Face Off (The Baltimore Banners Book 10)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She laughed again but the sound was empty, humorless. She looked over at him, those sad eyes meeting his for several long seconds before she looked away. “You should. Everyone else does. Sometimes even me.”

  “I don’t.” Ethan wondered if it was true, even as he repeated the words. No, Cindy wasn’t crazy. He was sure of it. But how could he be? He didn’t know, just knew that whatever was going on, it wasn’t that.

  Again he was seized by the overwhelming need to hold her. To pull her into his arms and hold her tight, whisper words of reassurance into her ear. He lifted his hand, let it hover over her shoulder, dropped it back into his lap. How could he touch her, when he wasn’t sure how she would react?

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She laughed again, that short, brittle sound. Then she was quiet. Long seconds went by, enough that Ethan didn’t think she’d answer. Then she took another deep breath and curled her hands against her legs. “Can I? Yeah. Do I want to? I’m not…I don’t know.”

  Ethan took his own deep breath, did his best to school his face into a mask of indifference. Her words shouldn’t hurt. They weren’t meant to hurt.

  “Fair enough.” He tried to smile as he shifted in the seat and reached for the keys in the ignition. “But I’m here if—”

  “Wait.”

  Ethan froze, but not because of her desperate command. No, it was the touch of her hand on his arm that made him freeze. He glanced down, something twisting in his gut as he stared at the small hand, so pale and fragile, resting against his forearm. He didn’t move, not even to look at her, afraid any movement would scare her, make her draw her hand away. Did she even realize she was touching him?

  “Did Maggie…did she tell you anything?”

  “No. Not really. Just that you’d been sick. And that you were, um, going through some things.”

  “Sick. Yeah. Maybe.” Her hand tightened, just a brief squeeze. But it stayed where it was. “Not really. I, uh, I was diagnosed with MDD.”

  Ethan remained still; at least, his body did. His mind raced ahead. MDD? He didn’t know what it was, had never heard of it. Cindy had been sick. Was MDD a disease of some kind? Would she get better? A hundred different questions collided in his racing mind—and he couldn’t ask any of them.

  Could Cindy sense his confusion, his worry? Or was she seeing something else as she stared at the dashboard? Was her mind focused inward, unaware of her surroundings?

  “MDD is major depression disorder. It’s…well, it covers a lot, I guess. Explains a lot.” She took a deep breath, her voice flattening as she spoke, almost like she was reading from a list. “It’s clinical depression. It affects mood and behavior. Appetite. Sleeping. Hopelessness. Loss of interest in…everything.”

  She paused, took a deep breath and ran her free hand across her eyes. Then she turned, the hand on his arm tightening. “It’s not just the MDD. I have anxiety, too. I…sometimes I don’t feel. And sometimes, I’m afraid to be touched. I don’t know why.”

  Ethan swallowed, glanced down at the small pale hand then looked back up. “You’re touching me now.”

  Fuck. Why had he said anything? Panic crossed her face and she jerked her hand away with a soft gasp of surprise. Coldness seeped into him, an emptiness he didn’t understand. It took all of his willpower not to move, not to pull her into his arms and comfort her.

  “You seemed fine this summer.” Even before the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. They sounded cold, uncaring. Almost accusatory. But if Cindy noticed, she didn’t do anything, just sat there and shrugged, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

  “I think…I think it was starting last year. Just small things. A day here, a day there. It got worse when I got back. Real bad. I—” She shuddered then pursed her lips together. Did she regret telling him that much? Was there more she wasn’t telling him? He thought so, but he didn’t want to push, didn’t know how to ask.

  “But you’re getting better, right?”

  She turned toward him, the sadness in her eyes even deeper. “I’m on medication. I see a psychotherapist.”

  “And that helps, right?”

  She shrugged, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “She says I’m getting better. She says I might even be normal one day.”

  Ethan reached out to brush the hair away from her face then dropped his hand before he touched her. “They say normal is overrated anyway, right?”

