“You’re amazing, Reese. I don’t know if I can let you go.”
She pulls back, giving me the amused grin I’ve come to like so well.
“What we had was perfect in every way. How many people ever get to say that? But if we tried to keep in touch, it wouldn’t stay perfect.”
“How do you know, though? Maybe it would.”
She reaches up and cups my cheek. “I’m not ready. But you’ll always be in my heart, Knox.” Tears well in her eyes. “I mean that.”
Stretching up, she gives me a final, soft kiss and says, “Be well.”
“You too, Reese.” My voice thickens with emotion. “And don’t ever settle.”
She steps back, clutching her purse tight with one hand and wiping away a tear with another.
“Goodbye, Knox.”
“Goodbye, Reese.”
And damned if I don’t wipe away a tear myself on the Uber ride back to Luca’s.
But it’s over. The woman of my dreams will make a new life for herself in Paris, and I’ll go back to hockey being the most important thing in my life.
I get it now, the guys who want more. Who get married and want kids. Maybe someday I’ll meet another woman who makes me feel this way.
Somehow, though, I doubt it.
Part 2
14 months later
Chapter Seven
Knox
A server in formalwear fills my water glass as I survey the scene.
There’s me, Silas, Jonah, Rhett and our team’s newest player, Dante Fox. The whole team isn’t at this dinner with our new owner Olivier Durand. He’s taking everyone out in small groups to get to know us.
It’s been a tenuous several months since Durand bought the Blaze from the Weller family, who had owned the team for more than twenty-five years. Durand is a French-Canadian tech billionaire who loves hockey. So far the changes he’s made to the team have been good, but many of us are wondering if it’s only a matter of time ‘til he drops his proverbial guillotine on our necks.
“I’ve never had such a time getting into a restaurant,” Olivier says to Jonah. “But this is the hottest ticket in town, so I had to make it happen.”
The place is called Magnolia, and it’s got a unique vibe. The table settings are formal, with a shitload of spoons and forks. The servers are dressed like English butlers. The chairs are all casual but comfortable upholstered leather. And the scents in the air are a mix of sautéed garlic and barbequed pork—not exactly uppity fare.
“Knox, I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Olivier says to me from across the table. “How is he doing?”
“Thanks. He’s hanging in there. The treatments have been really hard on him.”
It’s been three months since my dad was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. Nothing’s ever shaken me like seeing my father so physically wrecked by the treatments he’s enduring.
“Drake Deveraux’s a fighter if I’ve ever known one,” Olivier says. “If you need time away to be with him, at any point, it’s yours.”
“I appreciate that, thanks. But he’s adamant that I start the season as usual.”
He was also adamant that I take the trip to Kauai with my teammates a month after his diagnosis, telling me he could handle ten days of puking and sleeping between treatments without me there. My mom and sister encouraged me to go, too. It was hard for me to go, but I did.
Most of the time I was there, I was back and forth between worrying about my dad and missing Reese. Though I haven’t seen or heard from her in more than a year, she’s never far from my mind.
Sometimes our time together in paradise feels like a dream. It was the last time I can remember feeling perfectly happy, like nothing was missing from my life. And with my dad so sick, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel that way again.
After the Kauai trip, I spent the rest of my off-season with my parents. My sister lives in Milwaukee with her family, so she visits our parents in Hilton Head when she can, but mostly it was me and mom taking turns with Dad’s care, and him telling us both that he didn’t need our help.
“I’ll never forget watching him play in the Olympics on television when I was a child,” Olivier says of my dad. “It was magical.” He raises his glass. “To Drake Deveraux.”
A lump forms in my throat as I nod gratefully and drink to my father with Olivier and my teammates. Olivier’s somber tone and expression tell me he’s heard how grim things are looking for my dad. His respect for him means a lot to me, though.
I’ve always thought of my father as magical. He was larger than life when I was a kid. I woke up every morning wanting to be exactly like him. And even though he was a legendary forward and I made a better defenseman, he’s told me many times how proud he is that I followed in his footsteps.
“I can hardly wait for the first preseason game,” Olivier says with a grin. “How about you guys?”
“We’re ready,” Jonah assures him.
Dante is sitting next to me, and when a man taps him on the shoulder, I glance over as he turns.
“Mr. Fox, sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to say I’m glad you’re with the Blaze now. My wife and I are season ticket holders and we’re really looking forward to seeing you play.”
Our new defender, who shares my dark coloring, smiles and shakes the man’s hand.
“Thanks so much, I appreciate that.”
The man gives him a sheepish smile in return. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“Not at all,” Dante says. “Did you want to get a photo real quick?”
The fan practically bursts with excitement. “That’d be great! Let me get my wife real quick.”
Inwardly, I roll my eyes. This guy. I never assume people want photos with me. If they ask, I always say yes, but I’m not as arrogant as Dante.
