I wished I had paid more attention to anyone lingering outside her home. I would have noticed her getting a delivery of three dozen roses. Granted, the asshole who actually sent them might not be the one to deliver them, but still. I could have kept an eye out for her.
I snorted at my thoughts. What the hell was I thinking? Did I really need to get involved with someone else’s drama?
I sipped at my whiskey, leaning back in my chair and shifting my eyes out my window. This townhouse was a joke. I paid to have it already be furnished so I didn’t have to worry about buying furniture. I had no idea why I let the real estate agent talk me into renting a two-bedroom townhouse when it was just me. Sure, the space was nice but it was too open, too overwhelming. It was too quiet, too...
I never had a problem with being alone. I didn’t have things. I had my trophies at my parents’ place. Just some clothes and my equipment. I wasn’t a collector.
Why did I need this much space? I didn’t care if it was the same amount of money. I didn’t need this much space.
It was still light outside. We had practice in the morning and the first game of the second to last round of the Stanley Cup playoffs the day after. I should be focused on that. In my entire NHL career, I had never made it past the second round of the playoffs. Ever since the Gulls acquired me back before the AllStar break, I played my ass off. I doubted we would actually make it to the playoffs because the Gulls had never done such a thing before in their entire history, even under their original owner, Ken Brown.
But we somehow skirted by. We fought, we sweat, we bled, we did what we had to do and somehow, even with uneven penalties, even with injuries, we were still here. We were still in it.
Did I think we could make it further? Everyone asked me that. The media, people on the street, the goddamn grocery clerk. Everyone who barely paid attention to me before was suddenly asking me all of these questions, like I had any idea.
I didn’t even think about it, to be honest. I took it one game, one shift, at a time. I couldn’t look at the long-term, I could only look at what was in front of me. It was how I played and I felt that that helped me be successful. I didn’t overthink things. I let my game happen naturally without overanalyzing.
I couldn’t focus on that, however, with Chloe on my mind. I couldn’t multitask for shit.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I honestly shouldn’t give a shit about her problems. I refused to involve myself in shit that didn’t have anything to do with me.
But there was something about her...
Despite her independence, there was something there that made me want to protect her. She probably didn’t need me to but I wanted to.
Not that I would without her consent. I wasn’t an asshole.
But I would definitely make sure to keep an eye on her when I could.
—
The next morning, we had an early practice at Sea Side Ice Palace. I slept well and made sure to watch Chloe pull out of her garage. She seemed fine. I couldn’t see much from where I was but she seemed tired.
Like she hadn’t slept that much the night before.
I couldn’t blame the kid. She had a lot on her plate. I hoped she had someone to talk to about her shit. Keeping it inside wasn’t healthy. At least with me, I got to get out my anger on the ice. Slapping slapshots, checking assholes, dropping the gloves. I felt delighted after my games. I practically skipped off the ice.
My defense partner was another vet with the same mentality as me. Same size. Same strength. He talked more than I did. Was more of a charmer. I was quiet about the women I picked up. He was a flirt.
On the ice, though, we both had the same mentality: defend, protect, and fuck up.
We were out on the ice with the first line. Cherney wanted us out there because even though we weren’t as fast as some of these younger defensemen, we were stronger. We had presence. We intimidated the shit out of the opposing players because Dean and I weren’t afraid to drop the gloves. We packed powerful punches and unless our opponents were bitches who fought with visors on, we didn’t mind bruised knuckles or minor cuts.
We were goddamn hockey players, after all. Not basketball players who needed to get put on a stretcher after pulling a hamstring. Not soccer players who flopped on the grass every time someone breathed on them. Hockey players took pucks to the face, lost teeth, required stitches, and were ready for their next shift.
I loved being a hockey player. I took pride in my job. The fact that I was thirty-six and still able to play lit a fire underneath me so I played even harder than I did when I was a kid.
Practice was gritty, which I appreciated. There was a sense of desire among the team. Everyone knew how close we were and there was no way we were going to let it slip through our fingers because of a stupid mistake or because individual egos were bruised. As much as I wanted to right a wrong, I wasn’t about to take a stupid penalty on behalf of my pride.
As with every round, we somehow managed to acquire home ice for the first two games. If we won both games, we would have a good chance of winning the next two in their barn. The Seattle Sounders were a gritty team as well but they had been here before. That gave them experience, sure, but that didn’t give them passion to fight for something they wanted and never had. There was no fucking way we were going to get this fucking close and let it slip out of our fingers.
Not if there was anything I could do about it.
Thorpe was a fucking god in the net. None of our shots got passed him. The guy was rock-solid. His current save percentage in the playoffs was 0.92. He let in one or two goals every game, stopping thirty-plus shots. He also had a reputation of being an asshole in the way where he never spoke and appeared critical. He cared about his appearance in that he wanted us to have pride in the sweaters we wore every game night.
I sure as shit respected him, even if he was a few years younger than me.