  Cindy laughed, the sound hollow. Another shudder went through her and the choked laughter turned to sobs. She turned away, her shoulders shaking, her tears quiet. Something sharp twisted inside Ethan and this time he did reach out. He couldn’t let her sit there, so alone when he was right here.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder, the gentle touch hesitant. She stiffened and Ethan cursed under his breath, calling himself a fool. But before he could move, she was turning toward him, her hands reaching blindly for him, her frail arms wrapping around his neck. Ethan held himself still as she cried against his shoulder. Then he slowly, gently, eased his arms around her.

  Holding her. Comforting her with mindless words as she sobbed.

  Time slowed, seconds stretching to long minutes, broken only by the sound of Cindy crying. Her sobs finally eased, turning into short gasps as she caught her breath, the short gasps turning into regular breathing as she curled against him.

  He eased his hold on her, afraid of upsetting her now that she seemed to have calmed. But her arms tightened around him, holding him in place.

  “Don’t. Please.” Her voice was quiet, subdued, the words a rush of warm air against the skin of his neck. “I—I’m not afraid of your touch, Ethan. I’m not afraid of you.”

  His heart slammed into his chest as his arms instinctively tightened around her. She couldn’t be comfortable, not with the way she was stretched across the console. But he didn’t move. He’d stay there all night, holding her just like this, if it helped.

  Cindy was the one who finally pulled away. She sat back in the seat with a deep breath, ran her hands down her face. Ethan reached into the center console, rummaged through the junk that had accumulated there until he found a wad of napkins from some fast-food place. He held them out to her, his heart tripping at the sight of the small smile wavering on her lips.

  She wiped her eyes and blew her nose then crumpled the napkins in her fist. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugged, not quite looking at him. Color filled her face, turning her pale cheeks a delicate pink. “For…everything. Not calling you. Falling apart.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you were ready to talk. To anyone.”

  She shrugged again. Ethan leaned back in the seat, his arm resting against the console—not touching her, but there if she needed the support. “Did crying make you feel better?”

  “I…I’m not sure. I…things get so jumbled sometimes.” She was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Ethan thought maybe it was time to take her home. But she shifted in the leather seat, slid a sideways glance at him then released a long sigh filled with pain and sorrow.

  “My father killed himself. When I was twelve.”

  The confession echoed around the interior of the small car, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He opened his mouth, snapped it closed when he realized he didn’t know what to say.

  “He was bi-polar. And, uh, there were other things going on, I guess. I could never understand why he did it but now I do. I think that’s why my mom can’t look at me anymore. I think she’s afraid I’m going to…that I’m going to be like my father.”

  Ethan pushed the fear the words caused to the back of his mind. He couldn’t think of them now. “What do you think?”

  She looked at him, her eyes oddly clear. “Have I thought about it? Yes, but not like that. Not yet. I remember what his death did to my mother. What it did to me. I think that was the main reason I wanted to study psychology—because I didn’t understand
it, why he did it. Not then.”

  “But you do now?”

  She looked away and nodded, her fingers busy twisting the discarded napkins. “I do. And I’m afraid.”

  Ethan reached over, rested his hand lightly on her arm. He could feel the muscle tense under his palm, felt the tremors running through her. But she didn’t panic, didn’t pull away. “Why are you afraid, Cindy?”

  She finally looked over at him, fear and understanding clear in her eyes. “Because I think it would be too easy to step over that line. Because I’m broken, Ethan. And I don’t want to live life as a broken shell.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Fast, the boards whizzing by in a blur. Shouts. Metal scraping against ice.

  All of it was nothing more than background noise as Ethan raced down the ice, his heart pounding, his hands clenched around the stick. Faster, his lungs heaving with each breath. He bent his knees, leaned forward, reaching for the puck.

