by Lynda Aicher
“I can’t do a long-distance relationship,” she admitted to Rock. He might have a chance of understanding that. Getting bumped all over the country and world when they were growing up had probably been hardest on Rock, the least social of the three Fielding siblings. “I want roots. I need roots for a family. And that requires being together, not separated by thousands of miles.”
The low gust of Rock’s exhale breezed over the phone. “Then why start something with a guy who lived across the country from you?”
“Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she insisted, eyes squeezed tight against the stab of hurt that blazed from her heart to her stomach. “I was stupid and blind and let myself fall for a dream that never had a chance of becoming real.” And I couldn’t stop myself from wanting it. Him. The possibility he’d laid out before her. She sucked in a breath, held it then let it out. “But I’m a big girl. I’ll get over it—him. I’ll be fine.”
“Tell me something, Rach.”
She tensed and waited, a low “What?” croaking out.
“I have no doubt you’ll be fine without him. But would you be better with him?”
Dang it. She pressed her fingers to her eyes to hold back the burn that rushed up to sting them. She had no idea how to answer that. None. Zip. Zilch.
“I was the same with Carter.” There was the lowering of his voice. The subtle shift that came when he spoke of his partner. “And he is worth everything I went through to have him in my life.”
Rock wasn’t helping. Curses streamed through her mind, silent and damning. She held them in again, biting her tongue to keep silent. A tear slipped out though, slow and accusing as it rolled down her cheek. Another soon followed, opening the floodgate for more.
She couldn’t talk about the drugs. The addiction Scott had barely acknowledged, let alone recovered from. The risk of a relapse would always be there. But it increased a thousand percent if he played hockey on a knee that barely held him up.
“This is different,” she answered. “There are things I can’t talk about. Things I can’t change or fix.”
Worry, anger, regret, frustration—they all cycled together to create a ball of relentless doubts countered by conviction. This was best for her in the long run. She might regret it for the rest of her life, but she couldn’t be with a man she didn’t fully trust. Who made decisions that impacted her without consulting her.
She’d watched her father do that to her mother her whole life. And she refused to follow that path. She’d worked too hard to establish her own life to give it up for someone who only considered himself.
“All right.” Rock’s clipped response had the sharp military edge she recognized. She tensed again, lip curling at the coming words, whatever they might be. “Then answer this. Is there anything you can do to help fix it? Give him a reason to change or show him how?”
“I tried that,” she cried, anger and held-in desperation rushing out. “I was here for him. Did more than you know, and he still went back. Is still hurting himself for a damn game and elusive goal.”
Regret instantly flooded in to stab her betraying heart. She pitched forward, arm clamped around her aching stomach. She’d said too much. Gave away too much when she’d sworn to let it go.
“A game that is his job,” Rock said evenly. “Just like the military was Dad’s.”
Damn it. God fucking damn it. Why’d he have to go there? “It’s not the same,” she gritted out, the denial strong and true. There was so much more involved with Scott than distance and obligation.
“And teaching is yours,” he went on, like she hadn’t spoken. “Shifting what you know midlife, changing careers or trying something new when you’ve only known one thing is hard for anyone. Especially if you’re doing it alone.”
She gave up trying to control the tears that streamed silently down her cheeks now. Her breath hitched over the guilt, blossomed by the increasing doubt and her weakening resolve. She pressed her forehead into her palm, fingers gripping her bangs until they pulled on her scalp. “So I’m supposed to give up everything for him?” Desperation leaked over her question, roughening and shaping the words with her confusion.
“No. Not at all.”
“Then I don’t understand,” she snapped. “This was his choice. I respect it. I let him go.”
“So if he wants you bad enough—loves you deep enough—he’ll give up hockey and come back? Is that what this is about?”
Her groan contained the pained tone of her mangled frustration. “No.”
There was only a short pause before Rock dove in for the kill. “Well, from a guy’s perspective, that’s what I’m getting.”
And exactly what Scott had accused her of. There weren’t enough curse words in the English language to relieve the pain that encased her chest and stomach. Her light dinner rolled in her gut to mesh with the sick undercurrent of mistakes and missteps.
“Hey, Rach?” Rock’s calm voice broke through her haze. “You’re still coming up Friday night, right?” She’d thought about bailing on that, forging an excuse of some kind. Her hesitation must’ve tipped her brother off. “Don’t bail. Carter would be hurt, and you’ll only force me to make a trip down there to check on you.”
Her short laugh was wry with love and annoyance. He would too.
“You sound like you could use a hug, and I’ve got a few to give you,” he went on. “Carter too. I’ll even make your favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. There’s no way you can resist those.”
She shook her head, a smile breaking unwanted across her lips as his love and support sealed a few of the cracks left in Scott’s wake. After her earlier abrupt conversation with her dad, the differences between her father and Rock had never been more glaring.
“Thanks, Rock.” For being there. For making her laugh. For questioning instead of just offering blind support. For providing the love she craved from a family that was emotionally stunted on showing affection.
“What time should we pick you up?”
He had her itinerary and was probably looking at it as he asked. “10:00 p.m.”