I was less than thrilled when the team traded a quiet but steady defenseman for this showboater. While I can’t knock his hockey skills, I don’t think we need another high-profile player. Anton draws attention everywhere he goes, and the longer Jonah goes without dating, the more buzz there seems to be about when he will. And I was voted Most Eligible NHL Bachelor last spring. That’s enough chatter for one team.
“You ever had lamb?” Dante asks me once he’s back in his seat looking over the menu.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” I tell him.
“I think I might try it. What are you getting?”
“Probably the barbequed pork.”
“Yeah, it smells amazing.” He adjusts the knot on his tie. “You know, I saw a picture of a dessert from this place on IG the other day and it was unreal. Some kind of little basket made out of chocolate with raspberries and cream inside.”
“I saw that, too,” Rhett says, nodding enthusiastically. “Mia Petrov posted it.”
Rhett takes over talking to Dante, which I don’t mind a bit. I sip my beer in silence, looking around the crowded restaurant.
Fancy places aren’t my thing. Even though my dad was a top NHL player when I was growing up, my parents wanted to bring their kids up the same way they were raised. We lived in a nice neighborhood in Philadelphia, but not an upscale one. I played street hockey with kids in the neighborhood until after dark every night. We’d all watch Dad’s games on the only TV set we owned, which was in our living room. And Mom cooked for us most every night.
I’m more of a burger and beer kind of guy. Though I can’t deny the high-end beer at this place is damn good.
Finishing my first one, I set my glass down and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. It’s a slow journey because of the crowd in this place. I’m making my way past the bar when a woman reaches out and touches my arm.
“You’re that hockey player,” she says, eyeing me. “I saw you in that eligible bachelors article online.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I extend my hand to her. “Knox Deveraux.”
“Hey, Knox. I’m Lindsey.” She gives me a once over and then smiles her approval. “My girlfriends and I are going
out after dinner if you want to ditch your date and join us.”
“I’m at a business dinner, actually, but thanks.” I give her a quick nod and add, “Nice to meet you,” before heading in the direction of the bathroom.
I’m not in the mood for a Lindsey tonight. Easy women used to be fun, but nowadays I’d rather just spend the evening alone with good takeout and some baseball on TV. Or I indulge in my guilty pleasure…catching up on Days of Our Lives. Silas got me watching it because we room together when the team travels, and now I’m hooked. Damn show is so bad, it’s good.
After taking a leak, I’m on my way back to the table when I glance over at a framed magazine article hanging in the hallway outside the bathroom. My heart pounds when I see a picture of a smiling Reese in a white apron, her hair pulled back and a tall chocolate cake in front of her.
Magnolia Snags Award-Winning Pastry Chef. The article’s headline sends a wave of hope through me. I scan the lines of the story and see that Reese has been working at the very restaurant I'm standing in for the past seven months.
My mouth drops open in shock. For seven months, Reese has been right here in Chicago, and I had no idea. We could have passed on the street.
I have to see her. More than a year after our vacation fling, I still can’t get her out of my head. That has to mean something.
Walking back into the main dining room, I stop a server.
“Excuse me, but is it possible I can see your pastry chef?” I ask her. “Reese?”
The server furrows her brow, thinking. “She doesn’t usually work this late. Can I find someone else who can help you?”
Frustrated, I shake my head. “When can I catch her here?”
“She usually leaves by six during the week, I think. But sometimes she’s here later on Saturday nights.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Oh, and she’s got a day off during the week, but I’m not sure what day it is.”
“Thanks for your help.”
I walk back to the table, my blood still pumping hard from seeing that picture of Reese.
I’ve thought about her voice so many times since I last saw her. Pictured her face and relived our time together. Since I laid eyes on Reese, no woman has come close to capturing my interest the way she did.
And she’s in Chicago at this very moment. I want to see her. Badly.
“You okay, man?” Jonah asks as I sit back down.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I’m not, though. I have to figure out how I can see Reese. I run through options in my head, trying to look like I’m listening to what Olivier is saying.
I could ask someone who works here for her number, but that’s not likely going to work. Maybe I could ask them to pass my number on to her, though?
No. I don’t have the patience for that shit.
I’ll have to come back here tomorrow and pretend like I’m running into her by chance. Yeah, that’ll work. And I’ll ask her to get together after she’s off. My first preseason game isn’t for another week.
But shit. Olivier said it’s hard to get a table at this place. And I’m not willing to wait weeks or months to see Reese.
Our server comes to take our order, and when he gets to me, I try to give him my friendliest, un-enforcer-like smile.
“Hey, your pastry chef is an old friend of mine,” I say.
“Reese?” His expression brightens. “Yeah, she’s the best. Have you tried one of her chocolate baskets?”
“I plan to.” I clear my throat. “Hey, do you know when I might be able to catch her here without having a reservation?”
The server’s expression has good luck with that written all over his face.
“Uh…she does inventory on Monday mornings, but we aren’t open until 5:00 p.m., so that might not work. You could knock on the front door, though, there are always people working inside during the day.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
It’s not a great option, because today is Wednesday and Monday feels about a year away. But it’s something.
