. Not in front of Chris. Never in front of Chris. My defenses are up, and I’m reminded of Evan. This time, I’ll be strong. I’ll say my piece. I’m not sixteen. I’m not helpless. I know the drill.

  At my door is yet another jock about to break my heart. Only with Chris, I saw a future. Bec
ause he is everything Evan never was. Kind yet strong, passionate yet achingly tender, funny yet serious. He also cared about me, faults and all. Past tense. I’m using past tense. Cared.

  I’m deliberately taking my time opening my door because I know that once I turn the knob, it’s the beginning of the end. The doorbell rings again, three times in a row. Time for the brave front, Serena. I plaster a smirk on my face as I open the door, sarcasm front and center. “What took you so long?”

  Chris marches in, wearing faded jeans and a polo shirt with the Nighthawks insignia, with Puck on a leash. He does a doubletake as I close the door. “You hung up on me so I’d come to you?”

  I walk into my living room and pick up my wineglass, holding it by the stem. “No one makes you do anything, Chris. You could have called or texted. When you didn’t, I expected you’d confront me in person. Oh, for the record: I hung up on you because I was pissed. Still am.”

  Downing the rest of my glass, I grab the empty bottle and carry it into my kitchen. “You were a dick on the phone and nothing, not even a bottle of my favorite wine, can make me less enraged by what you said and how you said it.”

  “Since when are you so sensitive?” He’s glaring at me. Puck whimpers and lies on the floor in my living room. Even she suspects he’s in deep shit.

  Nothing raises a woman’s ire than a man suggesting she’s being too sensitive. Nothing. “Gee, I don’t know, Christian. Maybe it’s all the attacks on social media calling me a fat whore, calling me an untalented wannabe, calling me a gold-digging bitch out to destroy the mighty Nighthawks when we both know that a member of your own team is doing that single-handedly because no one has the balls to fire his ass.”

  “It’s not that simple. He hasn’t given cause, not since he punched me.”

  I laugh. “Then he has your permission to annihilate me. Good to know.”

  “You mouthed off to him at the bar, Serena. What did you expect?”

  Oh, he’s really going there? “Seriously? I asked for this, huh?” Shades of Evan are written all over Chris’s rugged features and smooth baritone. The man I love with an intensity I’ve never known has morphed into someone I don’t even recognize. “You sound like Evan now. That’s the kind of dick thing he would say. Hell, he did say it. I asked for him to bet on me because I was such an easy target.”

  Chris hangs his head, expelling a deep breath as he leans against my kitchen island. “I’m sorry for the hits your business and reputation are taking.” He refuses to make eye contact with me. Each word is drawn out, each statement slow and methodical. “But I have to look out for my team. This is what a relationship with a professional hockey player is like. I told you it would be rough. You said you could take it, but looking back, I don’t think you were truly ready for it.”

  “Bullshit.” I thrust the wine bottle in the sink so hard that I’m sure it’s cracked. Fractured. Like me and Chris. “You’ve never been in a relationship before. You have no idea how to fight for someone when things get rough. Instead, you come to my door choosing to ignore what’s happening and espousing team garbage to camouflage the fact that you don’t know how to handle a relationship with me when things get tough.”

  His head snaps up, his smoky eyes surrounded by a fragile web of lines. This intensity usually means he’s struggling with some heartfelt admission, with some dark desire. I expect that isn’t the case this time.

  “How many successful relationships have you been in, Serena? You, who had never truly been fucked until I came along.” His words slice through me like a razor blade. In spite of a flicker of what could be guilt, could be nothing more than my imagination, his tone is stone cold. “Do you really want to lecture me on successful relationships? You, who’ve been afraid to trust since you were sixteen? You, who run before things get tough so she doesn’t get hurt? You’re analyzing me?”

  Tears sting the backs of my eyes, my face crestfallen, though I refuse to cry in front of him. He’s right. I’ve never been dumped. Evan doesn’t count because he used me. There was no dumping involved. Unless you count the ten-ton boulder-sized internal baggage he heaped upon me. Still, I have always been the one to end my relationships, at least the few I allowed myself, because it saved me from feeling like this…weak, defenseless, tortured, sad, in excruciating pain with an intense lack of understanding.

  What made me think that Christian was different? What made me think that he was worth the risk? This man, with as much baggage if not more than me…Chris, with his passionate kisses, and tender caresses, his reverence for my body that still causes me to ache for him. He made me believe he cared. Every time we went out in public and he only had eyes for me—never another woman, in a sea of dozens who wanted him to notice them. He never looked at any of them. Not when we were together. Not even at our favorite local restaurant, after I overheard two women in the ladies’ room debating the question of the year: Why would Christian Chase date someone like her?

