by Maria Luis
His gaze hardens. “Spare me the it’s not you, it’s me speech.”
But what if that’s actually the case? I want to say. What if, for once, I’m trying not to follow so directly in my mother’s footsteps? What if I can’t get my mother’s pestering about traitorous best friends and good-for-nothing husbands and skin-deep loyalty out of my head?
I don’t get the chance.
Marshall’s hands go to his lean hips, and he lowers his head, lashes sweeping down as he stares at the floor between us. His chest expands with a deep breath and the words that follow claw at my heart.
“I’m done, Gwen. We’ve been doing this for years now. Me chasing you; you pullin’ away. I’ll admit I haven’t been a saint, but I’m done watching you flit from douchebag to douchebag without ever once looking at me. Really looking at me. I’m younger, so what? You’ve dated guys twice your age. I witnessed a painful time in your life? So what, Gwen. It happened six fucking years ago.” His gaze cuts to me, and I feel that look like a punch to the stomach. “Get over it. Don’t get over it. Doesn’t matter to me. If you need me, you know where to find me. Until then, I’m done playing games.”
My brain scrambles for words, any words that I can possibly say to stop the impending train wreck but I’ve got nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, my skin grows clammy, and then I watch as Marshall shakes his head, as though disappointed to realize that I don’t have the balls to take a leap of courage, before giving me a two-finger salute and stalking off.
I don’t expect tears to spring to my eyes.
I don’t expect to feel the sudden loss in my chest from his sudden departure.
And I certainly don’t expect the new mantra which has kicked off in my head: what have you done, what have you done, whathaveyoudone?
It’s quite easy to see what I’ve done.
I’ve singlehandedly pushed away the only man in my life—aside from Manuel—who has seen beneath my icy (read: bitchy) exterior to the woman who’s been lost for years.
A hand presses to my back, and I immediately catch the scent of Zoe’s perfume. It’s the one I convinced Andre to buy for her birthday a few months back when he dragged me to the mall in search of the perfect “presents.” Plural, not singular.
I can’t stop myself. I lean back into that hand, into our friendship, and Zoe catches me with an arm around my waist. I may not have known her for years, but this girl, she’s become as close to a sister as I’ll ever have.
“What did you do?” she murmurs in my ear, echoing my own thoughts as she fits a champagne flute into my hand.
What didn’t I do?
In advocating the “love is horseshit” slogan, I may have inadvertently ruined my only chance at discovering that the exact opposite is true.
I search the crowd for familiar broad shoulders. No luck.
I tip the flute up to my lips for a healthy swallow of the bubbly.
“Everything,” I say to Zoe, “I screwed up everything.”
4
Hunt
“So, you and Gwen put on quite a show at my engagement party last night.”
I’m flat on a bench press at the Blades’ training facility when I hear Beaumont’s wry remark. I don’t answer immediately. Hell, I don’t even know what to say because he’s right. Not only did Gwen and I put on a show, I lost my temper for the first time in what feels like forever. I never lose my cool, not anymore.
I learned impulse control around the time Northeastern recruited me and took me out of the shithole where I’d been surviving.
Still, staring down at Gwen’s pained expression as I lit into her . . . I hate that. I hate that I made her feel less than when I’ve been trying—for years, at that—to show her that she’s more than all that icy attitude she hands out like candy. I’ve seen glimpses to the woman underneath that hard shell of hers when she thinks no one is watching. I’ve seen her give without comment about how it might inconvenience her. Gwen tries damn hard to keep up the Ice Queen façade—is it wrong that I’m tired of trying to crack what I know is just a front?
Six years of doing the chasing with sporadic-as-hell glimmers of hope has worn me down.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my final push of the morning. Weight-lifting is my thing. Some people like cardio. Some people like sitting on their asses and working out their thumbs flipping TV channels. Me? It’s all about arm curls and dumbbells and bench presses. If I didn’t spend my days training for the Blades, I’d probably be one of those crazed CrossFit nuts.
Seems like my own slice of paradise.
Metal clangs against metal as I set the crossbar back on the rack. Then I swing myself into an upright position and meet my best friend’s gaze. If you believe the media, I’m the white light to Andre Beaumont’s dark shadows, the angel next to his Belial, the ball of sunshine next to his stench of sulfur.
The media knows shit.
Beaumont plays hard on the ice because it’s required of him. And, yeah, the guy hasn’t always been the most chipper fellow on the block, but the last eight months or so have done a lot to ease the bleakness from his black eyes. His girl Zoe has done that.
And last night, instead of playing up my special platter of sunshine and laughter, I let frustration get the best of me.
Me and Beaumont? We’re not as different as everyone would like to think. I’m just a lot better at hiding my demons behind a charming smile and a playboy lifestyle.
