by Chantal Mer
When I come down, I’m unsure if I heard what I think I heard. Or if it was my orgasm-induced mind that produced some kind of orgasmic hallucination. I collapse, face first, onto the bed, and remain silent, welcoming the weight and heat of Isaiah on top of me. Both of our chests heave in sync, sweat pools where my back and ass meet, my hair damp at my temples.
He rolls from my back, moving me with him, so we’re spooning. Soft lips on my shoulder, soft caresses on my torso, soft whispers on my neck. “I love you.”
My world shatters only to be put back together by three little words. My heart glides from my chest to his because he owns it.
And still, I remain silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Isaiah
Snow falls steadily, coating the streets and sidewalks. Thankfully, Chicagoans aren’t deterred by a little snow; if we were, we’d never do anything but sit in our houses from October through March. With the event less than twelve hours away, I’m up early, showered and dressed, and it’s just after six. From the smell of it, Ash is up too.
I make my way into his kitchen, Grinder and Cila both sit expectantly at his feet, while they beg for some of the bacon currently sizzling in a pan. Feet encased in fuzzy Heat Miser slippers—a gift from Sophie—red and black checked flannel pajama bottoms and a Houston Hellfire hoodie, he expertly flips one pancake then another and another on the griddle.
I slide my arms around his waist, tucking my hands under his clothing—the heat of his skin warming more than my fingers—and relish the coarse hair of his chest and abdomen. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day.” He plates the pancakes, and I step back, giving him space to maneuver. “Sit down and eat. You’ll be busy all day and probably won’t get a chance to have a decent meal.”
On the table, there’s a vase with a single red rose. Cut up melon and strawberries are in crystal bowls, and coffee is steaming from red mugs. “This is a lot like our first date.”
Ash smirks. “That wasn’t a date.”
“Maybe not to you.” I grin and sit. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” I kiss him.
He stifles a yawn. “I figured since we won’t get a chance to do anything tonight, I’d make breakfast special.”
“You should be sleeping.”
He didn’t get home until after midnight, and we were up late talking and…other things.
“And miss seeing you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I feel bad because I didn’t do anything special. Valentine’s Day has never been a big thing for me. Which is one of the reasons having our biggest fundraiser of the year that day, turning it into kind of an anti-Valentine’s celebration, has worked for me. “I didn’t do anything special or get anything for you.”
“You don’t need to.” He yawns again and sips his coffee.
He may say I don’t need to, but suddenly I feel like a huge ass for not having prepared anything special for this amazing man.
It’s been two days since I told him I love him, and he still hasn’t said anything about it. I’m trying to be patient because I know Ash, and I know he needs time. I haven’t said it again, but maybe I need to do something more to show him how I feel.
Tomorrow. Once we’ve made it through the fundraiser, and I prove to the board that my personal life is no one’s damn business, I’ll show Ash I’m more than just talk.
Four hours to go, and my staff and I are checking and double-checking to ensure tonight will go off without a hitch. I count the tables for a second time and check them off my list. “Okay, Bianca, once the coverings are down, we can set these up.”
“Gotcha.” My assistant, and the miracle worker who keeps all of us running, consults her iPad. “Long Change should be here any minute.”
My heartbeat quickens at knowing I’ll catch a glimpse of Ash. My team and I have been working our asses off for the last week.
The constant pushback from the board of directors has worn on me, but no more than not telling Ash about it. I should have the night after the board meeting, when Paul, the president of the board, announced his concerns about how Ash’s involvement could adversely affect our fundraising efforts. But he’d spent the day cooking, for me, and I didn’t want anything to ruin our evening.
I should have told him when the media circus came to town a couple of days ago. Instead, I wanted to prove to him that what people say or think doesn’t matter, only what we feel matters.
I’ve wanted to tell him because I appreciate his perspective when sharing things that have happened throughout my day. And I like that he’s sharing with me. That I know his fears for the dishwasher who was picked up on his second DUI, and how Ash has offered to pay for a treatment program and told the guy his job will be there for him when he returns. That I know how he worries about his sister, and Alejandro, and everyone who works for him like they’re his responsibility.
But telling Ash about the board’s reservations, and some of the cancellations we’ve had since the media’s speculation, will only reinforce his own thoughts and feelings. The selfish bastard that I am, I’m not ready for him to leave. Not prepared to deal with the real world, because whenever Ash and I are together, it’s just the two of us and our dogs, with an occasional Facetime from Sophie. It’s safe and incredible and unreal. I don’t want it to end, and I want to hear him say he loves me back. Because I think he does. Everything he does shows me he shares my feelings, but I want his acknowledgment. I want his words.
The rest of the afternoon flies by in a swirl of preparations, tasks, and small fires that need to be put out. I haven’t seen Ash, but I know he’s here because the smells floating from the crappy snack bar kitchen are more than nacho cheese and French fries. The deliciousness is rich with cumin and chili powder, mixed with the mesquite of the brisket.
With only thirty minutes until people begin showing up, I search out my man. If I can get five minutes with him, I’ll be able to make it through the night.
