by Luis, Maria
“Need a box?” Nah, no boxes.
“’Kay, you and your wife have a great night now.” Thanks . . . we’ll do that.
I return my card to my billfold and stuff it back into my pocket.
Shove my fingers through my hair and quickly deliberate how I broach the topic of dating with Holly. I fully believe that we can come back from our past to build something new—based on the sex we had on my car, that area of our relationship doesn’t need mending.
Our hearts do, and I’m fully prepared to do whatever it takes to earn back Holly’s.
Holly Belliveaux Carter.
Carter. I shake my head, blowing out a heavy breath. Keeping my name alone leaves the impression that she’s not over us, not completely, which definitely works in my favor. And God knows I’m not over her.
When I near our table, she’s already picking up her purse and sliding the strap over her shoulder. Her blond hair is in disarray, completely disheveled from my fingers spearing through the silky strands. She pauses when she spots me, spine snapping straight. Blue eyes stare back at me, wide and hurt and—
I stick my hand out, palm up.
Her gaze drops to the offering. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
She doesn’t say the words with a single trace of heat, only genuine perplexity.
I step in close, so that she’s got to lift her chin to maintain eye contact. “Take my hand, Holly.”
Nose scrunching, her cheeks flush even brighter. “I’m sorry, but why should I? You demanded a confession and then you walked away. Holding hands is all about trust, and right now I’m thinking I’d trust a random person on the street more than—”
I take her hand anyway, cutting off her rant by sliding my palm against hers.
Our fingers tangle, palms kiss.
Her chin kicks up defiantly, and I’m tempted to lean down and brush my mouth over hers. Instead, I wind my way to the front door of the diner, pulling her along behind me. She splutters at my back but follows anyway.
South Street is eerily quiet at this time of night when we step out of the diner. A lone cabbie meanders down the road, and I can hear the distant sound of laughter and music from nearby Chinatown.
I cut a right at the intersection, and then duck into a narrow alleyway between two large buildings. Pressing my back to the dirty, stone façade, so that Holly isn’t resting against it herself, I bring her body in close. Cup my hands around her biceps, then slip them up to rest on her slim shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for making you feel like I didn’t care. That I wasn’t proud of you and everything you’ve done. That you felt, even for one damn second, that you were taken for granted . . . and that when you were no longer there in reach every moment of the day, you weren’t worth my time anymore.”
I watch her swallow roughly, her face twisting to the side to stare at the busier stretch of road off to our right. In this alley, though, it’s just us.
No outside world.
No interruptions.
Just us and all the hurt and heartache and the goddamn love for her that once consumed me—that still consumes me.
“That’s on me.” I duck my head, putting myself squarely in her line of sight. “I take full responsibility for letting you go when I didn’t want to do so in the first place. You needed more—you needed our relationship to change—and I retreated to the familiar instead of giving you every ounce of the support and dedication that you gave me so freely for years.” Squeezing her shoulders lightly, I go on, “I own that. All of it. Nothing I can say now can change any of those decisions, but I want to try again, Holls.” The pressure beats at my temples and this time has nothing to do with my headaches and concussions and everything to do with the fear of the woman in front of me telling me no. “Shit, I don’t even want to try. I’ll do whatever it takes for you to see that we belong together.”
“I . . . I feel like I need to breathe.” Her hands flutter upward, pulling out of my grasp to shove her hair behind her ears. “Tonight was—well, honestly, it was sort of dreamlike. I need to process it all.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to prove to her that all this is very much real.
The fact that she got down on her knees? Real.
The fact that she came in my arms? Real as fuck.
Through self-control alone, I only give a curt nod. Settling my hands on my hips, I stare down at her. “One week.”
She blinks once, twice. “What?”
Screw it.
Caving to my need to touch her, I brush her lips with the pad of my thumb. “One week, Holls. Think about everything you need to—work it all out in your head and figure out if you want more from me than just tonight’s hookup. If you do, next weekend . . . next weekend, I’ve got a three-day stretch with nothing but me, my couch and TV in sight, and I’d rather spend that time with you. We’ll go somewhere.”
