“I’m…Serena, I’m really worried about you.” Becca’s brown eyes are soulful. A suntanned goddess, her dark hair is highlighted with bronze that gets lighter in the sun. She just spent a week in the Hamptons with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and looks incredible. Me, on the other hand…It’s no wonder she’s in shock. I haven’t washed my hair in two days, am wearing no makeup and my clothes are wrinkled, and I’ve lost some weight. Not much, but enough that my clothes are a little large on me. And it’s definitely not due to trying. The empty pints of Häagen-Dazs in my recycling bin are proof of that.
Gulping my latte through the straw, I decide that maybe if I ask about her beach vacation, Becca will stop viewing me like I’m some lab rat gone mutant. “You look great. Did you have fun?”
“Please tell me you haven’t been in this workroom since I left.” She fails to take my not-so-subtle let’s change the topic hint.
Since she left, I’ve spent most of my time in my workroom. Except for my kitchen. And bathroom. Hey, I did leave the workroom. “I promise I’ve spent time outside of my workroom. Pinky swear.” There. I smile at my cunning. Didn’t even have to lie.
“The bathroom and kitchen don’t count.” Becca plants her hand on her hip and surveys me up and down.
Damn it. She got me. On to another approach. “Without you to hang out with, where would I go? Besides, I got a lot of work done.”
Pointing at the dress forms across from us on the far side of my workroom, I feel a sense of pride. I’ve outdone myself. This fall/winter collection is going to be our best yet, and I can’t wait to show off our new fabrics, featuring artwork by a painter in SoHo. Her first series is entitled Autumn in New York and features Central Park and the Manhattan skyline in various hues of sunsets, russet leaves, and rainy days. Her Early Winter in Manhattan series is just as beautiful with snowdrifts and a snow-covered Washington Square arch. The skirts that I designed are my favorite part of my collection; vintage and flirty, I can’t wait to wear them, let alone sell them. The fact that our boutique sells custom clothing and unique one-of-a-kind designs, allows us to work on a schedule different than most designers. It doesn’t hurt that we ensure every garment is custom tailored to our individual client.
Becca walks over to the forms. “They’re gorgeous, Serena. This is an incredible collection.”
Yes, it is. “Let’s hope I can sell it.” I silently add, and save my business. If there’s anything worse than being Christian Chase’s girlfriend, it’s being the woman he dumped. News of our breakup gave carte blanche to those who’d refrained from attacking me to do so without angering their hockey god.
With Becca on vacation, Charlie has been filling me in on the latest social media tags. I really wish he wouldn’t, but it’s my company, so I have no choice but to hear all the gory details. My boutique and brand are still suffering from the negative media attention. While being the woman Christian dumped isn’t good for business, wrongfully being accused of causing trouble in the ranks of a brand-new professional hockey team is worse. I know the stress is affecting me in physical ways. Dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep have become the norm. I don’t look like myself, and I don’t feel like myself. Since the dumping heard ’round the world, I’m wired, off-kilter, and under stress. Lots of stress.
“I’m sorry, Serena.” Becca’s words catch in her throat.
I’m at a loss. “For what?”
She leads me by the hand downstairs to the first floor, where my grandmother, Lucas, and Charlie are waiting. Shit. I should have showered. Or at the very least brushed my hair. Latte still in one hand, I jerk free of Becca and try to run my fingers through the knots that have replaced my naturally curly tresses. Never, and I mean never in my life, have I felt so self-conscious. Which is saying a lot.
“Seriously?” I stand in my living room, tilting my head to the side, trying unsuccessfully to hide my mounting frustration. “What the hell is this? Some kind of intervention?”
My grandmother pats my sofa. “Sit beside me, sweetie.”
“Traitor,” I growl at her, taking another gulp of my latte, then defiantly plopping on an overstuffed chair in the corner.
“We’re worried about you, Serena.” Lucas rubs his palms against his thighs. He’s wearing beige pants, a white button-down, and looks preppy with his well-coiffed blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses. “You don’t sleep. You don’t shower.”