  Felt it hit his tape, eased back with the stick. Gentle. Cradling. Sliding to the side as his teammates got into position. He spun around, ready to shoot the puck toward JP Larocque. He pulled back at the last minute, twirled, passed the puck behind him.

  It was a shitty pass, not enough speed. Derek moved forward, reaching as the puck bounced over his blade.

  “Fuck!” Ethan shook his head and took off, chasing the guys from Tampa back to center ice. Sweat poured down his chest and back, soaking his jersey. His lungs burned with each breath and fire scorched his thighs. He’d fucked up. If the pass had been better, cleaner, the Banners would have scored and this extended shift would be over.

  But he’d fucked up and now he was chasing the puck into their own zone, racing faster, followed by JP and Derek. He saw Randy and John Murdoch, their d-men, get into position, protecting Brad in the net.

  One shot. Two. A wide rebound. Ethan moved in closer, dropped his shoulder and hit the player from Tampa. The impact dropped both of them to their knees. Ethan slid, scrambled for balance, got his feet back under him and moved in closer to the net, swinging his stick from side-to-side on the ice.

  Something hit him from behind, low across his back. He clenched his jaw, tasted rubber as he bit down on the mouthpiece. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t take his eye from the play being set up.

  He was hit again, harder this time. His helmet flew off as he spun around and pushed back with his stick. He didn’t hear the player’s tormenting words above the roar of the crowd. He didn’t need to, not when he understood their meaning.

  Their purpose.

  It worked. The horn sounded, echoing close by. Fuck. Tampa had just scored. Again.

  Anger and fury tore through him—at Tampa, for tallying another one. At the player, for distracting him.

  At himself, for being distracted and losing focus.

  He pushed against the guy from Tampa, a rookie trying to make a name for himself as a menace this season. The push was all it took. Seconds later, they were tangling together, fists flying. Ethan grabbed a handful of jersey, holding the guy as he let loose with his fist. Once, twice. He felt bone and tissue give way under scraped knuckles. His head snapped back as something caught him under the eyes.

  Hands grabbed him, trying to pull him away. He tightened his fist in the jersey, pulled it over the rookie’s head as they were separated.

  “Fucking momma’s boy. Not so pretty now, are you?”

  Ethan dove forward, reaching for him, but the hands grabbing him were steady, holding him back.

  “Let it go.”

  “Fuck him, he’s not worth it.”

  Ethan shrugged the hands from his arms and rolled his shoulders. JP and Derek were beside him. Randy was holding back another of Tampa’s players. Even Brad had inched out of the net, his eyes narrowed as he watched. Waiting. Ready.

  Ethan turned his head to the side and shot a stream of spit on the ice, not surprised to see a tinge of pink in it. He ran a hand across the back of his mouth and spit again, then bent down and grabbed his equipment.

  His eyes darted to the screen suspended above center ice as he was led to the sin bin. Five minutes for fighting.

  Fuck.

  The door slammed behind him as he tossed his stick down and dropped to the bench. Self-preservation warred with a sick kind of curiosity—and lost. His gaze slid to the players’ bench across the ice, his eyes seeking and finding Coach LeBlanc.

  Fuck. The coach was pissed, the long scar flashing red like a neon sign advertising anger. Was he pissed about the fighting, the fact that Ethan had lost his cool and drew a penalty? Maybe.

  Or was he pissed about Ethan’s shitty play? The fucking pass he’d whiffed that resulted in Tampa scoring again? Yeah, definitely.

  Could Ethan blame him? Fuck no. Not when he was pissed at himself. He’d been off. Not just for that one play tonight. If it had been just that—yeah, Coach would probably still be pissed, but not as pissed as he was.

  No, it wasn’t just the one play. Tonight’s bad play was the third tonight, just another in an unusual string for Ethan. He’d done something similar two nights ago when they were playing in Carolina. Those plays hadn’t ended in a goal for the other team, but they hadn’t helped and the Banners had lost to Carolina by one goal.

  And they’d probably lose tonight, too.

