by Kendall Ryan
I’m pleased that he’s sharing such personal information with me, because I have a strong feeling that he doesn’t share information about his past with a lot of people. I didn’t know he was adopted. It occurs to me that Jason definitely doesn’t know either, so this isn’t information Grant shares, even with his teammates.
“How old were you when you were adopted?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Six,” he says with a sigh. “You can go harder if you’d like.”
I smirk. Yes, I would like.
I dig my thumbs into his shoulders, now easing both sides of his broad back into a state of deep relaxation. More than with anyone else in my whole career, I’m loving the feel of this giant man melting beneath my fingertips. Maybe that’s the red wine talking.
“I don’t remember much about the foster homes I was in before,” he murmurs. “I was adopted by an older couple, and they raised me right. My dad was a huge hockey fan, so he signed me up for mini-mite camp when I was little. I worked hard at it because I wanted to make him proud. And now here I am.”
I smile, charmed by the unexpected insight I now have into Grant’s life. I dig the heel of my hand into a knot I can feel under his shoulder blade, and he releases another groan. Then I reluctantly give his back a little pat, letting him know that the massage has ended. After a moment, he sits back up, several inches closer to me now than he was before.
“I’m sure they’re very proud of you,” I say, my gaze wandering lazily over his facial features. Dark lashes . . . full lips. A chiseled jaw.
“They were, yeah.” Grant’s eyes are suddenly downcast.
Oh no.
“Were?” I ask carefully as I hand him his wineglass, and his warm fingers brush against mine.
He nods and takes a sip. “They were older when they adopted me. Dad passed six years ago, and Mom followed almost three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my heart aching for this man who has experienced so much loss. Just like me. I open my mouth to tell him about the loss of my own mother, but think better of it. Another time. I don’t want to bring the conversation back to me when I’m just starting to learn more about him.
“That’s all right. It’s been a while, and time heals, or whatever it is they say,” he says softly, and I swear there’s almost a smile on his lips when his eyes meet mine. “Thank you, though.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know the timeline of it all, but did they get to see you make it to the big leagues?” I feel a little embarrassed that I don’t know how long Grant has been a professional hockey player. Jason always gave me shit for not paying close attention to the league, even when I tried my best to follow a sport I know so little about.
“Don’t apologize,” Grant says with a chuckle.
Okay, now that is definitely a smile. Point one for Ana.
“Yes, they saw it all. I was drafted straight out of high school, and I’ve been at this for . . . shit, nearly fifteen years. Sometimes, especially around the rookies, I feel like the old man on the team at thirty-two.” He shakes his head a little mournfully, and I cover my giggle with one hand.
This is the most I’ve ever heard Grant talk. Who would have thought? Get some wine in the man and get my hands on him, and he’s suddenly an open book, a book I’m particularly interested in reading.
“Since you’re being so open, old man,” I say, cocking my head to one side, “would you let me take a bubble bath in that big tub of yours sometime?”
Grant’s cheekbones flush a little. “Sure,” he says after clearing his throat, his eyes suddenly trained on the wall behind me. “It’s yours. Never once used the thing.”
“Really? Thank you!”
I’m about to lean forward and peck him on the cheek when the timer on the oven beeps, popping me out of this weird bubble of intimacy we’ve created. Instead, I just shoot him a sly smile before scurrying off to the kitchen to plate our food.
“Do you need any help in there?” Grant calls from the next room.
Truthfully, I might, but I’d rather take a moment to catch my breath. My reflection in the kitchen window’s glass shows the extent of my red wine blush . . . now creeping onto my clavicle. You’re not on a date, Ana! Get ahold of yourself.
“No, I’m okay! Just give me a second.”
It ends up taking several seconds, but soon enough I’m armed with two full plates of piping-hot lasagna, toasted garlic bread, and garden salads. I set the plates down on the dining table and take a seat as Grant digs in. I have a mouth full of arugula when he starts the conversation again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nod, already anticipating that this won’t be an easy one to answer. No one ever starts an easy question with a precursor like that. They just ask the question.
“Do you love him?”
I swallow. Woof! That is a hard one. I take another long gulp of red wine, buying time.
Do I try to preserve formalities? Or do I tell the truth?
Grant’s eyes are locked on mine, seeking the answer I’ve yet to spill. I can’t bear to lie when he’s been so honest with me tonight, so I take a deep breath, averting my gaze to the floor.
“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. At one time, I did. But after everything that’s happened, I don’t think I do now.”
“So, why did you stay with him?” Grant asks, his voice equal parts irritated and polite.
“Huh-uh,” I say, wagging one finger in the air. “That’s not how this works. I get the next question. Then you can ask yours.”
Grant cocks an eyebrow at me, clearly on to my game. I already asked him tons of questions before dinner began. But he concedes with a smirk, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
“Hit me.”
“All right, ten questions. You already used your first one, so mine is . . . who’s your favorite guy on the team?”
His expression morphs from amusement to thoughtfulness as he takes a big bite of lasagna. He really thinks about it, smiles, and swallows.