I shoot him a don’t you dare judge me look that stops him in his tracks.
Charlie opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt. Or rather, erupt. “Let me be clear. I don’t need an intervention. I’m not an addict and I am not avoiding anything. Christian didn’t choose me…he chose his teammates and his career over a relationship with me. Unfortunately, I can’t control the negative attention my business has received. What I can do is try desperately to save my company and do good for local artists. I do that by creating a kick-ass collection that transcends the haters. I do that by working hard. I do that by losing sleep and not showering for two days, but that’s okay. Because if I go down, I’m going to go down with a fight. With talent. With drive. With everything I have.”
Silence engulfs the room. Charlie turns to Lucas, whispering, “How do we argue with that?”
“We don’t.” My grandmother’s drawl is kind and nurturing. As is her gaze as she meets mine. “We take care of you while you work your ass off, and we support you, Serena. That’s what family does.”
She rises from the sofa and walks over to me, taking the latte that I forgot I was holding and setting it on the coffee table. My grandmother then grabs my hand, tugging me into her embrace. This is the first hug, the first human contact, I’ve experienced in weeks. My muscles tense, then I feel the tears burning the backs of my eyes. My shoulders begin to shake, but I refuse to cry.
With a shuddering breath I whisper, “Christian didn’t choose me. I didn’t expect him to, I would never have placed him in that position, but I thought he’d stay and fight with me.” That’s the crux of it. I thought he cared enough to stay. To work out whatever was happening to us together. I expected too much of him.
Cupping my face with her palms, my grandmother meets my eyes. “It’s his loss.”
“You’re my grandmother. Of course you would think so.”
“Nope.” Charlie runs over and crushes me with a bear hug from behind. “I’m not a blood relation and I know it’s his loss, too.”
Becca places her forehead against the side of my head. “Me, too. Technically we’re not related. We’re sisters from another mother and father.”
Last to join our impromptu hug fest is my brother. “Well, blood relation or not, Christian is an asshole.”
“Lucas James Ellis!” my grandmother reprimands him, her palms never wavering from my face.
Kissing my temple, Lucas adds, “He is. I’m not afraid to say it. Grams and Charlie are right: it’s his loss.”
I tend to disagree, especially when I haven’t showered in days. I mean, how much of a catch can I be right now? But now that I’ve met my deadlines, I will shower from here on out, and do an interview at the boutique tomorrow. I’ll wear one of my favorite Manhattan pieces and talk about an artist who I believe in. I’ll fight for my company, fight to be seen for who I am. After all, I’m so much more than a woman rejected or the alleged hockey team wrecker.
No matter what happens next, I have four people in my corner who will never abandon me. That stirs the warrior in me to fight even harder, to never give up. I owe it to them. I owe it to myself. My sass is back. Regardless of what happens next, it and I am here to stay.
Chapter 17
Christian
Puck greets me at my front door after a grueling three preseason games on the road. She’s the only thing than can soothe my foul mood. I pet her soft fur and read the note from Rosie, her caregiver while I’m gone. Puck
is well. She got lots of exercise. Missed you. Welcome home.
Rosie is a sweet woman in her fifties. She takes care of Puck for me, cleans my house, and leaves kind handwritten notes. I wouldn’t trust Puck with many people, but Rosie and Nick are my trusted few. Along with Serena, though she isn’t an option anymore.
“Do you miss her?” I ask Puck. She whimpers in response. “Yeah, so do I.”
My mood remains somber. Even my waterfall shower can’t make me feel better. Serena is on my mind. Always. I can’t get her out of my head. It’s a perpetual punishment. I torture myself by thinking of the person I love, the same person I drove away.
Though I try, I fail to convince myself that she’s better off without me because her trolls have intensified since we broke up. So has my trolling of her. I’ve stood up for her under numerous anonymous accounts, and I regularly track her through social media and the gossip sites. I’m now a cyber-stalker. How the mighty have fallen!
