Cold As Puck: A Cold Love Series Novel

by Paige, Violet

  “I’m fine. Really.” I didn’t like that he hovered in the kitchen or that he didn’t seem to want to move. “You can head back to the store. I’m sure someone needs one of your glowing book recommendations.” It was overly sarcastic, more than I had meant to say.

  His expression was puzzled. “Has someone said something about my recommendations? Is there a problem?”

  “No. No. They love them. Forget I said anything.” I rose from the sofa, feeling off-balance and overwhelmed.

  “Do you not want me to give the customers suggestions?” he asked. He still hadn’t budged an inch.

  “What? That’s silly. Of course I do. That’s what you’re here for, right?” My palm pressed into my temple. The headache wasn’t a lie. It came on quickly once I stood upright.

  It was the first time Russell lunged forward. I caught myself on the arm of the sofa, but he had already swung an arm around my waist. I jerked away from the contact.

  “I’m fine.” I pushed his forearms away.

  “You don’t look fine.” He was too close. I could smell his breath. It was a mixture of cigarettes and gum. His apron pushed down on the collar of his shirt, and I saw the end of script lettering, but he was quick to cover it.

  “No one’s at the register,” I reminded him.

  “I doubt anyone would touch it. They know I’m upstairs.”

  That wasn’t the point. He wasn’t doing his job, and I didn’t want him here. Russell made me bristle. It seemed to happen more in the last few weeks than when I first hired him, and I hadn’t been able to pinpoint what it was that made me so damn uncomfortable.

  I rounded the side of the couch to step away from him. I poured a glass of water in the kitchen and waited for him to return to work. Eventually he strolled through the center of the apartment.

  “Think you’re coming back to work today?” he asked, one foot over the threshold, one foot still in.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “Can you handle it without me?”

  “Of course.” He smiled, but I didn’t feel anything warm behind it.

  I waited for him to close the door and counted to ten, sure that he was walking through the bookstore by now. I crossed the kitchen and turned the top lock. I finally let out a breath.

  10

  Roman

  This was the place. I glanced up at the brick townhouse. On one side was a hair stylist and on the other an insurance agent. The door I had to walk through was for Dr. Lina Falcon, licensed therapist. I’d rather talk to Mitch about insurance or cut a few inches around my ears. My hair was longer than usual and getting sloppy. Without the long beard to match, I just looked disheveled.

  I glanced at my watch. Two minutes until I was supposed to arrive. Jerry’s reminder popped into my head—Dr. Falcon would report back to Rick. Damn it. I had to get it over with.

  I turned the handle and climbed the stairs. Dr. Falcon’s assistant had told me the therapy suite was at the top of the townhouse. The other two levels were for workshops, offices, and group sessions. Once I reached the third floor, I was deposited into a waiting room. There were tall plants and one of those things that squirts out air freshener every fifteen minutes. Hidden in one of the plants was a speaker that played classical music. The seats were empty. There was no receptionist or place to sign in.

  I took a seat in one of the chairs and stared at the door. How the hell had my life come to this? I didn’t want to look at my phone. If I did, I’d just see Alex and Luca on the Belize trip. Having the vacation I should be having. Drinking. Partying. Fucking.

  The door cracked, and I pulled my shoulders into a straight line with my spine. A small woman with gray hair backed out of the room, holding a tissue to her nose. I didn’t make eye contact. All I could think about was that there was no way I was going to cry. No fucking way. I didn’t need an Oprah moment. I needed this doc to like me enough to sign off on my therapy. I’d be a model client. Show up on time. Never miss an appointment. But as far as feelings and stories about my troubled past went, I hadn’t signed on for that.

  Dr. Falcon appeared in the doorway. She smiled, tilting her head. Her shimmering black hair was cut into a tight-cropped bob. Her features were sharp, but she was pretty. I guessed she was in her early forties. Her blouse was silk, unbuttoned a few snaps and tucked into a pair of white dress pants. She wasn’t what I expected.

  “You must be Roman.”

  I hadn’t quite made a move to stand. “That’s me. Can you tell HR I was on time?” Nothing else mattered to me.

  She sighed. “I will. It wouldn’t be much of a leap for me to assume you aren’t here voluntarily?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Dr. Falcon exhaled. “We might be able to change that. Why don’t you come in and we’ll get started?”

  “Just make sure they know I was here, doc.”

  Her arm extended and the door swung open. The bracelets on her wrist clinked together. I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to play hockey again, this was what I had to do. I lumbered to my feet and followed her inside.

  * * *

  Two weeks passed. I saw Dr. Falcon three times a week. Most of our sessions were the same. She would ask about the night of the game, and I’d change the subject. She’d ask about my father, and I’d change the subject. I told her we could talk about hockey, movies, and dogs. It didn’t matter to me if those topics didn’t interest her or offer deep insight into my psyche.

  After my sixth appointment, I climbed behind the wheel of my mom’s Buick and drove toward downtown. I’d managed to keep a low profile in Penny Hill, but if I was being honest, I was going stir crazy helping Mom with yard projects, running her back and forth to work, and trying to avoid any talk about the NHL.

