Honestly, I don't even know how it happened. Between drink one and two the night before, I agreed to help Ashley. Worse that agreeing to help, I agreed to shop with Ashley.
When I left Matthew's place, he'd given me a solemn smile as I walked out the door. It meant I'd miss the first day of training camp, which sucked ass, but my presence wasn't completely necessary, so Reggie had no problem with me taking the morning off.
"I don't know. This shade of cream doesn't look like it'll match the roses." Ashley stepped back and peered at the pashmina draped over her arm.
"Does the shawl you might wear need to match the roses?" I asked innocently.
She put it back on the shelf and gave me a look. "There's a theme for a reason, Ava. Otherwise, I might as well show up dressed in jeans."
I almost laughed at the horror in her voice, but I stifled it. The last thing we could possibly have was Ashley thinking I found her humorous. We'd been shopping for a couple of hours, and while I still rolled my eyes roughly every seven seconds, I found myself again in the utterly confusing position of not having a horrible time with my big sister.
And that confusion had me asking things I'd normally keep locked up in my head. "I think you need to explain something to me."
Ashley stopped and turned to me with an expectant eyebrow raised.
I started cautiously. "You're so ..." My pause was inopportune because she narrowed her eyes, thinking I was about to insult her. "Put together. Perfectly put together, all the time. But you do a job that has you in scrubs all day long."
Her expression had relaxed, but her voice was wary. "Is there a question buried in there?"
"I'm just trying to reconcile that dichotomy, that's all."
At first, I didn't think she'd answer me. Honestly, I was just proud of myself for not wording it the way I wanted to word it. You look like a Stepford wife. Your husband probably makes three hundred grand a year on his own, so explain to me why you still work sixty-plus hours a week.
I can only imagine how well that would've gone over. But I didn't get it. I'd never understood that part of my sister. Bottom line, she didn't make any damn sense to me, and after twenty odd years of wondering what made her tick, I suppose I'd lost my ability to wonder quietly anymore.
"A couple of days ago," Ashley said, leaning up against the table of scarves, not meeting my curious gaze, "I had to perform an epidural. Routine stuff. I do them almost every single day at work. The husband puked on my shoes when he saw the needle. I wiped off what I could because I didn't have an extra pair in my locker, but when I got home, I realized I'd been walking around with that man's vomit on my socks for the remaining ten hours of my shift."
Blech. Not what I asked, but I kept quiet.
"When I'm out of work, I like to look my best because on any given day, I have no idea if I'll be walking in someone's bodily fluids for hours on end." She glanced at me. "Does that help?"
"A little," I answered honestly. "I guess it's just hard for me to imagine Dr. Baker-Hughes. I've never witnessed it myself."
I could imagine Ashley doing a lot of things. Like, be a trophy wife.
Her smile was small, but she was clearly amused. "I was raised knowing I'd do that job. Mom and Dad didn't exactly give me a choice."
The realization that I’d never thought of it that way made me shift uncomfortably. She was right, though. I remember conversations about where Ashley would go to school, where she'd do her residency, where she'd become an attending, and what practice she'd be a part of because it was the path our dad had traveled. She was continuing his legacy.
The part of me that wanted to remind her that at least she got their attention would never go away, but I watched her differently as she meandered through the boutique, looking at earrings and trying on bracelets that didn't match her theme.
We left the store and turned back in the direction of her hotel. My brain was mush, pulverized by the idea that maybe all this time and distance from my sister had left me without the opportunity to understand her better.
Ashley and I moved to the side, out of the way of a large group of tourists snapping pictures.
"And Adam is fine with what you do?"
"What do you mean?"
What I meant was that I knew virtually nothing about my sister's marriage. I'd met Adam once before they got married, and I'd hated him on principle because I'd been firmly Team Matthew. Oh, the irony.
Now I felt like sending him a thank-you note.
"Well, I know Adam does well, but you must make more than him, right?" I looked over at her. Her golden hair was shining even under the overcast Seattle sky, and not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was flawless, and in comparison, I still felt like a little kid playing dress-up when I was around her. "He's okay with that?"
Ashley's scarlet red lips curled up in a smile. "Adam understands familial pressure as well as I do. Our respective careers could be a case study on the effect of nepotism. So yes, he's okay with it. We both work hard, and we enjoy the fruits of that labor in the type of home we live in and our ability to travel anywhere in the world. It's why we chose not to have kids. We enjoy that freedom."
She said it almost defensively. Like she was waiting for me to harp on her for not procreating, for not popping out a little army of flaxen-haired, blue-eyed babies who would have been as spoiled as their parents had been.
Years ago, my mom had given me this giant spiel about why Adam and Ashley didn't have kids. Too busy, too driven, blah, blah, blah. During that conversation, my first and only thought had been, well, at least my kids won't be overlooked by their grandparents because I'll be the only providing another generation.
Except she hadn't asked if I wanted kids. Maybe she didn't care. Or maybe my parents were afflicted with the same lack of awareness that Ashley was and didn’t know that their actions had unintended consequences that didn't always reflect well of them.
"And your new beau?" she asked slyly.