I shrug into sweatpants and a comfortable T-shirt, then plop on the sofa with my cell. Scrolling through the feed on my phone, I find a promo tweet that Serena will be on a local news show at eleven discussing her latest venture. Though it’s early, I turn on my big screen and change the station. Waiting impatiently, I read the latest tweets and other posts about Serena. The fact that criticism continues to be heaped upon her causes my fury to flare.
Since we broke up, I’ve been in contact with my legal team. I knew it was a long shot, but I tried to see if they could do anything. Time to type another email to the team’s PR person, whom I’ve been in constant contact with regarding how brutal the criticism of Serena has been. She stopped responding to my emails this week. Typing I’ll take matters into my own hands unless you do something might not have been the wisest move in my latest round of emails. Yeah, safe to say that isn’t the best thing I’ve done in my career, but I no longer care. This team has taken everything out of me. Keeping everyone in check while Mike smirks from the sidelines and tries to diminish the team has taken its toll in the form of I no longer give a shit.
After the news and weather, Serena’s segment goes live. Her appearance makes me flinch—she’s lost weight, and her makeup fails to hide the dark circles under her eyes. They’re filming at her boutique, where Serena is sitting next to a local artist, showcasing the younger woman’s paintings along with Serena’s designs. The interviewer seems interested in Serena’s new line. Until she asks about me and our ugly breakup.
The camera zooms in on Serena’s face. The interviewer can’t help but repeat her question, stressing the word ugly. They want a reaction, are close up and ready for one. I bet they are hoping for tears. Or a tantrum. Something they can use as clickbait. This whole damn interview reeks of a setup.
Serena smiles, only the smile never meets her eyes, which remain flat. “I wish Christian all the best.” Her voice is sweet, without reproach. Yet she called me the more formal Christian, not Chris. I guess I should’ve expected that. It still winds me like a gut punch. The intimacy I felt when she called me Chris was like nothing else. I hear her voice, that voice I love, now so detached calling me Christian and it gnaws at me, turning my throat to gravel, making my breathing labored.
I’ve lost her.
Before I can process the fact that I have truly lost her, or ask myself why that knowledge comes as such a surprise after everything I did to push her away, the interviewer follows up, asking why Serena lost weight. The brunette reporter with lots of hairspray and pale pink lips pauses, resting an elegant Mont Blanc pen against her chin, before continuing. “Forgive me for being blunt, but do you not represent your brand anymore? How can your message of #NoBodyShaming, not to mention your company’s mission statement, remain intact when you yourself have succumbed to losing weight after being dumped by a man?”
Serena’s lips quiver. I can tell the callous questions, or rather accusations, have hurt her. My insides are churning as I imagine what it must be like for her, with the camera filming her every breath, her every reaction. Again, I want to reach for her, hold her, love her, but I’m stuck on my sofa, watching her suffer. All because of me and my stupid decision to break up with her, which I now know did jack crap to help her or improve her situation.
After clearing her throat, Serena admits, “Stress has taken its toll on me, though I won’t complain or place blame. There are people suffering much worse, and I’m truly grateful for all I have.”
“That is a nice answer, but your relationship and subsequent breakup has negatively affected your brand.” The interviewer tries to soften her expression, but she still resembles Cruella de Vil. Puck whimpers, and I half expect this woman kills puppies in her free time.
“Come on, Serena. Let her have it.” I’m clutching the remote so tight that my knuckles go numb. Why won’t Serena let her have it? The bitch deserves it.
Serena’s voice is professional and completely devoid of her usual sass and sarcasm. Her answer is simple: “I’m a local businesswoman and entrepreneur hosting an event to honor a talented local artist. Tonight should be about the woman sitting beside me and her beautiful work, not about my failed relationship. As for Christian, I want him to remain healthy and happy. Thanks for your time.” She removes her mic and abruptly walks out of camera range.