  I parked in front of Puck Pub. It felt still inside the car. Too quiet. I dropped a few quarters in the meter and walked inside the bar. It had been years. The last time might have been when I celebrated signing with the minor league team that picked me up out of college. Some of those nights ran together.

  “It can’t be.” The bartender inhaled sharply when he laid eyes on me.

  “How’s it going, Joe?” I sauntered closer and took a seat at the end of the bar.

  “I heard you were back in town, but no one’s seen you.” He yanked the towel off his shoulder and wiped the surface around where my forearms rested.

  “Trying to help my mom out,” I explained. It was a decent cover. A single woman, almost sixty, needed help with her house, lawn, and business.

  “That’s good of you. I know she appreciates you helping out.” Joe nodded. “What can I get you?”

  “The darkest draft you have.” I was in the mood for something thick and syrupy. Strong.

  “I’ll take care of that.” He rotated to grab a pilsner glass and began filling it while I watched. He deposited the glass in front of me, froth sloshing over the side.

  There was an awkward silence, filled by an eighties ballad on the speakers. All the mounted TVs were on mute. I was glad I didn’t have to listen to the commentators. By now, they had moved on from hockey season. People were gearing up for football, and some were ready for playoff baseball to start even though it was still a few months away.

  I took a gulp of beer, enjoying the rich taste. Joe stacked glasses as they came out of the dryer. The bell over the door jingled, and I turned to see two guys I went to high school with walking toward me.

  “No fucking way.” Stephen Haddocks and Brent Greenfield stared at me. “Is that Roman Sorrow?”

  I chuckled, raising my glass toward them. “In the flesh.” I grinned. “Join me.”

  They slid into the row of seats, and Joe began pouring more beer. It seemed he already knew what they liked to drink.

  “Man, it’s good to see you. How you doing after the big loss?” Brent had never looked more focused. His pupils were narrow and fixed on me.

  I shook my head. “We’ll get it next year.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Dires looked hot this yea
r.” Stephen slapped me on the back.

  “It was a great team.” I held the beer with both hands.

  “Was? Does that mean it’s going to be split up? Tell us, what do you know?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know where anyone’s going. You know how it is. The draft is coming up. There are lots of trades out there.”

  “What about you?” Stephen was halfway through his beer already.

  “No. I’m staying a Dire Wolf for another season.” I’d wondered if they would rather trade me since I had become a liability, but I doubted they would have made me go through the counseling pony show if they were going to pass me off to another team. I was around for at least another season.

  “That’s good. Although, you know we’re going to pull for any team you play for.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded. “I appreciate it.”

  Joe had moved down the bar to start cutting lemons and limes for the night shift.

  “Did you hear about the big party they threw here for you?” Brent asked. “It was packed.”

  “No. I didn’t know about that.” My stomach turned over.

  “Yeah. There were banners and posters. You had to get reservations at Puck Pub. Fucking reservations.” Brent laughed. “Can you believe that? Joe didn’t know how to run a reservation book.”

  “No. I can’t.” It was a trendy downtown sports bar, but other than a couple splitting a basket of fries in the corner, we were the only customers at five-thirty. But it was crowded on big game nights, the National Championship, the World Series, Super Bowl Sunday.

  “Even Sophie came.” Stephen sat back in his chair.

  “Sophie? Sophie Fairchild?” I didn’t like how the beer sloshed in my stomach now.

  They both nodded. “She was here, front and center. Your Sophie.”

  That couldn’t be right. Sophie swore she’d never watch me play again. She would never pull for my team. But she had been here?

  “You two ever thought about getting back together?” Stephen asked. “No one really knows why you broke up.”

  I slapped a couple twenty-dollar bills on the bar. “It was great seeing you guys.” I shouted past the register. “Joe, I’ve got their first two rounds.”

  He nodded. “Good seeing you.”

  “Thanks, man. You didn’t have to do that. Did we hit a nerve with the Sophie stuff?”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  I maneuvered off the barstool.

  “Glad you’re back, Roman. We’re here every Tuesday, same time.”

  I tipped my ballcap at them. “Maybe I’ll see you next week.” The door jingled when I walked out. I dug in my pocket for the Buick’s keys and caught the lights glowing from the shop windows across the street.

  She didn’t see me, but Sophie tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled on her apron before she took the first step up a ladder. There was something on a high shelf she was trying to rearrange. All I had to do was take the first step. There was nothing blocking me. Nothing to hold me back. I was free.

  Her face scrunched in frustration when she struggled to move a stack of novels that wouldn’t budge. It felt wrong to watch her when she didn’t know I was here. I wasn’t studying her as much as remembering.

  Maybe it was time I took care of that.

  11

  Sophie

  There was something peaceful about being the only one inside the shop after I had shut down the register and shooed the last customer out for the night. I could listen to whatever music I wanted and read snippets from books I passed without being interrupted.

  I climbed the ladder to return a few copies of Wuthering Heights to the classics section when I heard a knock on the door.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” I hollered without bothering to look over my shoulder.