“We’ll be there.”
She sucked in a deep breath, loving her brother more. “Okay.” She’d go. She needed to go. For Rock’s support and to talk to Scott—maybe.
Check up on him. See him. Know he was still okay after skating for two weeks.
She could tell herself to stop loving him. To let him go. Move on. All of it. But it didn’t stop her heart from loving him anyway. She’d withheld the words from him, thinking it limited the damage. It hadn’t.
Not even close.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The locker room buzzed around Scott, a clash of smack talk, lockers banging and the rustle of players changing and packing up to leave. Water splashed on the tile and drifted in the background from the showers, while a current rock song echoed over the chaos from across the room.
Scott sat on the bench, back resting on the locker, eyes closed, ignoring everything. The throbbing, burning rage going on in his knee took all his attention right then. It engulfed the entire area with tendrils flaming up and down until his leg became nothing but pain.
The general muscle aches had decreased over the last two weeks, and his stamina had steadily increased with the long practices and even longer workouts he’d dove into. His personal trainer had ripped into him for his slacking summer regimen and was possibly more dedicated than Scott to getting him ready for the season.
Sweat trickled down his neck and temple, a tickling reminder that he should undress and shower. Hell, his skates were still on when half the guys were almost ready to leave.
He was waiting for the prescription NSAIDs to kick in. Along with the over-the-counter ones he’d swallowed the second he’d reached his bag. The pain would ease soon. He hoped.
He needed to ice it too. The swelling was getting worse each day. The brace couldn’t do anything about that. He squeezed his eyes tighter and stubbornly refused to acknowle
dge the truth that was trying to form.
“The showers are open,” Rylie said as he passed.
Scott sensed the man standing before him and slowly mustered his eyes open. Water dripped off Rylie’s dark hair, a towel wrapped snug around his waist. Scott sat up, nodding. “Thanks.”
Rylie eyed him for a moment, gaze tracking to Scott’s outstretched leg before he moved away.
He glanced around and caught a few questioning looks from other guys, some of them teammates—or used to be teammates. The process of undressing usually wasn’t such a chore, and this wasn’t the image he wanted to present.
Fuck. He bent forward to remove his skates, silent reprimands doing nothing to decrease his pain or growing doubts. The process of undressing was one he’d done a thousand times and once started, he completed on autopilot while studiously avoiding further eye contact with anyone.
He’d been ducking questions since he’d come back. Some disguised as jokes or ribbings, others blatantly laid out. There were prospects skating with them too. Guys hoping to make the roster this season and assessing their chances. He’d given points to one young center who’d had the balls to ask if Scott was going to ruin his chances by re-signing late with Glaciers.
He gritted his teeth and shifted until his weight was evenly balanced. Pain sliced up his inner thigh in a sharp jab that seemed to nail his nuts and sucked the breath from his lungs. Fucking... The craving sprang to life in a bolt of longing that teased his mind with promised relief. One he knew was a false truth, yet God, it would be such a relief right now.
He shoved his fisted hands against the locker, counting slowly in an attempt to distract himself from the agony and unrelenting hunger that constantly hounded him.
“You aren’t hiding it very well.”
Scott jerked around at Grenick’s rumbled accusation. The man stood stone-faced at his side, fully dressed and ready to head out. He’d been silent but watchful since their lunch last week. Scott had caught the hard checks the man had thrown on guys who’d been chasing Scott down on the ice. Grenick had been guarding Scott’s back when he hadn’t needed it.
Hauke and Rylie had changed their game too. It was small things, probably unnoticed by others. A few hesitated passes by Hauke, a couple of end-dumps instead of guarded passes by Rylie. Would this continue if he came back? Coach would have their asses if it did.
“Is it worth it now?” Grenick pushed, voice low enough to be unheard by anyone but Scott. “You can’t even stand there without grimacing.”
He immediately flattened his face, teeth clamped tight to hold in his words. He glared at the floor, too drained to have it out with Grenick. He had the long Labor Day weekend to rest his knee and to not think of Rachel. He was going to his sister’s, where he could get lost in her family and see his newborn niece. Her early, healthy birth last week had been the bright spot in his sea of obstacles.
“Have you made the call yet? Checked in with your guy just to chat?” Grenick continued.
Scott ripped his shoulder pads over his head and threw them to the floor with a smacking clatter. He had nothing to say to the man who called himself a friend.
“Or did you find those hidden stashes you swore you’d forgotten about?” Grenick relentlessly persisted. “Are you mentally searching for them right now? Wondering if there’s anything left. One more pill that’ll take the edge off the pain you’re obviously in. You can do one, right?” He shifted closer, provoking. “Just to help. Right now.”
Scott spun on him, arm slamming across his chest to shove him away. Grenick crashed into the lockers before he caught himself. Movement froze around them as they threw silent daggers at each other. Rage scorched Scott’s throat. At Grenick. The situation. Everything.
Mostly though, it was at the truth that’d lofted out in every one of Grenick’s jeering questions.
