by Lynda Aicher
“Our paths are set, and they’re going in different directions.” She glanced down, lips clamped tight. “U of M doesn’t have a sports psychology program. I need to leave the state.”
“Months from now,” he insisted. There was no reason to cut things off right away.
“And then what? Time doesn’t change the outcome in this situation. I need to have my own thing. Can’t you understand that?”
What he understood was nothing had changed between them when he’d been certain things had. He scooped up his things and was across the great room, a mumbled “I’m going to shower” tossed out.
She could think whatever she wanted. He had to get away before he spilled his heart for nothing. This was a huge wake-up call. He’d let himself get comfortable with her. Love her. But like the game, his position wasn’t secure. He’d been stupidly lulled into thinking it was.
Would he ever learn? Twenty-four years old, and he was still searching for someone to keep him steady. He’d opened up to her more than he’d ever done with anyone. Taken a huge leap forward, only to have her withdraw. Again.
He set the water to scalding hot and let it sluice over him. This was good. He convinced himself of that and reset his direction accordingly. He wasn’t going to chase her. A good player had to change his game on the fly. Getting distance from Samantha would keep his head where it was supposed to be.
On his career. Just like she said it was.
*
Samantha closed and locked the door behind her, tossed her bag next to the stairs, hung her coat on the hooks and sat down on the bottom step to remove her boots, setting them among the multiple others on the rubber mat.
The sound of a TV show drifted down the hall, indicating at least one of her housemates was home. It’d been almost a month since she’d spent the night here.
A month. She’d been playing house with Dylan for a month.
She buried her hands in her hair and closed her eyes. The exhaustion she’d refused to allow all day finally sank over her. It pressed down on her back and threatened to flatten her into the floor.
Her mind had run on overdrive all day. Back and forth, over and over everything from her first encounter with Dylan to when she’d left his house this morning, all of her accumulated stuff shoved in her bag.
“Hey.”
Sam jerked up. “Hey, Lace.”
“I thought I heard someone come in.” Lacy frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sam reassured her as she stood and headed toward her friend. “Just tired and hungry.”
“I don’t think we have much to eat.” Lacy turned around and led the way to the kitchen, her TV show forgotten.
Sam opened her cupboard and eyed the meager collection of nonperishable items. Her prolonged absence meant she had nothing fresh in this house. It was all at Dylan’s.
“This will do.” She grabbed a box of mac-and-cheese from the shelf and dug a pot out of a drawer. The kitchen, like the house, was dated. A two-story built in the early fifties. The hardwood floors and dark wood molding gave it an old-style charm. It was clearly a college rental though. Years of use were scarred into the counters and walls.
“The dinner of champions,” Lacy joked. She took a seat on a bar stool at the edge of the counter and rested her chin on her hand. “So you’re sleeping here tonight?”
“What do you mean?” Sam filled the pot with water, hedging. “I still live here.” She turned around from the sink in time to catch Lacy’s eye roll.
“And what about the last thirty nights?”
She started the burner and ran out of things to do while she waited for the water to boil. “Dylan’s doing fine. He doesn’t need my help anymore.” She gave Lacy another smile and turned away. Water. She needed something to drink.
“Really?” Lacy asked. “But he hasn’t really needed you there for a few weeks. Right?” The teasing note didn’t lighten the hit to Sam.
She took a gulp of cold water and let the liquid soothe her dry throat. Maybe he hadn’t really needed her at all. At least not the way she’d thought he might. She came back to the stove and watched the pot of water. Boil, damn it.
“Did something happen?” Lacy prodded, concern softening her voice.
Sam swallowed. After the night they’d shared, how close she’d felt to Dylan… She’d been shocked back to reality with one quick look at his list. One focused solely on his career.
“Your water’s boiling.” Lacy pointed at the stove and sure enough, it was. She waited for Sam to pour the noodles into the water. “You want to talk about it?” she asked when Sam set the box aside. “You two seemed to be getting along fine the last I saw you. Did something change?”
Sam rolled her head on her shoulders, willing the muscles to loosen. They didn’t. “It’s nothing.” She stirred the noodles and ignored the cinching in her chest that called her a liar. “He needs to focus on his career, and I have my own to worry about.”
“Hmm.” The low sound wasn’t one of agreement.
I should’ve gone straight to bed.
“You fell for him, didn’t you?”
The question was soft and prodding and reminiscent of Meg when she’d asked a similar question a month ago. It was full of gentle inquiry that Sam couldn’t answer. Her heart was too sore and tender from pondering that very thing all day.
Her throat burned, tears too close. She busied herself draining the noodles and mixing ingredients to finish the meal she was no longer hungry for. Lacy’s prolonged silence didn’t calm her at all. It just gave her more time to stew and think.
And she was tired of thinking. She always had a plan, a next objective to achieve and a way to get there. Dylan did too, and she was nowhere on it. Seeing his list had been the reminder she’d needed to get her own plan back on track.
“You have a stack of mail waiting.” Lacy pointed to a pile of envelopes on the small table next to her. “Did you remember to get your commencement form in?”