Rumor had it, he and Seraphina Hanson, the new owner and manager, were in a relationship. To be honest, I didn’t give a shit. That wasn’t my business. If it was true, good for him.
All that mattered, before women and sex and everything else, was the Cup. And I intended that this was going to be my year. I refused to let myself deal with any distractions.
Even if they were petite, blonde, and cute.
3
Chloe
When I went to work the next morning, I found another vase of roses on my desk. I froze.
“I know,” my friend, Helen, said as I continued to stare at the roses, my blood turning to ice. “When the delivery man came to the lobby asking for you, we thought he was some weirdo. I didn’t know you were dating someone. Girl, why didn’t you tell me?”
I didn’t even want to take a seat at my desk. I dropped my purse and gave her a look. “I’m not,” I snapped.
She narrowed her eyes. “No need to get defensive,” she said. “Must mean you have a secret admirer!” She grinned. “Even better.”
I took a breath. This wasn’t Helen’s fault. I was lucky Helen didn’t hold grudges and didn’t take anything personally. I had to remind myself that she didn’t know my past. No one did. I wanted to keep it that way, but that was starting to get more and more difficult to do now that he had found me.
I didn’t know how this was even possible. I covered my tracks like an expert. I changed everything - my phone number, my address, everything that somehow led back to me and I had the ability to change, I did.
And now, he found me, throwing flowers at me everywhere he went like I was some sort of bride walking down the aisle.
I knew they were from him. They weren’t from a secret admirer. They were from him. When we first started dating, I told him my favorite flowers were orchids. He told me roses meant love and if he sent a girl roses, he loved them. At the time, I thought it was romantic and brushed his dismissal off. Now, though, I knew better. It was one way for him to control me, on top of the many other ways he already had.
Red roses
weren’t a symbol of love, at least not from him. It established control. It induced fear. And he knew all of that.
Somehow, he found out where I lived and where I worked. He was telling me there was no place for me to hide. Even if I tried, he would find me.
“What?” Helen asked, breaking me from my train of thought. “What’s wrong with this? Girl, if I were in your shoes, I would be burying my face in those flowers and mentally figuring out what I would be wearing to bed for him tonight.” She pushed her curly black hair over her shoulders.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice shaky. “Totally. Um, will you tell Lindsay I won’t be in today? Something came up.”
Helen chuckled. “Sure did,” she muttered and gave me a wink. “No problem, girl. I got you. Have a good day. Pick out something extra sexy. Guy deserves it.”
I didn’t respond. He actually deserved a swift kick in the nuts but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
I couldn’t breathe. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking but I forced myself to grab the roses. If I left them on my desk, there would be questions. Questions I didn’t want to face. Questions I didn’t want to deal with. Questions I didn’t have the answers to.
I took the flowers and headed back out to my car. Luckily, it was still early enough where the parking lot in front of the civic center was still relatively empty. Nobody noticed me carrying a huge vase of roses to my car. Nobody really noticed me at all, which was exactly what I wanted.
I didn’t need anyone I knew and worked with to ask about the flowers or why I was leaving. It was bad enough that Helen had seen, Helen had known. At least I had the day to figure out how to explain myself.
Not that I should have to but the office was a simmering pool of gossip because our job was so damn boring.
I drove home, hoping I could get there quickly. At the same time, I almost dreaded going home to see if he was outside, lingering by my door, waiting. That, or there might be more roses there. Which would be nearly as bad.
The thought made me shudder and I hated that he still controlled so much of my responses that I actually reacted physically. That even after all this time, he still reduced me to a scared child.
I wasn’t sure if I hated him more or if I hated myself for allowing him to have that power over me. I had given him that power a long time ago and now that I finally had control over my life, I didn’t even want to allow him to creep back in. And yet, here I was, afraid to go home. I couldn’t even stop my fingers from shaking, even as I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
Once I turned down my street, I immediately pulled out my garage door opener. I wasn’t going to park in the driveway anymore, even if I knew I was going out later that day.
I took a deep breath. I was almost home. Once I was inside my house and locked my door, I would be safe.
Except, I wouldn’t be.
He knew where to find me.
I would probably be better off, stashing away at a cafe of a Barnes & Nobles until closing. He wouldn’t be able to find me in public. Unless he had someone following me. And the more I thought about that, the more I realized that was likely, considering he had more money than God.
I took another deep breath and let it out. It was shaky. I needed stability. I needed...
I wanted to run away from this. There was a reason I changed my last name and moved and changed everything about me. The only thing I kept was my first name. It was the only thing I wanted to hold onto. If I let him take away anything else, what would I have left for me? I would have given him everything. And I refused to do that.
I also refused to allow him to make my decisions for me. I couldn’t continue to live my life like this.
But I also didn’t want to risk my life again.
I shuddered and pushed the memory away. Instead, I opened my garage. As long as I focused on the task that I was doing currently, I was able to refocus and change the direction of my thoughts. It helped me calm down.