I hear them before I see them. Actually, I hear my dad’s voice, controlled and contained, but leaving no room for disagreement or discussion. “…don’t know what you’re trying to prove. You’ve done enough to ruin his life, now you’re jeopardizing everything he’s worked his butt off for.”
When I round the corner, Ash’s back is to me, stiff, like he’s standing at attention. He’s half in the back entrance, halfway out carrying a foil-covered pan of something that must have been warming in the catering truck that’s parked. My dad’s hands are in the pockets of his slate gray overcoat. Snowflakes speckle the top of his head, making it appear that he has more salt than pepper. His face is grim. His posture of the I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me variety.
Ash says nothing.
“Do you know how many people canceled once they heard you two were connected? Has he told you that the Board is entertaining talks of replacing him as CEO? The program he’s put his blood sweat and tears into may be ripped from him because of you.”
“I didn’t know, sir.” Ash’s voice is restrained, respectful, somber.
Shit. “That’s enough, Dad.” When I move to stand next to Ash, both he and my father start.
But when Ash starts again at my touch, my patience with my dad, the board, and people in general, is robbed.
Ash lifts the huge pan he’s holding. “I have to get this to the kitchen.” He nods to my dad but refuses to make eye contact with me. “Nice seeing you, Mr. Blake.” Slipping from my touch, he moves around me in such a way that there is absolutely no room for any contact, accidental or intentional.
I glare at my dad, who watches Ash through slitted eyes with the intensity of a lioness protecting her cubs. It’s only when Ash is out of sight that my father meets my glare. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what, Dad? Like I’m a grown-ass man who doesn’t need or want your interference? Like I can handle my personal life and my professional life without you? Like I’m so pissed at you right now that I’m d
ebating on whether or not I’m ever going to speak to you again?”
“Yes, like that.” He’s so damn cool, it’s infuriating.
To say I’m seething would be an understatement. Every muscle is taught and tight. The pulse in my neck is going to explode, and my skin is going to melt from my bones. I can’t deal with him right now.
Instead of screaming at my father any more than I already have, I spin on my heel and walk away. In search of my man and ready to do damage control.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Asher
After my run-in with Booker, I managed to avoid Isaiah. Thankfully, he was too busy to track me down, and I was able to get out of there and head to the restaurant, leaving two of my catering staff to finish the cleanup before the end of the event. Helping with the bar, busing, and washing dishes was a welcomed distraction from the loop playing in my head of Booker Blake, telling me I’m shit and ruining his son’s life. Again.
Isaiah and I had agreed previously that we’d sleep at our own places because of the craziness of Valentine’s Day. So far, I’ve avoided his texts and calls. But as I read over the morning paper, sipping my coffee and stroking Cila—who’s trying to finagle a bite of my chocolate-filled croissant—I know I’ll have to face him today.
One, because he won’t let me hide. And two, he deserves my honesty.
Barking, Cila hops from my lap seconds before I hear the key slide into the lock of the front door and twist.
“Hey, sweet girl. Is Daddy home?” Isaiah says to Cila.
“In here,” I call but remain where I am.
The thud of boots, then the creak of the floorboards, followed by the clipping feet of Cila and the much slower trudge of Grinder, are daggers to my soul.
“Hey.” He pulls out the chair and sits, his knee brushing against mine.
“Hey.” I watch as the long graceful fingers I love so much pinch off a corner of the croissant I’m not eating.
“Are we going to talk about last night and my busybody dad?”
“He’s looking out for you.”
“Maybe so, but he had no right to speak to you like that.” He reaches for my hand, but I curl my fingers into my palm and pretend not to notice the hurt that crosses over his face.
“He’s right. He didn’t say anything I haven’t already said to you or thought about.” I slide back and stalk to the coffee pot, pouring myself more as I work up the courage to do what I know must be done. “You should have told me about the board.”
“To what point?” He sounds pissed. “To have you tell me that you’re a detriment? That we should end things for my own good?”
I point my stare at him. “Yes.”
“Jesus, Ash.” When he shoots up, his chair hits the floor. Instead of picking it up, he kicks it to the side and stomps to me. Inches from my face, the scent of mint and coffee hit as he pokes my chest. “When are you going to stop playing the role of the martyr?”
That gets my attention and pisses me off. “When are you going to grow up and realize that the choices you make have a ripple effect?”
“You’ve been looking for an excuse to bail since the beginning.” He steps closer, his breathing ragged, but his voice calmer, softer. “I need to know you’re here for the long haul.”
I hold my breath before forcing out the words. “Guess it’s better that you find out now, I’m not.”
His face crumples, and he steps back. He looks devastated.
Looks disappointed in me.
I want to pull him to me. Tell him I’m a liar. Tell him he’s the only person I’ve ever considered doing the long haul with. Tell him I love him.
But I don’t. I stand rooted to the floor.
“I see.” He nods, reaches into his pocket, and looks around. “Don’t think I have anything here. If you find anything, just donate it.” Hand on the counter, he drops the key I had given him to make it easier for him to come over with my crazy schedule. “C’mon Grinder.”