Sam shook her head and took her plate of food into the TV room. “I’m not going.”
“What?”
The shocked exclamation had her wincing. She’d expected that though. She set her plate and glass on the coffee table then went back to grab her mail. Lacy stood back, her gaping mouth saying everything.
Sam immediately pulled an envelope out of her mail when she saw the graduate school logo and ripped it open as she sat down. Her heart raced and she took a shallow breath before pulling the papers out. She’d applied for the special accelerated summer class that was offered after she’d received her acceptance letter to the master’s program. Before Dylan had been injured.
The confirmation that she’d been accepted was now bittersweet. Her hands started to shake, the sudden bump of adrenaline clashing with her low sugar and tiredness. She set the paper down and dropped her head into her hands.
“What is it?” Lacy sat down beside her on the couch. When Sam didn’t answer, she plucked the paper off the table and read it. Sam watched her shock grow. “But this starts in four weeks.”
Two weeks before classes officially ended here. “I know.” She sat back, food forgotten. “I got approval from my department to finish early if I got accepted into this program.”
“But how?”
“I only have one class left. I just have to complete my course work, including the final, before I go.”
Lacy’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Is this what you want?”
It had been. No. It was. It was part of her plan. “Yes.” She gave a determined nod.
“I thought everyone wanted to do the commencement thing. I mean, it’s what we’ve all worked for. That final hurrah that said we accomplished our goal.”
She understood her friend’s bafflement. Walking across that stage to get her diploma had never been her real goal though. School had been a necessity that enabled her to play hockey longer. Now it was the fallback she was going to finish as fast as possible so she could get on with a new c
areer.
“All I need is my diploma. The rest is just fanfare.”
Lacy shook her head in a slow movement of disagreement. “I’ll never understand you.”
Sam’s chuckle was a weak agreement. “I don’t know if I ever will either.”
“What does Rylie think?”
“I don’t know.”
Lacy’s eyes went wide. “He doesn’t know?”
Sam picked up her plate and shoved a forkful of noodles into her mouth. She swallowed without tasting it. “Not about this new development.” She’d actually forgotten about it herself.
“Are you going to talk to him about it?”
“Why would it matter to him?” Her heart pinched at her false blindness. She’d seen the pain in his eyes, his defensive retreat. She’d hurt him, just like she’d warned she would. But he hadn’t disagreed with her.
“Umm, maybe because you’re seeing him.”
“It’s not serious,” she insisted. She squeezed her eyes closed and bit her tongue to hold back the volley of curses that wanted to fall free. Her eyes stung with tears, all waiting for the chance to show her pain.
They’d gotten too serious, that was the problem. Their timing wasn’t right though and maybe it was that simple. Now she had an out that would let her escape before it hurt anymore. Maybe this was a sign—a gift—she needed to follow.
Lacy set the forgotten plate on the table then wrapped her arms around Sam in a comforting hug. A hug Sam hadn’t realized she’d needed until it surrounded her. She rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, not even trying to resist the offered comfort. She blinked away the tears and swallowed back the urge to let them fall out of fear they wouldn’t stop.
“What’s going on?”
In the safety of her friend’s arms, Sam took a shot at being honest. “He’s completely focused on his recovery, like he needs to be.” Except for last night, when they’d been focused on each other.
“You don’t think he’ll care?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sat back on her own side of the couch. She’d repeated those words in her head so many times they should be true by now. “He has his career, and I have mine. I know hockey, and it’ll always be the most important thing in his life. I have my own goals, my own life to think about.”
Lacy stared at her, searching. “Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”
Sam choked back a strangled laugh and thought the question through until she found the truth buried deep in her heart. “I can’t live someone else’s dream. Not again.” It had only led to heartache and disappoint with her dad, even if she’d wanted the dream too. The next part of her life had to be about what she alone wanted. That way, there’d be no one to disappoint but herself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sweat ran down Dylan’s neck and dripped from the end of his nose, both irritations he ignored. He was bent over the stationary bike, forearms braced on the electronic display in an all-out sprint that had his thigh and glute muscles burning. It was wonderful in a reconfirming way. He was healing, getting better every day.
His career wasn’t over.
He’d been head-down focused on his recovery for weeks. Double so since Sam had moved out three weeks ago. There was no way anyone could claim he wasn’t dedicated to being back on the ice for next season. Maybe this one if the Glaciers made it deep into the play-offs.
Music blared through his earbuds. The hard beat he reserved for workouts and his pregame routine. He was still regaining his full range of flexibility in his hip, but according to all the medical people, his recovery was outstanding.
All that remained was getting back on the ice.
Then his contract.
Once he had that, he could focus on getting Samantha back. He’d given up his leave-her-behind intent once his anger and hurt had cooled. Her point about her leaving and them having different paths was valid but not. They had options, he was positive of that. And the more he’d stewed on it, the more determined he’d become to make it all happen.
His career, her, them—he wanted it all.