“Go somewhere?” She laughs at that, the sound feminine and light. “Jackson, we can’t just . . . we can’t just leave the state.”
Wanting to keep that half-smile curling her lips, I blatantly tease her. “Why not? You on house arrest or something?” I glance down at her feet. “No ankle monitor that I can see. Unless you got the invisible kind?”
She laughs again, and my heart warms right up. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a realist.”
“Says the guy who was allegedly wishing on shooting stars.”
I grin. “What? Not manly enough for you?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, “I’m not saying anything about manly. I just mean that realists don’t normally wish on shooting stars. It’s not in their DNA. Way too frivolous.”
“There’s a first time for everything, sweetheart.” I tip my head back to squint up at the dark sky sandwiched between the two towering buildings on either side of the alleyway. Dramatically, I thicken my accent and drawl, “Lookie there, Ms. Carter, a shooting star!” For effect, I clamp my hand over my chest and give a fake yee-haw of joy.
She huffs out my name through peals of laughter. “I can’t. I can’t—please, Jackson—”
Unfortunately for her, I’m not done.
I draw her up against my side, her small frame tiny against mine, and tap her chin to encourage her to look up toward the sky, too. “There she is,” I say, boisterous enough for her to hold her belly and continue to laugh. “Hold on, hold, gotta think about the right wish. Maybe somethin’ about my car forgetting about her defilement? Nah, she’ll have to learn about the birds and bees at some point.”
“To winning against Buffalo tomorrow?” Holly pipes up, getting into the spirit.
“No, ma’am.” I curl my arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. “Only one wish will do, but you have to go first.”
“I thought it was age before beauty?”
I laugh softly. “Cute, Holls, real cute.”
“Okay, okay.” She shifts her weight, feet squaring off with her hips, which brush up against mine. “If I had to wish upon a fake shooting star, I’d . . .” She taps her chin, leaning her head back to get a real good look at the midnight sky. “I’d hope that if I were to go on this weekend away, then I’d maybe have the chance to convince the organizer that we should visit somewhere along the coast, WiFi not needed—so we could, you know . . . talk or what not—and pancakes may be necessary.”
My heart squeezes and I do the same as her, lifting my face to the sky.
Wishing on a goddamn fake shooting star.
“I’d wish for us to go in with an open mind. No promises, no guarantees. Just leaving the past at the door for seventy-two hours and just . . . breathe.”
I hear the sharp way she sucks in a breath, and then the quieter murmur, “It sounds like paradise.”
22
Jackson
As a professional hockey player, I’m used to the limelight, the puck bunnies, the hardcore fans who will drop anything and everything when they see me walk out
of the tunnel and onto the ice. In the hockey world, I’m a god among men.
But let it be said—I’m no Tom Brady, no LeBron James, no whoever-the-fuck is playing golf and ripping up the scoreboards these days.
Simply put, even after all these years in the NHL, I’ve always maintained some level of anonymity when I take to the streets.
Not anymore.
Fuckin’ Getting Pucked.
As I bulldoze my way toward Mass General, its blue hospital signs beckoning me like a beacon of hope, there’s no less than ten people who stop and ask me for an autograph.
And not a one of them is mentioning a damn thing about my stick play—at least, not the stick play that’s routinely talked about by analysts on ESPN or Sports 24/7.
“Oh, my God, Jackson! Jackson, you’re so hot. Isn’t he hot, Sammy? Jackson, I’ve seen you on TV!”
“Hi! Holy crap, you’re big. I didn’t realize how big you are from TV, but you’re just . . . please tell me you’re that big in other places?! Like in your pants?”
Put your head down and just keep trucking.
Readjusting my sunglasses over the crooked bridge of my nose, I skim my gaze over the various entrances into Boston’s largest hospital, hastily deliberating on the best course of entry.
“Mr. Carter, the ladies of America want to know . . . are you single?”
