by Chantal Mer
DEDICATION
To everyone who has loved or been loved.
Copyright ©2020 Chantal Mer
ISBN: 978-1-7341910-3-5
Cover design by Meredith Russell
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person from proper authorized retail channels. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chantal’s Books
PROLOGUE
Asher
Sweat stings my eyes as I tear off after the center of the Buffalo Bedlam. We’re down by one with only forty seconds left in the period, and I’m going to make sure the Hellfire put the puck in the goal. I slam into Karnovich, steal the puck, and slice it to my teammate Christoph Côté. Topher sprints over the ice, passing the puck to Kaas, who shoots it by the Bedlam’s goalie’s outstretched leg and into the net.
YES! I punched the air as the Houston crowd goes wild. An air horn blasts while “Hellfire,” by Joe Louis Walker, blares over the speaker system. Electricity fills the rink, and with thirty seconds left, we still have a chance for another goal.
“You’re not gonna win, Delacroix.” This comes from the biggest trash talker in the league, which is saying something. But being the kid of Booker Blake, one of the best players in the sport—turned annoying as hell commentator――has made Isaiah Blake an asshole.
“Believe what you want, jackass. The Bedlam are going down.” When I take off to get away from the guy who’s more talk than talent, he’s on me, ramming into my shoulder. “What the fuck, asshole?”
“What?” He smiles around his mouth guard and pushes again.
I’m not gonna lie; I’m itching for a fight. Slamming my fist into someone’s face, feeling the crunch of cartilage as my knuckles make contact. The woosh of breath and a grunt from a right jab to the ribs. The cheers and jeers of the crowd and shouts of my teammates. All of it would make the excruciating emptiness that comes with the anniversary of my sister Serena’s death feel less real.
If only for a few blissful seconds.
Another push.
My fingers tighten and flex in my gloves. “Keep it up, and I’ll fucking take you out.”
“Big talk from a big pussy.” Isaiah is in my face, taunting like he wants to prove something. “Do you even know what a pussy is? Should I speak in terms, you know? How about big talk from a big dick?”
It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last that I get crap for being gay and out. But I promised myself and Serena’s memory that I wouldn’t let small-minded assholes, as she put it, make me feel less, nor would I hide who I was.
“Real original.” I shove back and then hit him with what hurts insecure jackasses like Isaiah Blake the most. “Hang up your skates. You’ll never be as good as your daddy.”
Seeing an opening, if I make one, I fly over to the winger and knock him into the boards, freeing the puck. But before I can move, fucking Blake plows into me, a well-placed jab in my back.
His head is pressed to mine. The words low and sinister. “If you’d shown your sister how to suck dick, she would have been chugging cum instead of vodka.”
As quickly as he was there, he’s gone.
I’m paralyzed, pressed to the glass. Everything stills and goes black. The heat of Isaiah’s words sears my organs, my skin, my fucking soul.
“C’mon, Delacroix.” My alternate captain, Topher, bumps me as he skates by.
I rush my target.
The cheers and shouts of the crowd grow silent as my vision tunnels with rage. At the age of seventeen, Serena made the worst mistake, which caused the paralysis of one of her friends, her own death, and the heartbreak of too many people to count. But no one—NO ONE—is going to sully her memory because she was dumb enough to get behind the wheel, drunk.
“FUCK YOU.” The buzzer sounds, and a moment later, I make contact, slamming my shoulder into the disrespectful asshole’s back and launching him into the boards. Numb satisfaction floods me as I witness the cocky sonofabitch’s head ricochet off the glass. His helmet flies through the air as his body crumples to the ice.
In what seems like slow motion, I watch his head hit the cold, hard ice, bounce up, then collide again.
Horror and dread overwhelm me, and I force my legs to skate closer.
There is a collective gasp from everyone in attendance before chaos erupts. Whistles blowing, refs pointing and yelling. I don’t bother to brace myself when every Bedlam player not at their teammate’s side charges me, fists pummeling. I collapse, moving my head only to try to locate Isaiah. And when I spot him before my left eye has completely swollen shut, I swallow back the acid bile.
The doctors and medical staff surround him. The spinal board is brought out.
A tap on my helmet and I turn my attention to Topher, who shakes his head in disappointment and grabs my hand to help me up. Hellfire players hold back Bedlam players and try to talk them down, but they aren’t ready for the brawl to end.
I wipe my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth. Only two loose, not bad.
My legs are jelly as I skate toward Isaiah, but I can’t get close enough to see him. Dropping to my knees behind the medical staff I catch glimpses as they move and bend, attending to the man I just bashed. His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving. The medics are talking to him, but there’s only eerie stillness. Rivets of blood drip from my nose, covering the snow-colored ice with dots of red. Orders are being shouted back and forth from medic to trainer to medic. Refs huddle together in conference. In one fluid movement, Isaiah is lifted onto the board and strapped down. The crowd is on their feet. A woman in a Hellfire jersey holds her hand to her mouth. A guy in a gray puffer jacket and black skull cap watches with arms crossed over his chest, his face sullen. On the jumbotron, the scene plays out, as the medical team wheels Isaiah off the ice.