  Did it sting? Yes. Did I let it go? Hell, no. I exited that stall and washed my hands with the ferocity of a champ. I had a comeback waiting. I always do, countering with a wink and a Because I give him the greatest sex of his life response. I didn’t wait for their reactions. Instead I returned to Chris, who stood as I approached our table and kissed me.

  His attention remained on me and only me all night. The jealousy was palpable, the air growing thicker as he bestowed more attention upon me. Then those women made their move, like so many others over the course of our relationship. Approaching Chris to gush over his athleticism. Every woman believes she is his greatest fan, after all. They smiled, they fawned all over him, asked for selfies with him and autographs.

  Through it all, he always took my hand in his, grasping it tightly as he thanked them, signed autographs on table napkins, then specified no photos. He offered the same polite response, asking them to excuse us. His gaze then returned to mine, and wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let me go. His female fans obliged, in spite of their deep, simmering rage over such a rejection by their sports god.

  A memory of our first night at the bar hits me. It’s true that no woman ever says no to me. What they fail to mention is that no woman has ever regretted saying yes. Lump me in with all those other women who couldn’t deny Christian anything. I offered him all of me. Body, soul—every inch of my body. Bile rises in my throat at how easy I was. Just one of many who said yes. The fury rises. Because I said yes. I have no one to blame but myself. Still, I can’t—I won’t—let him off the hook without a fight. I want a brawl right now. My temper and my ego demand it.

  “You’re a coward. Deflect all you want. Craft a smokescreen to hide the fact that you can’t take the pressure from the fans, from the team, or the pressure of a relationship with me. You don’t want to. Life is easy for Christian Chase, right? The man, the legend. Everything falls into place for you.” I’m yelling and making lots of hand gestures. The actions keep me grounded, keep me in the battle.

  “I have responsibilities. To my team, to management, to our fans. They are all counting on me to pull through the Mike drama and take them to the cup.” He taps my marble countertop with his index finger with each obligation, and I realize I am nowhere near the top of his list of commitments. Hell, I’m not even on said list. Not at all. He’s made his choice, and it’s not me. He’s chosen his career over a relationship with me because he can’t have both. Can’t or won’t. I’ll never know which.

  “Was any of it real or was I just another challenge to you?” Why the hell did I ask this? I don’t want to know. Not really. Because in his current mood, I will never get the answer I crave.

  Jerking his head down, staring at the marble, Chris mutters, “You were never much of a challenge, Serena.”

  Slack-jawed, my breathing stunted by shock, I lean against the counter. Never did I expect him to be so brutal. Staring at him, I expect him to apologize, to realize he wen
t too far, to be the gentleman I once thought he was. But he still avoids eye contact with me. That same gaze that never released mine has now forsaken me.

  The endless ache that is enveloping me is too much to fight against with him in the room. I refuse to cry in front of him. “Get out.” My jaw, clenched so tight that it hurts, keeps me from crying. Concentrating on the pain, I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears well within my lids. I won’t cry in front of him. It’s become my silent mantra.

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a single solitary sound, so I yell. “Get the hell out of my home!” I don’t mention Puck. I don’t want to hurt the canine’s feelings. He’ll take her.

  Standing in my kitchen, I focus on the sounds. Water dripping slowly from the faucet into the sink, Chris’s footsteps as he heads out of the kitchen and into the hardwood hallway. These are the sounds that distract me from the tears threatening to unleash at any moment. Then there’s Puck…her paws pattering as she exits with Chris. The sound of my front door closing is the last and most pathetic sound of all. Like that, Chris is gone from my life. Without another word, let alone an apology.

  Choked sobs shake my entire body. I haven’t cried because of a guy since I was sixteen. I haven’t let any guy in, truly in, since then. Now, I’m having the ugliest cry in the history of the world in my kitchen. Because I took a risk on Chris. Because I thought he was different.

  But, wait—he was different. This Chris tonight…he wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Evan had no problem insulting me to my face. Chris seemed…almost remorseful.

  Pounding my fist against the counter, I curse. Why am I letting Chris off the hook? He was cruel; he was selfish. Those are his true colors. “Don’t make excuses for him, Serena.”

  Instead of excuses, I grab another bottle of wine from my fridge. Tears blur my vision no matter how much I wipe my eyes, and my hands shake so badly that I shred the cork with the screw. “God damn it!”