“Or you could find her at the shelter tomorrow,” the server adds.
“The shelter?”
“Yeah, the Women’s Mission downtown. She volunteers there on Thursdays; it’s her day off.”
Of course she does. Before I knew anything about Reese, I could tell she was good. You can just feel it when she looks at you. She’s the last person who deserves to get dumped on the way her ex-fiancé did.
That’s his loss. And whether he gets it or not, he won’t find another woman like Reese. She’s rare—surrounded by an aura that I just can’t get enough of.
“I’ll do that, man,” I say. “Thanks.”
I order and then sit back in my chair, satisfied. I’m less than a day away from seeing Reese again. And this time, I won’t let her get away easily.
Chapter Eight
Reese
I have to force myself not to mention Ellen’s black eye as I show her how to roll out pie crust dough. No matter how many women I meet at the shelter with visible injuries, it never becomes commonplace.
“And just sprinkle extra flour on the counter if the dough feels too sticky,” I instruct. “About a tablespoon or two at a time.”
She nods, her gaze cast down at her workspace. I keep biting my tongue, because something I’ve learned in my three months volunteering in the kitchen here is that my Number One Rule means a lot to the women who come here.
This is a safe place.
That rule means so much to me that I had it printed on a sign I hung on the wall. It’s something Angelia, the shelter’s kitchen manager, was doing without even knowing it. But I formalized it. I only volunteer here one full day and one evening a week, but I still feel great ownership of the program we’re running.
Abused women come here, often with their children, to heal. And in this kitchen, healing means you don’t have to talk about anything unless you want to. There are women who come here and don’t say a word, and others who bring us all to tears as we peel potatoes.
On Thursdays, we spend the afternoon preparing dinner for everyone at the shelter. I teach a baking class on Thursday evenings and a cooking class on Tuesday evenings. Some of the women want to learn to cook for their families; others are hoping to get the job skills to land a full-time job.
“Damn, girl, what are you so afraid of?” Angelia asks from the other side of the kitchen. “It’s dead, I promise.”
I look over and see a young woman named Anita cringing at a raw chicken, her hand lingering a couple inches from it.
“Pull all that inside stuff out,” Angelia instructs her. “Come on, you’ve got lots more to do after that one.”
“It’s so gross,” Anita says.
Angelia glares at her. “Can’t have chicken pot pie without chicken, can we?”
I wipe my hands on my apron and approach, smiling at Anita.
“Cleaning a chicken is an important skill to learn,” I say. “And it gets easier once you’ve done a few.”
She groans. “I prefer chicken in a box, shaped like nuggets.”
Angelia clucks her disappointment. “If you think that’s chicken, I got a bridge to sell you.”
Anita gives me a questioning look. “Nuggets aren’t chicken?”
“Anita,” Angelia says wearily, “I need you to either clean those birds or let me give the job to someone else.”
“I’ll do it,” Anita grumbles.
I give her a pat on the back and walk over to Angelia, who is unloading the carrots I brought from Magnolia. The executive chef at the restaurant I started working for seven months ago is great about donating ingredients when I need them for the shelter.
“Did you find a warm enough place for the bread to rise?” I ask her.
She nods. “It’s in that storage room upstairs.”
“Okay, perfect.”
“Are these carrots all for the pot pie, or should I save some for the salad?”
“Let’s se
t some aside for the salad, that’s a good idea.”
Angelia and I are mostly business when we’re in the kitchen, but she’s quickly become my best friend since I moved to Chicago. From the moment I met her and heard her story, I was drawn to her.
After enduring years of physical and emotional abuse, Angelia left her husband. She did all the right things—got a restraining order and hid herself, but he found her. When he did, he threw acid on her. She was lucky that most of it missed, but the skin on the side of her neck and one of her arms was badly damaged.
Her ex-husband is in prison now, and Angelia works for the Women’s Mission, which once sheltered her when she needed it. She wears short sleeves to work, hoping to serve as a reminder to the women here that abuse often escalates. Every time I see the scars on her mocha-colored skin from her skin grafting surgery, and remember her telling me that some of the acid that got on her arm burned through so much tissue that it did permanent nerve damage, I think about how lucky I am.
When Eric jilted me at the altar more than a year ago, my sheltered heart thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me. The women at the Mission teach me every day that it wasn’t. And helping them move on from what they’ve been through is essential to who I am now.
“Did you see that email from Gloria?” Angelia asks me, the corner of her lip quirking up just slightly in her trademark scowl. “About doing a girls night out tomorrow?”
“I did.”
Angelia gives me a weary look. “After a week of working, all I want to do on Friday night is eat some pizza and move as little as possible.”
“Same, girl. And I know I’ll be here late tonight helping sort stuff for the food pantry, and I have a long day at work tomorrow because we have a high-profile engagement party happening and I have to stay late to make sure everything runs smoothly with the desserts.”
My friend shakes her head. “You know, half of me would like to know how much an engagement party at that place costs, and half of me knows I’d be too disgusted.”
Knox: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 5