Cue awkward laughter. "Wh-what about him?"
"He supports your little job?"
Oh, look! It’d been a solid ten minutes since I rolled my eyes. My little job.
I mean, I didn't inject people with drugs for a living or manage whatever money crap Adam did, so naturally, my career was something cute and unnecessary.
"Mm-hmm," I answered between clenched teeth. Only when I breathed deeply and centered my Chi was I able to unlock my jaw and speak actual words. "Our respective careers could be a case study in the effects of absolutely no nepotism whatsoever."
It was Ashley's turn to roll her eyes. At least we were keeping things even. It was one of the cornerstones of our sisterly relationship.
"He's certainly good looking," she said as we arrive at her hotel. "I'd probably leave Adam naughty messages too if he looked like that."
At her teasing tone, I gave her a sharp glance. Was that ... wait ... was my sister displaying even the tiniest amount of envy for something in my life?
Granted, she had no clue that the certainly good-looking man was Matthew, but who freaking cared? Not me. I licked along my bottom lip and felt a dreamy smile curve my lips as I thought about Matthew in that bathtub.
"Yeah." I sighed. "He's ..." I fanned my face. "I'm a lucky girl, that's for sure."
His body, wet and glistening as I rode him, was something I'd never get used to. Not in a million years. He was so big, so strong, and he dwarfed every sense I possessed the moment he put his hands on me. All I smelled, tasted, heard, touched, and saw was Matthew.
"I never imagined you going for the gruff, broody guy, though," she said, popping the imaginary lust bubble over my head.
I crossed my arms and gave her a disbelieving look. "You've thought about my type?"
"Don't read too much into it." She glanced at her watch. "I need to go freshen up before I head to the airport."
"Okay."
Ashley appraised me frankly, seeming to come to a decision before she spoke. "Thank for you coming with me today."
&nb
sp; "You're welcome." I exhaled slowly. "Thank you for inviting me."
The only comfort I had was that she looked as unsure about this entire exchange as I did.
She gave me a quick, awkward hug and disappeared into the revolving doors.
By the time I made it to work and sat at my desk in a daze, replaying the strange morning I'd spent with her, I decided that I was officially Jon Snow. I knew nothing.
In two weeks, she'd be back with her husband, my parents, and a small handful of their friends and colleagues in tow, and I'd have to sit in a chair by myself and watch them re-pledge their lives to each other. For such pragmatic people, it was weirdly romantic.
Apparently, my parents and sister were on some sort of agreed-upon schedule. Ashley, you butter her up and confuse the shit out her, then I'll swoop in with a text or phone call to really knock her off her game. Because sure enough, I'd barely read through two emails when my phone dinged.
Dad: Can't wait to meet your new man, kiddo. Maybe we can find time for a round of golf with the four of us.
Because I'd played golf approximately never times in my entire life, but I couldn't fault my dad for not knowing that. And kiddo? I'd never been called kiddo. Not once.
With a groan, I dropped my head down onto my desk. This was awful. The iron structure I'd built around my family—the idea of them, what they thought of me, and what our relationship looked like—was crumbling like it was made of cotton candy. Sticky sweet but irresistible to look at and play with, then devour.
I felt like gorging on that one text. Staring at it until I felt sick from the excess. The idea that my life held even the tiniest bit of interest to them after all this time. And the moment I showed up with Matthew? Well, I could practically hear the steel beams clang back into place.
"Ava?"
My head snapped up at the sound of Logan's voice. Of course, he would show up again when I was mid-meltdown. At least I wasn't crying.
"What's up?" I schooled my face, but the bend of his eyebrows told me I wasn't fooling anyone.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Now what, what?"
He glanced down the hallway before coming into my office. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't like unconscious or anything."
"Huh?"
The look he gave me was only slightly patronizing. "Your head was down on your desk."
I looked at said desk and blinked. "Oh. Right."
"Are you okay?" he asked like I was slow.
Maybe I was. I was just, you know, in the middle of re-evaluating everything that I'd thought to be true.
I nodded absently. "Just ... still dealing with some of that family crap you walked in on yesterday."
"Ahh."
"Yeah. My parents are losing their minds over wanting to meet you." I pinched my eyes shut. "I mean, the guy I'm seeing who isn't you but who they think is you."
He cleared his throat, and I looked up at him. His face was so damn hard to read. It had always been, and it drove interviewers crazy. Which is why I almost choked on my spit when he said what he said next.
"I can come to that party with you." He held my eyes. "If it helps you."
Blink.
Blink, blink.
"Logan," I said slowly.
But he held up his hand. "I know you're dating someone. I'm not … I’m not confused about what this is. But I'll help you if you want me to."
My stomach rioted at the thought. My hands felt clammy, and I couldn't help but stare down at my phone, those innocuous little message wreaking absolute havoc in my head and on my heart.
"Just one night I have to get through," I whispered.
"Exactly."
I blinked up at him, surprised he thought I was talking to him.
Logan sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know I haven't made your job easy. Consider this my peace offering." When I didn't answer, he sighed deeply and glanced away. "Or something. Whatever. You don't have to think of it that way if you don't want to."