Though I don’t want to, I follow him to the front door, needing to see him, be near him, for as long as possible. Grinder shuffles over, and I scoop up a whining Cila. The traitor that she is, she’ll follow Grinder anywhere.
He stops just outside the door, pinning me with those beautiful brown eyes. “I thought if I loved you enough, eventually you’d love yourself.” He shakes his head. “I was stupid. Any Psych 101 class or self-help book will tell you. If you don’t love yourself, you’ll never be able to receive love.” His half-smile is cheerless. “Sappy but true.”
Giving a gentle tug on Grinder’s leash, he turns away. I watch as they walk past the elevators and exit down the emergency stairwell.
The thud of the door closing is a lifetime sentence in the penalty box, watching the game I love but not being able to play.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Isaiah
“We’ll send you a list of players who are willing to participate.” Scott, one of the associate producers of Hockey Tonight, prattles on.
“Great,” I say as I fling my pen between my fingers and try to look calm and confident over the video call.
The truth is, I’ve been edgy for the last three weeks. Once the rough numbers from the fundraiser came in, showing we raised more money than we did last year—not a lot more but enough to shut up the assholes on the board—I’ve wanted to call Ash. Tell him that our being together didn’t affect my work. If anything, it’s helped. Had it not been for the exposure Ash and I received from the media blitz, I wouldn’t be on this tedious call now.
“And if there are communities you think would be interested in working with your organization, we can tie that in, too.”
“I’ll send you a list of communities who have contacted us and are on our waiting list. If we can get players who are already connected to a neighborhood in some way, that will help with start-up and sustainability.”
“I love it,” Rod, the Executive Producer, exclaims.
Everyone’s happy.
The hypocrites on the board are happy.
My dad is happy.
Scott is happy.
Rod is happy.
I am most certainly not happy. And it’s because I had to go and fall for one big, broken hunk of a man.
“Looks like we’re starting to lose you,” Scott says.
I refocus on the men on the screen. “Sorry, I’ve—”
Paul interrupts, “No need to apologize, Isaiah. You’re busy, and we’ve taken up enough of your time. The rest can be done via email.”
“Great. I’ll talk to you later.” I click end before either of them can say anything more.
I stare at the half-eaten turkey sandwich with the wilted lettuce and mushy tomato. If Ash had made the sandwich, it would be some mouthwatering work of art. I should never have told him I love him.
Who falls in love in a month?
I knew better. I knew I’d scare him shitless by saying those words.
Tossing the crappy sandwich in the waste can, I get up from my desk in search of something to do. My phone pings with a message from Slater—one of the many guys who have been checking on me since news of Ash and I broke—but wanting to avoid all things Ash, I don’t answer it. Maybe I’ll run down to the community center and see how things are going with the clinics we’ve been running. I can get some ice time with the kids once they’re out of school and be gone before my dad shows up to teach his clinic.
Grabbing my coat from the hook on the back of my door, I stop short, almost colliding with my dad.
So much for avoiding Dad.
Hands on my shoulders, he steadies me as I jerk back. “Where you off to?”
“The community center.” Shrugging into my coat, I walk around him. I’m still pissed at him. Though my mother has called me every day since the fundraiser explaining my father’s motives and telling me holding on to anger only hurts me, I’m still not ready to forgive.
And he acts like nothing happ
ened. Just like he responded when I came out.
Dad follows me. “I’ll come with you.”
“No need.”
I nod to Bianca and tell her where I’ll be for the rest of the day and try to ignore my father.
“You look like hell.”
He’s hard to ignore.
“Thanks.”
When we hit the sidewalk, my dad touches my arm. “Isaiah.” He says my name as if doing so pains him. “Son, what’s going on?”
His question jabs me in the side. Like he doesn’t know…
Hands fisted at my sides; I spin on him. “You ruined the best thing that’s happened to me. You butted your damn nose in where it didn’t belong and scared away a good man.”
“If he was so good, he wouldn’t have been scared away so easily.” No remorse, not an ounce of regret or concern for what he did.
I get in my dad’s face, my adrenaline pumping fast and furious because my fury is so great. I don’t even consider that I’ve been raised to respect my elders, always. Or that my dad could easily kick my ass. “Ash did what he thought was in my best interest. His concern with how being associated with him would affect me has always been at the forefront of his mind.” I throw my hands up and stomp to my car. “Ash is one of our biggest donors. Has been since our inception. It was Ash who was our big anonymous donor that first year. Without him, we would have floundered for years, maybe even folded before we could realize our vision of bringing hockey to underserved communities.”
I’m on a roll, so I keep up my tirade. “And you know what?” My limbs are shaking, my voice is raised, and I probably look like a crazy man, but I don’t care. “I deserved his hit. I was an asshole, calling him and his dead sister names because I wanted to prove I was deserving. Wanted to prove I was good. Wanted to prove…”
I swipe at the tear that squeaks from the corner of my eye, but it’s too late. My dad spots it.
“Isaiah…” His powerful arms pull me in. Reminding me of the hug he gave me when I was eight and cried after seeing racist fans boo and throw beer and food at him when he skated onto the ice after being announced as part of the starting lineup. “I’m sorry.”