  The knocking continued. This time more incessant. I dropped the stack of Bronte novels and descended the wide rungs.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back to—” I stopped when my feet hit the floor and I saw who was standing on the sidewalk.

  “Can I come in?” he mouthed.

  I wiped my hands on the front of the apron. What was Roman doing here? We’d avoided each other for two solid weeks. Long enough that I had begun to believe it was possible this town was bigger than I thought. Not one single run-in. Until now.

  “Sophie, come on,” he pleaded.

  That line inside me, the one I created the day Roman and I met, was still there. Daring me to cross over. It had betrayed me before, and it did it again. I approached the door and turned the brass latch in my hands. It clicked sharply.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, cracking the heavy door a few inches.

  “I was at Puck Pub.” He nodded toward the bar. “Then I saw you here through the window.”

  I twisted my lips together. I was two seconds from tapping my foot impatiently. There had to be more to it than that.

  “And I heard you watched game seven.”

  My mouth gaped. I didn’t know what to say. That’s why he was here. He had heard I watched him play.

  “Is it true? Did you?”

  “Yes,” I answered. I couldn’t lie. Too many people had seen me. One of them had already ratted me out.

  I couldn’t identify the flicker in his eyes, but I knew my response made him feel something. It lit the flame in his gaze.

  “Can I come in? Just for a few minutes?”

  “All right.” I stood back enough to let the door open fully and allow Roman to walk inside the shop.

  The air felt different now that he was here. The calm stillness was replaced by a tangible energy. I had hoped that connection between us would die over time, but as much as I hated it, it was very much alive and buzzing.

  I folded my arms. “Before you say anything, there is something I meant to say when I saw you.” My mouth started to go dry. Roman stared at me. His eyes softened. “I’m really sorry about your dad. I heard he passed away in the spring.” I stumbled through my condolences.

  He blinked, turning the blue hints to dark obsidian. “Thanks.” His voice was gruff.

  “I never met him, but I’m sorry. I’m sure it was tough on you.”

  He ran his hand up his neck and through the hair on the back of his head. “I appreciate it. Thanks, Soph.”

  There was a twinge of familiarity when he used my nickname.

  “I sent your mom a peace lily even though they weren’t married. I wasn’t quite sure what to send her.” Everyone in Penny Hill was confused about how to handle the death of Feliks Sorrow—a man no one had met, yet everyone loved his son and ex-wife. There was no memorial in the States for him. He was buried in Russia, where he was born.

  “No. That was great. I’m sure Mom loved it. It was thoughtful of you.” He didn’t mention the fact that I hadn’t sent him anything. Not a card, plant, email, or text. I had stayed distant. I’d kept my promises. Although standing here with Roman now, I wasn’t proud of them. He’d lost his father, and I’d remained as heartless as I could about it. Determined the emotional distance I put between us was far more important than showing sympathy and compassion for a man I had loved.

  He exhaled. “I didn’t want to talk about my dad.” I could tell he was searching for words. Bringing up his father’s passing had shaken him. Steered him off course.

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea that we talk about anything.” I smiled weakly. “I don’t think we’re so good at it anymore.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  If he knew how the blood was rushing between my ears and my mind was replaying a thousand nights tangled in his sheets, he would know it was absolutely true. Every topic was a dangerous one. Every topic led back to us.

  “It’s weird seeing you here.”

  “It’s weird being here.” He grinned sadly. I had to press my hands into my sides to keep from reaching up and brushing the hair from his forehead. There was an ache in my fingertips to touch him. He looked lost. I d
idn’t like the other word that popped into my head—broken. Roman Sorrow looked broken.

  Did I dare ask what he wanted to talk to me about? Was I that stupid?

  “The shop looks great.” He raised his eyes to the tops of the shelves and the wooden beams that stretched overhead.

  “Thanks. It’s still a work in progress.” It was another subject that was off-limits between us. I couldn’t think of the right thing to say. I teetered between anger and hope, and it was a scary place to be.

  “What if we have this very awkward conversation over dinner instead of in the Golden Page?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I backed up slightly.

  “Come on, Soph. Just dinner. We can do that, right?”

  It wasn’t a matter of whether I could eat a meal with him, it was a matter of what I would say during the meal. How I would feel sitting across the table from him. When I would start to forget the pain he had caused. I had doubts any of it was possible.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why do you want to put us through this?”

  He took a step toward me, and I had to wonder if the rope that had always tethered us together was still there, this time tugging him in my direction. Did we ever fully operate under our own free will, or were we always pawns to the magnetism of Roman and Sophie? Could he admit that was the reason he was here now? That a force greater than him had pushed him across the street and in front of me?

  “Look, let’s have dinner.” I didn’t know if I could stand the forlorn look on his face. “You saw game seven, right?”

  I nodded. “I saw it.”

  “Then you know I could use a friend. Someone who knows me. Someone who isn’t going to say some stupid bullshit just to make me feel better.”

  I eyed him sideways. “Oh, that’s low to use your game to guilt me into dinner.”

  “But is it working?”

  I tried to keep the corners of my lips from turning up, but I couldn’t, so I looked away. “Fine. We can go to dinner.”