My heart was still racing and my fingers still shook but I was getting my breathing under control.
Once I was in my garage and the door was tightly closed, I hesitated before going in. I made sure my car was completely turned off, I wasn’t suicidal, but I wasn’t quite ready to go in.
Without warning, I burst into tears. Ugly, sobbing tears. My shoulders jumped up and down and snot dropped from my nose and the little mascara I did put on was running down my face in ugly streaks, making me look like a trainwreck of a raccoon.
I hated that this was how I was reacting. I hated that I was still this afraid.
I was safe. I was in the safest city in the nation and I still couldn’t escape from this guy. I couldn’t run anymore. That much was obvious. Not because I was being a strong, independent woman. More like it was because I knew he would find me. He had the resources to do so. It was my fault for even believing I was safe.
He would find me. Always.
I let myself cry for the next fifteen minutes, until I couldn’t cry any longer. Until my eyes were sore and itchy and all I wanted to do was sleep. My shoulders still jumped with each hiccup and I tried to get my breathing under control once again.
I needed to go into my house. I refused to stay paralyzed in my car.
At the very least, I was hungry and was craving a big bowl of Lucky Charms. Maybe even two. I could change into my pajamas and pull my hair back and binge watch Netflix. I could eat as much cereal as I wanted.
I couldn’t stay in this car. I couldn’t stay afraid.
I closed my eyes. I started to count backward from five. By the time I reached the end, I had to be out of the car. I wasn’t allowed to linger.
I forced my door open the minute a big fat one flashed through my head and stepped outside. I paused in the garage, shutting my door and locking my car.
I waited.
The house seemed still. No one was in there. It didn’t appear as though anyone was waiting...
But even then, I couldn’t be sure.
I had thought that before and I ended up with a cracked rib.
I pushed away the thought.
That was a long time ago. Just because that happened then didn’t mean it would happen now.
I hated I even remembered that. I thought I had pushed all of those memories in a deep, dark place in the back of my mind where things couldn’t get out unless I specifically tracked them down. I didn’t want to remember Tim. I didn’t want to remember the paralyzing fear, the bodily injury, the realization that I was going to die -
A sob escaped my raw throat and I clamped my palm over my lips.
I couldn’t think about this. Not right now. I needed to be rational.
I took a breath. I counted down from five, this time with the goal of getting out of the garage and into the small hallway. I almost didn’t make it. I almost stayed stuck in my dark garage, heavy with fumes from the car.
But my feet moved before I could force myself to.
Once inside, I closed the door behind me and nearly wept with relief.
I was pathetic.
I was safe. For now.
Now that I was in my home, I felt more relaxed. I intuitively knew no one was in the house and I felt my shoulders ease and the tension that occupied my bones release their hold on me slightly.
It was stupid, but I turned on all the lights and the television. I didn’t actually care what I watched just as long as there was noise. I couldn’t stand the silence. It added to my anxiety. It overwhelmed me and suffocated me and made my entire body tense.
Walking through the house just reiterated the fact that I was alone, that Tim wasn’t here. I couldn’t account for him watching me outside my house, for following me or having me followed. But at least now, I was on my home and I was safe.
I paused at the foot of my steps and took another breath. The second story was a different story.
I counted down and forced myself up.
I wanted to change out of my clothes anyway, throw on a loose shirt and pa
jama pants. I turned on all the lights and got out of my work clothes before tossing my hair into a ponytail. I did a sweep and was delighted to find that I was still by myself.
As I walked down the stairs, the sounds of Wendy Williams and her audience livening up my otherwise quiet house, a knock on my door nearly sent me spiraling down my staircase. I gripped the handrail to steady myself and took in a breath.
I counted down.
I forced myself to move.
Anyone could be at the door. Tim wasn’t that stupid, to just show up.
But he was arrogant.
I forced myself to look through the peephole and I stilled.
What was Art Jackman doing here?
4
Art
What the fuck was I even doing?
I had just gotten home from practice. I didn’t need this shit.
Fuck me.
But I headed over to her place.
There were flowers on her deck again. And there was no reason for her to come home from work this early unless something happened.
Not that I stalked her or even cared. But it was just something that caught my notice. Our game was tomorrow. I had the rest of my day today to do whatever I wanted.
I sure as shit hadn’t planned to do this. Didn’t want to notice fucking flowers. Didn’t want to watch her drive back up to her place after nine in the morning. Didn’t want to notice that from where I stood in my second-story bedroom window, she looked paler than usual.
What the fuck was going on with her?
Why the fuck did I care?
Why was I pulling on my goddamn boots and stalking over to her house? Why was I doing this?
I couldn’t figure it out. But my lack of understanding wasn’t preventing me from heading over to her front door. Wasn’t preventing me from knocking on her door.
Trainwrecks & Back Checks: A Slapshot Novel (Slapshot Series Book 6) Page 2