“Jordie. Jordan, the rookie. That might be weird, since I’ve known him for the least amount of time. But that might be the reason why I like him.” Grant chuckles, his laughter bubbling from somewhere deep within.
Oh man. I really, really like that laugh.
“Plus, he wants to learn. He’s hungry to improve and takes advice well, which is nice. I like feeling useful, I guess.”
Nodding, I consider this. “Would you ever consider coaching after your playing career ends? You could get more of that useful feeling, helping the younger guys learn.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’ve thought it about it, yeah.”
“Okay. Your turn.” I pick up the wine bottle and replenish Grant’s now empty glass.
“Why did you stay with Jason?” he asks unflinchingly.
“Wow, I was hoping you’d forget that one,” I say with a little breathless laugh. “You’re a real hard hitter with these questions, aren’t you?”
“Is that a question?” Grant asks, leaning forward with the challenge.
My cheeks grow warmer with each passing second. He’s a lot more playful than I would have guessed from our first few interactions. I guess those were under less-than-playful circumstances.
“Nope,” I say, popping the “p” with my lips.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a moment. Without looking away, he asks again, “So, why did you stay with him?”
I take a moment to think it over, trying to cram two years of emotional turmoil into a simple answer. That’s just not possible. I can only do my best to explain how I’m feeling at this very moment. I take a sharp breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it. Then I meet his eyes.
“First, I’m not with him any longer. I just need to tell him that it’s over, and I plan to do that. Tonight.”
Grant searches my face, looking for a dent in the new armor I’ve recently donned. He won’t find any, however, because I’ve made up my mind.
I’m not happy with Jason, an
d he’s clearly not happy with me. I was afraid to leave him for so long, terrified of his reaction and daunted by the possibility of living my life alone again. But the reality is, I’ve been alone in this relationship for a year now. The physical abuse was only one part of a larger, more problematic codependence. And, truth be told, I’m ready to cut myself out of it.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Grant finally says, his voice low and steady.
Relieved, I smile up at him. “My turn. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue. What’s yours?”
“Purple. Your favorite kind of cuisine?”
“Greek. Yours?”
“Italian,” I say, sheepishly nodding to the remnants of lasagna on my plate.
“Makes sense,” he says with a nod. “Next question.”
“What number is this?”
“Well, it was four, but with that question it’s five, and it’s my turn.”
“Damn!” I cry, leaning into a full, belly laugh. I hold my belly, realizing I’ve consumed too much pasta to be laughing this hard.
“What made you get into massage therapy?” he asks, his brows raised in an open expression of curiosity.
“I studied kinesthesiology in college and fell into it pretty naturally. I used to give my parents massages, and I’ve always fed off that pleasure I can give people with my hands. It feels good to help people relax,” I say with a shrug. “There’s nothing too deep about it.”
“Noted,” Grant says with a nod.
My turn.
“When’s the last time you went on a date?” I ask, pointing at him with an accusatory index finger.
His eyes go comically wide for a moment before squinting with difficulty.
“Wow,” I finally say. “It’s taking you a long time to answer that one. Has it been that long?”
“Is that your final question?” Grant asks, and I roll my eyes, giving him a vague get on with it gesture. “Yes, it’s been a really long time.”
“Your turn.” I motion for him to go ahead, pushing my plate away.
“When did your mom pass?” Grant asks, his voice suddenly solemn.
How did he . . . I stare at him blankly for a moment before responding.
“Almost fifteen years ago,” I say, my voice a little tighter than usual. “She died in a car accident when I was young, late at night. I still have trouble sleeping when it storms.”
Grant nods, his big hands clasped before him. “I’m sorry to pry.”
“That’s okay,” I say, the tension in my throat dissipating. “It’s only fair after I grilled you about your parents earlier. What were their names?”
“Bob and Linda,” Grant says. “How about yours?”
“Loretta was my mother, and my dad is Pat. He’s a big football fan. Not so much hockey.”
“Ahh.” Grant chuckles, shaking his head from side to side.
Suddenly, this really does feel like a date. I now know a lot more about Grant . . . probably more than his teammates do.
What did I think I was accomplishing by suggesting this game?
Shame creeps behind my heart and wraps itself around me with a tight grip. I shouldn’t be having this much fun with another man when my life is in shambles . . . when I still haven’t officially ended things with Jason.
“Well, we haven’t quite made it to ten, but if I don’t wash these plates now, I never will,” I say with exaggerated pep. I stand, shaking out the leg that’s nearly fallen asleep. Pins and needles, ouch! I wince, limping, as I pick up our empty plates.
“Let me take care of that,” Grant says, taking the plates from my hands. “You made the food, so I can do the clean-up.”
Once again, I’m left empty-handed, thinking about words like chivalry and sexy. I blink, taming my grin into a small smirk. “That seems like a decent arrangement.”
When he’s almost out of the room, I spin, a question on my lips. “Hey, Grant?”
He turns around. “Yeah?”
“Can I ask you a question? Outside of the game.” I clasp my fingers together before me, anxiously twisting them around each other.