Game over, fans quietly shuffle out as a foreboding blankets the rink, stifling any merriment that was present moments before.
Hands on my knees, I let my head drop, and my shoulders droop. Specks of red have bled together, creating a morbid painting on the thick canvas of ice. Tracing the design with my eyes, I freeze when they reach the splotch of ruby where Isaiah’s head lay only mome
nts before. I squeeze my good eye shut, but when I open it, the spot is still there, shouting and screaming at me for letting anger consume me.
Questioning how I could lose control.
Blaming me for unknown injuries.
Demanding how I could place my parents in a position of shame, again.
After everything we’ve been through. Everything they’ve endured.
What the hell did I do?
CHAPTER ONE
10 years later
Ash
“The sautéed shrimp and quesadilla roles are flying off my tray,” one of the wait staff announces as he hustles into the kitchen.
I nod, flipping the shrimp sizzling in the pan. “Plate, Tone.”
“Yes, Chef.” Tony, one of the hotel kitchen staff, places a plate next to the stovetop. In one motion, I slide the shrimp on, arranging it precisely before sprinkling it with cilantro and garnishing the dish with Yucca petals.
“Go,” I direct. In seconds the plate is picked up by a kid who can’t be more than eighteen, in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and out the door. Music and laughter filter over the clanking of dishes and pans, and the shouts of a bustling kitchen. And for the hair of a second, a melancholy over what could have been impales me directly between my second and third rib bones.
Directing my attention to the four pans at various levels of readiness, I kick away the feeling. I have a great life. A life I don’t deserve. One day I hope to be worthy of it. Scanning the area, I calculate how much longer until the second round goes out. “Alejandro, where are we?”
“On schedule, Chef.” My sous chef stops his directions to the kitchen staff only long enough to answer me before he is back to multitasking. We’ve worked together for years, and Alejandro is more than my sous chef, he’s my best friend and one of only a few who know who I really am, and my history. My sister, Sophie—who stood by me when everyone else fled the moment my bright star became tarnished and dented because of my hotheaded youth and poor choices—is one of the others. But she still lives in Friendship, the small town where we grew up, and doesn’t come to Chicago enough.
Catering the annual Hockey Allies Bachelor Auction is one of the things I do to prove to myself that I’m not the stupid, entitled kid I once was. Donating my time and covering the cost of all the food is small, but the charity makes me feel like I’m connected to the sport I still love.
The sport that is disgusted by me.
Its disgust is warranted but stings, nonetheless.
“Ash,” Victor, the President of the Hockey Allies and one of the first people I met when I moved to Chicago, speed walks into the kitchen, deftly dodging an outgoing server carrying a tray of mini-nacho cups and guacamole.
“Sounds like it’s going well out there.” I jerk my chin toward the festivities while I begin working on the sopapilla cheesecakes for the dessert trays.
Victor’s head is shaking so vigorously, it looks like it’s going to bob off. “We have an issue.”
Immediately, I’m on the defensive. Alejandro, Victor, and I have planned the menu down to the last refried bean. The hockey world may sneer and boo every time they hear the name Asher Delacroix. But in the Chicago restaurant hemisphere, Ash Ariti is well-liked and respected. I’ve managed to create a restaurant that has a loyal customer base of locals. The place reminds me of the pizza shop my family has owned and operated in my hometown for three generations. I know my customers by name. I’ve seen love blossom and die over plates of brisket enchiladas. I’ve witnessed celebrations and disappointments at corner tables. I’ve watched as families grow with births and adoptions or merge through second marriages. My restaurant, Long Change, and the people in it, have become my de facto family. They’re the reason I survived retiring from hockey, in my prime, at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-four.
“Something wrong with the food?” I ask as I wave over one of the kitchen staff to take my place with the desserts.
In a very teen-girl and non-Victor-like way, Victor rolls his eyes. Having grown up with two sisters, I have to say I’m impressed with how far back they went. “Be serious. Of course, the food is outstanding. If they’d been on the ice, Pressgrove and Walker would be sitting in the penalty box after they nearly took out the poor server, fighting over the last shrimp.”
“Good.” My shoulders relax. No matter how long I’ve been in this business, there’s always a niggling in the back of my brain that one day people will no longer like my food. And if they don’t like the food, then what else would I have?
“No, not good, Ash. I have a situation.” Victor’s voice pitches, and his knuckles whiten as he clutches his clipboard to his chest. “Layne Coleman just pulled out of the auction.”