The last comment comes at me from a dude decked out in all black, a microphone being shoved in my direction, and a camera crew tailing him like a pack of lemmings. Unlike the women, this guy isn’t here with a starry-eyed expression. Cold, calculated blue eyes blink back at me while he waits for my answer as though I’m standing on the red carpet and answering about what threads I’m wearing and what designer stitched them together.
“Mr. Carter,” he says again, this time a little louder, “are you single?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Who the fuck are you?”
Admittedly, it’s not the most poised response, and it’s a good thing I never hired another publicist after my last left to be a full-time mom because I can only imagine good ol’ Miranda having a goddamn heart attack at my eloquence.
“I’m with TMZ and—”
I let the hospital door swing shut behind me, cutting him off.
“Fuckin’ TMZ.” I scrub my palm over my face. Christ.
Pulling the shades from my face, I tuck them over the neck of my white T-shirt and pull out my phone. Bringing up the Safe Space thread, I text the guys as I head for the wing where my appointment is.
Me: Almost got mauled by TMZ just now.
Hunt: Harvey was there?
Me: Who the hell is Harvey?
Hunt: Levin. Harvey Levin. Dude’s in charge of the site/show/celebrity soul stealer.
Beaumont: Fuck TMZ. Do you know how many times they showed my bare ass a few years back? On TV, on their website, on fucking Twitter. My ass had more hits than a Kardashian Instagram post.
Cain: Mistake on their part. No one wants to see all the hair on those sweet cheeks of yours, Sin.
Cain: Also, should I be asking which Kardashian you follow on IG? Or do you just want to take that one to the grave?
Me: Please tell me you did not just tell Beaumont he’s got sweet cheeks.
Beaumont: First of all, sir, my ass is smooth. No hair.
Beaumont: Second, I have the best ass out of all you assholes. Setting the record straight, right here, right now.
Harrison: All I hear are lies.
Me: I’ve seen better asses. Beaumont’s isn’t even in the top 20.
Holly: I’m willing to bet that I have the best ass in this entire group thread.
And just like that, my cock stiffens against the seam of my zipper at the mere mention of Holly’s heart-shaped backside.
Well, at the mention and the accompanying visual.
Sweet-fucking-cheeks doesn’t even cover it.
Swallowing roughly, I hit the keypad on my phone, prepared to text her directly exactly what I think about her ass—only to note that the service bars at the top of the screen have dropped to nil.
I type out the text anyway. Hit send.
My phone pings! with ERROR scrawled across the screen in red font.
Stepping back, to where I had service a moment ago, I try another time.
Ping!
Error.
I move to the right, a single step that has my shoulder brushing up against the wall as I hold my phone up toward the ceiling. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
Ping!
Error.
“Fuck me.”
“Mr. Carter,” murmurs a masculine voice, “I’m not sure if I should be more startled by your language or the fact that you’re attempting to tango—poorly, I might add—right in front of my office.”
My head snaps up.
“I was just—” I wave my phone a little desperately. “No service, Dr. Mebowitz.”
The corners of his brown eyes crinkle with humor. “An important missive?”
Just trying to tell my ex-wife how her ass is pure perfection.
I smile weakly. “Nothing that can’t wait another hour.”
“Perfect.” Swooping an arm before him, he gestures for me to enter his office. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”
I’d rather we not, but I step past the elderly doctor anyway and do my best to fight down the nerves while I take a seat.
The office is decorated in muted colors, pastel yellow on the walls and beige laminate flooring. Bookshelves line the wall to my right, and the one to my left is completely covered in framed awards and certificates and licenses. The grand window behind Dr. Mebowitz’s desk, however, makes up for everything else with its view of the Museum of Science and the Charles River.
It’s a specific view I’ve seen only once before.
Something that the good doctor makes note of when he rounds his desk to sit in his plush leather office chair. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Carter. I didn’t expect to see you here again—not after how our first meeting transpired.”
Another hard swallow, and my gaze flicks from the man’s face to his blank-screened computer and then back again. “It’s been a wild year.”
Propping his elbow on the armrest, he rests his chin on his upturned fist. “I hear the hockey season is officially underway.”
I nod, once. “It is.”
“Any chance the Blades will pull through for the Cup?”