The interviewer is flustered. So am I. My hands begin to shake. Because of the change in Serena’s appearance, and her attitude. Her life has become one big shitstorm and it’s all because of me. I should have reached out to her. I should have left a voicemail. I should have done more. I love this woman, for God’s sake. Why haven’t I done more?
My cell rings and my heartbeat quickens. I hope it’s Serena. The fact that it’s coming from a private number makes me think it’s her. “Serena?”
Instead, my dad’s slurred voice is at the other end of the phone. “Chrissy, my boy. It’s Dad.”
Tossing the remote across the room, I ball my free hand into a tight fist. Of course he would call now. When my inner demons are at their worst. When I can’t think of anything but how badly I have fucked up with Serena.
“What do you want?” As if I don’t already know he wants another cash infusion. It’s been a while. I’ve deliberately made him wait. A part of me hoped he’d be sober when he called again. That’s always my hope. That my dad will be clean. That he’ll call because he wants to. Not because he wants to use me, tap me for cash, take what little hope I have of salvaging our relationship from me.
My dad laughs. “I’m calling because you’re winning in the big leagues. I watch your games. You’ve got it made. I need a little something to tide me over until my luck changes.”
It’s always the same with him. He’s never proud of my accomplishments or my talent; they’re simply a means to get him more money to piss away. The pit in my stomach churns again while the emptiness in my chest becomes a chasm so deep that I feel like I’ll lose myself in it.
I was never good enough for my dad. I mean nothing to him. All that matters to him is that my cash is green, and he can burn through it. Two people in my life have cared about me, regardless of my net worth: Serena and Nick. I pushed Serena away instead of fighting beside her because I was afraid she’d find me worthless, just like my dad does. I was terrified that she’d discover I’m a fraud. Sure, you can dress me up and I can live a lavish lifestyle, but I’m still that damaged kid. The kid no one loves. The kid no one wants. No one but her. She was the exception. And I blew it.
“What the hell have I done?” My rage boils to the surface, then spills forth, as do my words…everything I’ve wanted to say to my dad but feared to do so because I’d lose him. I no longer care. He’s not the one I need. “You want my money. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. You’ve used me for most of my life, never caring about your son, only caring about the cash I make for you.”
“Who got you where you are today? Me.” My dad’s an angry drunk. Al
ways. Even when I promise him cash. Lashing out at me has been his favorite pastime, short of gambling, for as long as I can remember.
“No!” I stand so fast that Puck rises to her feet, startled. “I got myself where I am in spite of you.”
My dad laughs. “You’re nothing. Would have remained nothing. I bought you skates—”
“Out of guilt because you gambled away the money for electricity and gas.” My rage and truths formerly unspoken are a lethal combination. I’ve hidden how I really feel for so long…too long. All so I can remain in contact with a man who only wants my money. Fuck that. “Guess who turned the lights back on, Dad? Me. I worked my ass off after school and on weekends to compensate for the cash you pissed away. You never thanked me, did you? You never got your shit together. Knowing your kid, kid—barely thirteen—paid your bills. You used me and kept on using me. You’re a leech, bleeding me dry, but guess what? I owe you nothing.”
The silence that greets my last diatribe proves that I struck a nerve. I shove my free hand through my hair so hard that several strands fall out. “I pushed away the only woman who has ever loved me because I was ashamed of myself, of how I grew up. I was ashamed of you. I thought I was saving her from me. Instead, I was trying to protect myself. I thought she’d drop me if she knew who I really am: a damaged man who fears failure so much that it cripples me. Because if I fail, it will cost me you. Which is ridiculous because without my wealth, I would never hear from you again. That’s how fucked up our relationship is, Dad. That’s how fucked up we’ve always been.”
My dad remains silent. The facts aren’t easy to speak; I wonder how it feels to hear them. Does he even care? Well, he’ll care about this. “I’m done being your ATM. From now on, I choose healthy relationships over this toxic crap. Do you hear me, Dad? I’m done with you. Starting now.”
Ice Hot Page 18