With that mind-set, he’d channeled all of his energy into his recovery with the goal of going to her with his future secured so they had something to plan around. Then they could talk everything through and figure out how to make their relationship work. A long-distance thing wasn’t ideal, but they could sort it out. Or maybe there was a closer school that she could go to. A clear solution hadn’t magically appeared though, which was another reason why he hadn’t contacted her. Plus, he was hoping the distance would give her time to miss him as much as he did her.
He shook his head, pushed his legs harder and tried to concentrate on the music. A hand came down on his shoulder, jerking Dylan out of his trance. He sat up, legs automatically slowing a notch as he tugged his earbuds out. “What’s up?”
Steve McDonald, the team trainer, checked the numbers on the bike display. “Do your cooldown.” The man was solid muscle that filled out his five-eight frame like a dare for anyone to try and defy him. His dark hair was buzzed close to his skull in another statement of the shit he could lay out on anyone who challenged him. However, it was his expertise in his field that earned his respect among the team. “Doc would have my ass if you reinjured yourself on my watch.”
Too winded to talk, Dylan inclined his head and adjusted the resistance on the machine. He’d tried to keep his fitness level up during his recovery, but he still had a way to go to be back to his pre-injury level.
“Don’t forget to ice your hip when you’re done,” Steve said before walking away.
Dylan swiped the towel from the front of the machine and mopped the sweat off his face. The gulps of water went a long way in easing the queasiness in his stomach.
His hip ached when he got off the bike, but it was a good ache.
“Hey, Cowboy,” Cutter called from across the room. He waved Dylan over to the weight area. “How’s it going?” He motioned toward Dylan’s hip, brows raised.
“Really good,” Dylan answered. “If you guys kick ass in the play-offs, Doc says I might be healed enough to play.”
“Fuck. That’s awesome.” Cutter changed out the weights on the bench press. He glanced around then ducked his head conspiratorially. “Weston’s doing fine, but you and I know each other. I don’t have to think as much when I’m paired with you.”
“Poor baby.” Dylan laughed, ignoring the compliment. “It must suck having to think on the ice.”
“Fuck, yeah!” Cutter gave an exasperated head shake. “I don’t have time for that.”
Dylan slapped him on the shoulder, commiserating. “It sucks when your big head has to work harder than your little head.”
Cutter’s derisive snort was accompanied with a slug to Dylan’s arm. “Fuck off.”
Dylan flipped him off and headed out of the workout room. He stopped to talk to a few of the guys on the way out, happy to be among the team. He’d gotten his ass back into the training facility a week after getting out of the hospital. One to keep his upper body toned, and two to keep his face in front of the team. There was no way he was letting anyone write him off. This place was his second home. One that was now more welcoming than his own. There were too many lingering memories of Samantha stamped all over his place.
He was just settling back in one of the big recliners in the lounge after his shower, ice pack pressed to his hip, when Coach O popped his head into the room. “You got a minute, Rylie?”
“Yeah, sure.” Like he’d say no.
He held the ice to his side and followed Coach to the office he had at this location. He let out a quiet breath of relief when he saw the office was empty. At least there wasn’t a team of management waiting to grill him.
“Have a seat.” Coach waved at the guest chair and sat in the worn one behind the desk.
Dylan kept his small wince hidden when he sat down. Hopefully the ibuprofen would kick in soon. He tucked the ice against the thin layer of his shorts and
slicked his fingers through his damp hair. “What can I do for you, Coach?”
Dressed in his normal non-game-day outfit of track pants and a Glaciers T-shirt, the man somehow managed to still appear professional. He clasped his hands on his desk and looked Dylan over. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Doc says everything’s on track, but you know he can’t tell me much.”
Thank God for some things. Not that he had anything to hide. “I’m good,” he reassured the man. “If the ortho doctor clears me this afternoon, I’ll be on the ice tomorrow.” That was what everyone was waiting for, even though it hadn’t been specifically said by anyone except Jeff.
“Excellent.” Coach O smacked the desk with his palm for emphasis and sat back in his chair. “We practice at one, but I don’t want you out there with everyone else. Not at first. Why don’t you come in at three and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Sounds good.” Better than. He couldn’t wait to get on his skates again. He’d been working on his stride on the slide board for over a week, but it wasn’t the same as being in his skates and on the ice.
“Bring Yates if you want,” Coach added.
Dylan’s chuckle was strained. “I’m thinking there’ll be plenty of you guys there.” Half the management probably. The last thing he needed was to have Samantha there too.
“Nah. Not at first.” Coach scratched the hair on his chin. “Your agent will be here, if you didn’t know that, but I was going to keep the rest of management away for a few days.”
“Thank you.” Relief freed up his chest to breathe easier. “I appreciate it.”
Coach waved his hand. “No sweat. We all want you back. I know you’re worried about your contract, but it’ll work out. Your improvement over the second half of the season was exactly what we want to see.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Dylan chided. That sounded great, only Coach O didn’t make the final contract decisions or the trade deals or any of the business dealings that controlled a pro sports player’s life.
“Rest that hip and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dylan clutched the ice to his numb side and left the office without limping. For the most part, his stride had returned to normal. It was only after workouts or PT that the urge to favor his right side had him working extra hard not to.