The dry way he says it puts me slightly more at ease, especially when paired with the framed photo he’s set facedown next to his computer. I indicate it with a tilt of my head. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally switched loyalties? We both know you’re a Bruins fan, Doc, unless you’ve traded out that photo of you and Cam Neely for one of me and you?”
He doesn’t blush or pussyfoot around the issue, only casually shrugs his bony shoulders. “Well, what can I say? I’ve been alive six times longer than the Blades have even existed. When you’re pushing eighty, you’ll be wary of any new franchises who think they are God’s gift to hockey too.” His smile turns sly. “I’m sure my opinions are similar to yours regarding the new Vegas franchise. Or are you harboring a deep-seated love for the Knights?”
A touch sarcastically, I salute him with two fingers at my temple. “Touché, Dr. Mebowitz, touché.”
He grins, no doubt having ticked off a point in his favor.
“Now, let’s see where we left off.” Reaching for a pair of thin-framed glasses, he slides them onto his nose and thumbs open the manila file before him. The shuffling of the papers is loud in my ears, like phonetic paper cuts slicing through the air and drawing droplets of blood with their mere existence. “Ah, here we go. Shall I do an entire recap of all our prior testing or would you prefer I rip the bandage off and spare you the punishment of listening to me ramble?”
In my tennis shoes, my toes curl, seeking firm grounding.
“The latter,” I rasp, voice hoarse.
“Very well, then. Last year, you came he
re on a referral basis. You were experiencing headaches and that you, and I quote, ‘felt as though you were living in a fog.’” He slides his frames off and taps the tip of one plastic arm to his mouth. “May I assume that you feel roundabout the same?”
My stomach clenches with unease. I shift my weight, bringing one ankle to rest on my opposite knee. Clasping my hands over my shin, I hope that Dr. Mebowitz can’t tell that I’m doing my damn best not to show the tremors in my hands.
I’m nervous.
I’m so fucking nervous.
And, if I want to really dig deep and unravel my emotions, I know that I’d find fear is what’s driving the nerves, nothing else. If I can’t play hockey . . . if I’m forced to retire early, who even am I?
“Mr. Carter?”
At his inquisitive tone, I part my lips and force the words of self-damnation out. “Yeah.” I clear my throat, fist to my mouth. Try again. “It’s been . . . it’s been worse, to be honest. The headaches, I mean. The fog, too, but mostly it’s the headaches. Sometimes . . . sometimes I can’t deal with the light at all.”
He inclines his head slightly and slips his glasses back on his face. Grabbing a pen from a metal container, he clicks it open and puts ball tip to paper, waiting for me to continue, the pen ink leaving a mark on the written report.
I slam my eyes shut, drudging up the sensations after Fitzgerald slammed me into the boards.
“The nausea’s bad. Food tastes bland. Sometimes I could eat an entire restaurant; others I can’t even finish what’s on my plate.”
“Anxiety?” Dr. Mebowitz muses to himself as he glances down at my files. “Depression. Could be both.”
“I’ve never been diagnosed with either, but . . .” I dig my nails into my jean-clad shin, welcoming the minute sting of pain to the more thunderous roar in my head that’s only just begun to settle in the last few days. “Maybe, yeah, it could be”—I cough into one closed fist—“be something like that. When it’s real bad, I feel like I’m on a boat. My legs don’t feel steady. My right hand . . . it, uh, it tingles some—like it’s fallen asleep.”
Dr. Mebowitz’s mouth tightens in a frown, his scrawl across the page slowing to a stop. “And you’ve seen the team’s physical therapist about a possible spinal injury?” When I shake my head, he sets down the pen and leans back, hands linking over his stomach. “The issue, Mr. Carter, is that CTE isn’t something I can diagnose while you’re . . . let us say, while you’re breathing, yes? Confirmation of the disease only occurs by studying the brain tissue after you’ve died. Now, taking that into account, your scans a year ago indicated—or, at least, suggested that TBI was a matter of concern. It made sense, of course, given your age and the longevity of your career. You’ve been playing for how long now?”