Grant relaxes his stance, his face open and listening. “Sure,” he says with a short nod.
“Any news on the suspension?”
Grant’s shoulders heave and he lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah. It’ll be announced in the morning.” His lips part with an unasked question, and after only a moment, he gives in. “Have you talked to him yet?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to reach out tonight.”
“Okay,” Grant says, but his gaze shifts from mine to the plates in his hands. “Let me know if you need anything.” And with that, he leaves the room.
I take a deep, uneven breath. Tonight has been all fun and games, but now it’s time to remember myself. Remember my life. Remember the mess I still have to clean up, even if I wasn’t the one to make it.
I walk the short distance down the hall to the guest room and close the door behind me, resting my forehead against the cool wooden surface. In the kitchen, the water is running, a loud and steady stream that Grant is no doubt using to wash our dinner dishes. I have the time and privacy to call Jason and finally end things.
But when I pick up my phone to place the call, my hands are shaking. The idea of hearing Jason’s voice and the inevitable screaming match that will follow is something I don’t want to live through ever again. Maybe it’s immature, or even cowardly, but I’m going to text him. I need control in this situation, and I don’t trust myself to keep my cool with Jason’s voice in my ear.
Jason, I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s important that I do this. I can’t be with you anymore. Our relationship has caused me more damage than good, and I need to find the good in my life again. I only wish you well.
I read the message twenty times, editing and tweaking until I’m about to lose my damn mind.
Frustrated, I flop down on the bed, sinking deep into the plush duvet. Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to imagine Jason’s face when he opens this message after twenty-four hours of being ignored, and a suspension from his one true love, hockey, looming in the near future. The hurt and betrayal etched deep into his eyes . . . the tight line of his lips, holding back a curse. The hot, salty tears I’ve spent years wiping away.
No, Ana. He’s not your responsibility any longer.
I open my eyes, lift my phone, and press SEND.
I wait for the revelatory moment, the sensation of blissful freedom, but it doesn’t come. I’m officially a single woman now, but I feel exactly the same. The corners of my eyes prick with tears, even as I smile. And when my phone vibrates with a call from Jason, I turn it off, setting it onto the nightstand without so much as a second thought.
Curling into a ball, I take yet another deep breath. I hear faint footsteps in the hall as Grant moves from the kitchen to his own bedroom. The soft padding of his socks against the hardwood floor fills me with a comfort I’m only recently beginning to recognize.
I’m safe here.
Tears slide freely down my cheeks as I laugh quietly, recounting our strange evening of conversation. Grant is stubborn and a little grumpy. He’s also wealthy, handsome, and single, which is obviously none of my business. But I can tell, underneath all that gruffness, Grant really is a good guy.
And I could use some goodness in my life.
6
* * *
Second Chances
Grant
Waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, I lean one hip against the counter and scrub a hand over my face.
Last night with Ana took an unexpected turn. We had dinner and some wine, which was fine . . . until she prodded me into opening up. It’s something I rarely do, even with people I’ve been friends with for years. I told Ana things that even my own teammates don’t know about me. I told her about my parents, my childhood, asked her about her relationship . . .
That was stupid on my part. There was no point bonding with her over some stupid game of
twenty questions. She isn’t going to be here long. Most likely, she’ll eventually go back to Kress. And even then, I couldn’t bring myself to regret the conversation. Yeah, I revealed more than I wanted to, but just the chance to keep her big brown eyes directed at me had felt pretty damn good.
If that makes me a pussy, so be it. I haven’t enjoyed the conversation of a woman in a long time. And even back then, none of them could hold a candle to Ana. Sweet. Generous. Kind. Beautiful, though she doesn’t know it, which is really the best kind of beauty.
I enjoyed a handful of years in my youth where I sampled what was offered. Puck bunnies, or whatever you want to call them—the women eager to share the bed of a professional hockey player just to say they’ve done it. But after a while, it started to get stale, because it wasn’t really me they were interested in. It was fleeting, carnal pleasure they were after, the chance to say they’d fucked a hockey player. They didn’t ask about my childhood or my goals, or what I want out of life after hockey. But Ana did.
And, God, that lasagna . . .
After pouring myself a large mug of coffee, I carry it into the living room, grabbing my phone on the way, and then settle onto the couch. Just as I’m following up on an appointment I made yesterday, the front door opens to reveal Ana—dressed in a bright pink fleece sweater and black yoga pants. Hobbes barrels in between her legs and runs straight for me.
“Hi.” She smiles when she sees me.
“Morning. There’s coffee.” I nod toward the kitchen.
“Perfect. It’s chilly outside.”
Rising briefly, I turn on the gas fireplace, which flickers to life with a soft whoosh. I rarely use the thing, but figure if she’s cold, why not?
Ana’s smile grows as she carries in her coffee to join me on the couch. “Oh, this is so cozy.”
Hobbes flops to the floor with a huff in front of the fireplace.
“So I leave later today for a game on the East Coast,” I say, swallowing a sip of coffee and looking at her over the top of my mug.
She nods. “The team flies out to New York. I know. I’ll go stay with Georgia.”