At that, I laughed. "Oh, if you think coming with me to one party absolves you of years of torture, you're deranged."
He shook his head but didn't so much as crack a smile. His eyes, though, they were a touch softer; something I'd never, ever seen on him before. "It's a start."
While I mulled the absolute lunacy of doing it, Logan saw the invitation lying on the floor of my office. He leaned over and picked it up.
"This it?" he asked.
I nodded.
Before I knew what he was doing, he pulled his phone out and snapped a pic.
"Why'd you do that?"
One eyebrow arched up. "Now I know where and when this thing is."
Panic had my heart racing. My stomach roiled and twitched. This was a bad idea.
"You look like you're going to puke," he observed dryly.
"I feel like I'm going to puke. I feel like this is a no-win situation. I've never ..." I couldn't believe I was admitting this to Logan. Holy shit. "I've never had them care this much about anything I do. But bringing you, I don't know if it's a good idea."
His eyes briefly searched my face. "Will your sister be jealous?"
She probably would. I was sure Logan looked like a freaking ten in a tux, but that was beside the point.
I buried my head in my hands. "No, it's fine. There's no way I'm making you do this. My family will get over it."
Matthew's face flashed in my head, the flash of his smile, the way his face creased when he was happy, the look in his eyes before he kissed me, and I had to grit my teeth against a hot wave of tears crawling up my throat.
I'd never be able to explain it to him in a way that made sense. Never.
Not if I brought Logan.
Not if I was doing this because I craved this weird new attention from my family.
He wouldn't understand any of it, and I couldn't blame him.
"You don't sound sure."
Because I'm not, I thought instantly.
Somehow, that felt like a bigger problem than anything else.
"Just ... delete the pic off your phone, Logan." I exhaled shakily, looking up at him even though I knew there were tears in my eyes. "They'll get over it. So will I."
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but then he closed it again, finally giving me a slow nod. Nothing on his face made it seem like he believed me.
I didn't believe me either.
Chapter Eighteen
Matthew
"Matthew! Matthew, over here! Will you hold my baby for a picture?"
The voices were loud and plentiful. Day three of training camp was wrapping up, and most of the players were milling around the edges of the field to sign posters, hats, signs, and footballs, taking selfies with fans, and chatting with each other.
The current of energy was contagious, and with a big smile, I took someone's offspring in my outstretched hands and posed for a picture with the little girl cradled against my chest.
I turned her around, her gummy smile and big blue eyes were irresistible, and she wore an impossibly tiny Wolves jersey with my number on it. "You are gonna break hearts someday," I told her, handing her back to her mother.
On one side of me, Logan scrawled his signature onto a kid's hat, and he was smiling more than usual. Other defensive players, even some of the Wolves' former players were around, taking pictures and chatting with the coaching staff.
"Good practice today," I said to Logan, cutting my eyes over to him to see how he'd respond.
"It was." He nodded at the little boy, now cradling his signed hat to him as if it was a treasure. "You did good."
My eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Thanks."
Since we'd reached the end of the fans, we both turned toward the field again to head toward the locker room.
"Back bothering you at all?"
"Feels great," I answered honestly. "Disappointed?"
He almost smiled. "No, I'd rather have our players healthy."
We were quiet as
we entered the building.
I cleared my throat before I spoke. "You're in a good mood."
"It appears so," he said in a dry voice.
"Training camp has that effect."
Logan hummed, but that was it. Then it was his turn to glance sideways at me. "You married, Hawkins?"
My smile was wry. "Ah, no. I was once, but that was years ago."
He nodded.
Easily the most bizarre conversation with a guy who I felt like I couldn't get to know if my life depended on it. Not that you were always close with teammates. Every year, the locker room had a different feel. Sometimes, you had teammates who knew everything about your life—knew your kids’ names, knew when your anniversary was—and some years, it was just small talk. Nothing too personal and no friendships too close. We worked in an industry where faces changed year in and year out; that was one of the givens that we dealt with.
The difference for me was that I'd only been the new guy my rookie year. And now.
"You?" I asked even though I knew he wasn't.
He shook his head.
"Married guys usually give good advice," he said cryptically.
We walked into the quiet locker room. Everyone else was still out on the practice fields.
I stripped off my practice jersey and tossed it on the floor by the long red bench. His was a few down from mine, so I gave him a quick look before sitting down and bracing my elbows on my knees.
"I know you're the captain and I'm the rookie," I joked, "but if you, I don't know, wanted to get something off your chest, there's no one around to judge."
"Besides you?"
I laughed because I could tell by his dry tone that he was kidding. "Yeah, besides me."
He pulled the tape off his elbow and wadded it up. "Lots of guys ask your advice before?"
I thought about the team I'd left, the faces of the guys who I now only interacted with casually on social media and the occasional text giving me shit about when we'd play next. The guys I'd known since they were rookies were now the veterans I'd left behind for this new arm of my career. "Yeah, they did."
His eyes narrowed in on his locker before he turned to face me. "I don't talk about this shit with my teammates, just so you know."
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