His hands curled into fists, ready to spring. He shook with the need to follow through. Deny and rebel against the very thing he’d been fighting for weeks.
The craving hopped up and down in glee, cheering for the victory that dangled so close. It clawed at Scott’s mind and flamed down his limbs until they trembled in longing and adamant denial.
Hauke was there then. Stepping between them to cut off the anger silently being tossed about. His expression was just as stony and cold as Grenick’s. And just like the other man, concern and worry screamed from his eyes when Scott finally locked onto them.
Fucking... His jaw took the force of his clenched anger and he willingly sat when Hauke shoved on his shoulder, legs buckling under the weight of his guilt.
Because the craving was now screaming at him. Scratching up his throat with its own teasing taunts. He ignored the bastard every fucking day. Kicked him aside and refused to acknowledge it until his hands shook and his head ached.
“Shower,” Hauke said. “I’ll find some ice.”
“I’m fine,” Scott insisted, shame swarming in to weigh his shoulders down even more.
“I’m sure you are.” Calm reassurance that lacked the note of confidence to back it up.
Hauke left, and Grenick followed a few moments later. Scott ignored everyone then. Quickly stripped and stalked into the showers, brace still on. It’d become such a part of him he didn’t know what it was like to walk without it. He doubted he could manage it right then. Not without limping. An action he forcibly resisted, even though every step threatened to yank a whimper from his throat.
He’d get through it.
The craving laughed at him as it did jumping jacks across his brain. I can help you. I’ll make everything easier.
Which was more than any of his friends were doing. Than Rachel had done. Even his sister had questioned him when he’d driven down to visit his new niece last weekend. Did he really need to go back to hockey? What else did he want to do? He’d make a great coach—kids loved him. Was he still seeing Rachel? Was he ever going to tell her where he’d been all summer?
Each friendly inquiry had been one more battle that’d led him to sleeping in a hotel Sunday night instead of going home to his empty house filled with haunting reminders and lonely temptation.
The locker room was almost empty when he finally emerged from the showers. A bag of ice sat melting on the bench by his locker, Hauke and Grenick blessedly absent.
They didn’t care enough to stick around, the craving taunted. Just like Rachel.
It didn’t matter that he recognized the thoughts as bogus. Wrong on so many levels. It still nudged at him. Kicked him. Bit at his flagging determination while inflating his need to prove them all wrong.
Show his doubters he was right.
He was the last to leave the locker room. The silence stretched around him as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder. Stubbornness had him shunning his rolling bag in favor of proving one more thing to no one but himself. He could carry his equipment.
He tossed the unused ice pack into the trash before he shoved out the door. The low purr of the ice resurfacing machine echoed up the tunnel, and a group of boys trudged toward him, gear in tow. Five in total, joking and laughing as they headed toward the locker room he’d just left. Scott pegged them to be around eleven or twelve. Older and taller than his nephews by quite a few years.
One looked up, halting when he spotted Scott standing to the side so they could pass. “Hey,” he said, arm swinging out to stop the kid next to him. “You’re Scott Walters.”
Five sets of eyes were instantly on him, expressions of excitement and amazement crossing each of their young faces.
Scott laughed, his depression stomped back. “Yeah. I am.” His public persona slammed into place automatically. These kids didn’t need to see his shit. “And you are?”
The kid guppied the air a few times before one of his friends nailed him in the back with a hard shove. “Roger,” he finally stammered.
“Dude. You are so lame,” one of them groused, sending the rest into a fit of agreement.
“Nice to meet you, Ro
ger,” Scott said, holding out his hand. The kid shook it, beaming. “You guys have the ice next?” He nodded down the tunnel.
“Yeah.”
“Can you sign my bag?” the one who’d shoved Roger asked, stepping forward, marker extended. “You guys are usually all gone by the time we’re allowed to come down.”
People could watch their scrimmages, but security kept everyone away from the locker room. This was a testament to just how long he’d taken to leave.
The pain in his knee faded as he took a turn signing all the bags. They chattered around him, eager for the upcoming season, the Glaciers’ prospect at the national title and the trades. He loved this. The excitement in their young voices, the bubbling joy for the sport itself. The potential that lived ripe and plentiful in their hearts.
“Is there any chance you’re coming back? The Glaciers were stupid to cut you.”
He was handing the pen back when the question finally came. He’d been braced for it, but it still came like a sucker punch that stole his air. He held his smile and shrugged. “We’ll see.”
A round of groans and protests rose at his evasive answer. Their support reached in to lift him up. They wanted his autograph and belabored the injustice they saw against him. He was still whole and good in the eyes of these young guys. And his track pants hid his knee brace.
They didn’t know the real him. Just his image.
One he was potentially killing by remaining on the ice.
“I need to get going,” he said, smile forced now. “Have a good skate.” He ducked down the hall to calls of “Thanks.”
The hot summer air smacked him in the face when he stepped outside. The refreshing chill of the rink was sucked away before he’d made it to his truck. The humidity was moderate, but the temperature was still swelling high into the nineties. It was supposed to stay that way through the holiday weekend too.
Three long days before he had to skate again.