  He dropped his head and stared at the rubber mat lining the floor of the penalty box. He wasn’t really seeing it, though. Just like he wasn’t paying any attention to the chirping coming from the other box.

  His mind was focused elsewhere: on a pair of deep green eyes, filled with sadness so tangible he could still feel its suffocating effects. His heart squeezed in his chest, the pain sharp and real as helplessness stole over him.

  He wanted to be with Cindy. Wanted to hold her and reassure her. Comfort her.

  For the first time in almost two decades, he didn’t want to be here, on the ice. He didn’t want to be playing the game that was as much a part of him as breathing.

  And how fucked up was that?

  It wasn’t, not when he peeled away everything to the bare basics of what mattered the most.

  Cindy mattered.

  And yeah, that was really fucked up because, as far as he knew, they were still just friends. That was probably all they’d ever be now. He had hoped—had wanted—so much more. Had thought that whatever had started between them on the island would grow into something more. That’s what he wanted. That’s what he’d always wanted.

  Because he was in love with her.

  He had been from the night he first met her.

  He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. What the fuck was wrong with him? In love? People didn’t fall in love after just meeting someone, not in real life. And they sure as hell didn’t fall in love with their friends.

  Maybe, if things had been different, they might have been able to have a relationship. To test the waters and see what happened.

  But life didn’t work out that way.

  And now it didn’t matter. Cindy would never believe him if he told her. And what made him think she’d ever feel the same way? Especially not now, not with her…

  He squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed against the lump in his throat. Her…what? Illness? Setback? Issues? What the fuck did he even call it?

  It didn’t matter what he called it, not when she was convinced she was broken. The memory of that night last week was still so clear. The agony in her eyes, the desolation and panic. And lurking just beneath the surface, her certainty that she’d never get better.

  That she was permanently broken.

  That life stretched ahead of her, bleak and lonely. Hopeless.

  He tried to tell her that wasn’t the case. That she wasn’t alone. She had friends who cared about her. That he was there for her. But she didn’t believe him.

  She didn’t say that out loud but she didn’t need to, not when he could see it in her eyes. So he called her every day, just to check on her. To reassure her. To let her know he was
there for her.

  She’d been hesitant to talk to him at first, her words cautious and her voice strained. But after the first few days, she started to sound almost…normal. Not quite like her old self but better.

  Would she ever be her old self again? Vibrant, energetic, full of life? Smiling, laughing, ready to take on any obstacle? He didn’t know and neither did she.

  Ethan didn’t care. She was still Cindy. She was still the woman he’d fallen in love with last year, no matter what else happened.

  But he didn’t know if he could convince her of that. Didn’t know if she even wanted that. And if he told her, would she run away? Or worse, tell him she never wanted to see him again? She might—because she was the kind of person who wouldn’t want to feel like she was an obligation to anyone. She wouldn’t want to feel like she was holding someone back.

  How could he convince her otherwise? What could he do—

  He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and his head jerked up, his gaze automatically going to the screen overhead.

  Fuck.

  He grabbed his helmet and jammed it on his head, grabbed his stick and pushed to his feet as the clock counted down the seconds. Three. Two. One—

  Ethan hit the ice almost running, his gaze moving to the play being set-up yards away. He moved closer, forcing his mind to focus, willing instincts borne from years of playing to kick in.

  But his heart wasn’t in it. For the first time in nearly twenty years, his heart wasn’t in the game.

  It was over nine hundred miles away, held in the unknowing grip of a woman with sad green eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We need to talk.”

  Ethan tossed his bag on the bed then slipped off his jacket and placed it in the closet. He dug the phone from his pocket, barely glancing at Dillon. “No, we don’t.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to make a phone call.”

  Dillon pushed in front of him, blocking the door. Then he grabbed the phone from Ethan’s hand and held it behind him, like a kid playing keep-away. Ethan just stared at him, a hard look that should have convinced Dillon to give the phone back and get out of his way.