I can’t hide my surprise. Layne is one of the older players and is known for his hard work ethic and steadiness. In fact, he’s one of the few players who reached out to me after the incident and continued to stay in contact. Pulling out of the auction at the last minute is not who he is. “Is he okay?”
Victor waves his hand in the air. “I don’t know. Some kind of family drama.” He glances at his clipboard. “I can’t worry about his stuff now. I’ve got a gap to fill in the next…” He glances at his watch. “Hour. And I have less than an hour to find someone as high profile as Layne.”
The back of my neck prickles, and I pull the towel from my shoulder and wipe my hands. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“Just hear me out.” Victor scrambles to keep up with me as I stride to the opposite end of the kitchen.
Nervous energy surges through my body. It’s the same kind of energy I get before the dinner rush, or when we introduce a new item on the menu. The rush I used to get before the start of every game. I need to do something, and I need to get away from Victor and his hopeful puppy-dog eyes. Yes, he’s shooting me the same look my sweet little puppy, Cilantro, gives me when she sees me leaving the house without her. He knows I’m a sucker for the eyes, and he’s not even trying to act like he cares. He just keeps talking.
“With rumors that he may retire after the season, Layne was our big draw.”
“I’m sure you can make a couple of phone calls and get one of the All-Stars out here in no time.” I pick up tongs and begin plating the cheesecakes.
“C’mon, Ash. You know I wouldn’t ask if I had any other options.” Victor scoots around the prep station to follow me when I drop the tongs and turn to stare blankly into the commercial-sized refrigerator. “And with all the hype around the Hellfire’s outside game and speculation about whether you’ll show, I thought…”
I spin on my friend, who stumbles back, and I take a breath before I speak. At six-six, I tower over Victor and based on the widening of his eyes, I must look like the menacing defenseman I once was. “No one wants to see me. If anything, my presence at the auction will hurt the cause, and I refuse to spoil the sport any more than I have. Or ruin the reputation of this charity.”
Victor doesn’t move as I return to flogging the plates with the Sopapilla cheesecakes. I feel bad because Victor has been a good friend for a long time. He and the Hockey Allies have done a lot to help, not only gay players in the NHL, but gay players on the high school and college level. There have been many changes in the ten years since I left the ice, making it easier for guys to be true to who they are without the bullshit that can accompany being gay and out in a sport like hockey. I swear to God if I had been asked by a reporter why I chose hockey instead of figure skating one more time when I was in the league, I would have punched them in the face.
Probably best I retired when I did.
A hand on my shoulder brings my attention to Alejandro. Eyes watchful, he removes the tongs from my hand. “The cheesecakes are going to look like they’re three days old if you keep pounding the shit out of them.”
I step back and notice Victor has found a corner out of the way of the bustling kitchen. Phone to his ear, he’s rubbing his forehead, his mouth moving a hundred miles an hour.
“You kn
ow,” Alejandro begins with his low drawl, “Victor has never tried to exploit you.”
“I know.” I continue to watch as Victor’s typically smooth brow scrunches, his hand moving over the top of his head and down the back as it drops forward.
“And this year was projected to be bigger than the last five years combined.” Even with the chaos of the kitchen, Alejandro’s voice is steady and calm.
“Yep.”
“It’s been ten years, Ash.” When my friend’s eyes meet mine, they are filled with compassion but steeled with conviction. And I know I’m in trouble. “Maybe it’s time to trust that time does heal all wounds. Trust that the fans will forgive you. You’ve done a lot of good for hockey, for the LGBTQ+ community, and for Chicago. Maybe it’s time you let people know what you’ve been up to. Most importantly, maybe it’s time to forgive yourself.”
I hang my head because Alejandro has a way of kicking my ass without so much as a raised brow. I swear the guy could get Lucifer himself to change his ways. When I look back up at him, he juts his chin toward Victor, who is worrying his lip and staring at his phone, looking all sorts of dejected.
“Fine,” I huff as I start for Victor.
Alejandro smiles and nods his approval.
“But I’m finding new friends,” I call over my shoulder.
“I’ll make sure we post an ad.”
I chuckle even as my insides skitter and slice. For a decade, I have kept a low profile. When I moved to Chicago, I cut my hair and got rid of my beard, leaving me to look like less of the grizzly bear I was known as. Instead of going by Asher, as I had when I was in the league, I go by Ash. I even changed my last name from Delacroix to my mother’s maiden name, Ariti.
After finishing culinary school, I poured my heart and time into the restaurant, with only limited time for my small social circle, my charity work, and my dog. But now I’m forgoing the anonymity I’ve worked so hard to foster and protect, putting myself out there for ridicule and judgment.
It’s like living through Serena’s death all over again. Only this time on a much larger scale.