“I’m sorry about that, man,” I say, the only peace offering I’ve got. I could promise him my firstborn, but the way things are looking, I’ll be single for life. The models are great, but all those relationships are casual.
I’ve been hanging onto the thread of hope that one day Gwen James will look at me, reach for the zipper of my jeans, and say, “It’s always been you.”
Hey, a guy can dream, right?
Beaumont casts a quick glance at our teammates. We’ve been conditioning for an hour now. Every day playing for the Blades is somewhat the same. Early morning skate, followed by cardio, followed by weights. Most of the guys have got music blasting into their skulls via their headphones; a few lazy-ass stragglers are preening in front of the mirrors as they arm-curl an equally lazy-ass ten-pound dumbbell. Keep that up and they’ll be back on the farm team before the season even gets fully underway.
“Hunt,” Beaumont says, turning back to me after he’s apparently satisfied no one’s eavesdropping, “you made her cry.”
My stomach sinks, even as I force myself to maintain a neutral expression. “You’re delusional,” I mutter darkly. “Trust me when I say that Gwen James doesn’t cry.”
Wrong. She has, albeit two times.
I don’t blame her for either of them. That first situation six years ago tore her to shreds. It’d hurt to see her feel so strongly about another guy; it’d hurt even more to know that I’d had a hand in her humiliation. Just because it’d been an indirect hand didn’t change the outcome.
Tears were tears and hearts were shattered.
Gwen can play the indifferent card with everyone else, but for the length of Accounting 201, we’d become friends of a sort. Friends who met up for lunch and studied together. Unfortunately, “friends” is as far as we’ve ever progressed. Any attempts on my end to call her out on friend-zoning me, when it’s clear there’s an attraction on her end, have been shut down.
I bat Beaumont back with a wave of my hand so I can snag my Gatorade bottle off the floor by his foot. Popping the lid, I guzzle the blue liquid and try not to think of Gwen crying.
Damn. Can’t do it. Dropping the bottle to my knee, I scrub the heel of my hand across my mouth. “Did she actually cry?”
Beaumont shifts. Since he’s more mountain than man, the movement obscures my line of sight to our captain, Jackson Carter, who’s watching us both. Carter is a true vet: thirty-four years old. He came to us at the start of last season from the Dallas Stars. Appropriate, since the guy is “cowboy”
all the way.
“Well,” Beaumont hedges, “she did look like she might cry.”
I lift my gaze to his. “But she didn’t?”
“Eh . . .” He points to his face. “There may have been a tear. Maybe two.”
I almost laugh. It’s just like Beaumont to try and make me feel better, even if it’s by way of making me feel like a dick first. More than anyone else on the team, he knows how much I want that woman. “Like I said, Gwen doesn’t cry. But thanks for making me feel like an asshole anyway.”
We wrap up the rest of training, completing our circuits, listening to Jackson Carter as he tells us to be prepared for our game against the New York Islanders in two days. It’s at home, which I definitely don’t mind—although not for the same reasons as everyone else. While my teammates have their family in the Friends-and-Family section of TD Garden, I’ve got . . . well, to put it bluntly, I’ve got no one.
Except for my older brother, who’s more likely to hit me up after the game in the hope for some cash. Since I’ve earned myself a solid spot on the first line during the last year, Dave has come to only one game.
He spent all three periods hitting on my teammates’ wives and girlfriends.
It was his first and only time sitting with the families. If he comes to watch me anymore, it’s not on my dime and I’m not aware of it.
After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of jeans, a worn Blades T-shirt, and my favorite leather jacket. Once everything is stowed away in my locker, I’m heading out the door. Usually I’ll catch up with some of the guys, maybe grab some lunch at this badass Italian place just around the corner from the training facility. I’m not feeling it today—between Dave hounding me for more money and the whole Gwen showdown from last night, the need to kick back with my teammates is nonexistent.
Nope.
Not today.
The air is frigid as I exit the arena, and my skin tightens like someone’s slid ice cubes down the ridges of my spine. Heading for my truck, I don’t notice the figure standing next to it until I’m feet away, jangling my keys against my leg and looking up from my cell phone.
I’d recognize that red hair anywhere.
What the hell is Gwen doing here?
My stride slows, and she must hear the tread of my heavy boots because she glances up from her phone with a strained expression. The loose curls of her hair are frizzier than normal. Even her clothes, which are usually perfectly tailored, look disheveled today.
Her slim, knee-length skirt is off-center, the row of buttons not aligning with her belly-button. Her flouncy shirt is half-tucked into the skirt. And, hell, the woman is wearing flats.
Gwen James is a stiletto kind of girl.
I haven’t seen her in anything else since Accounting 201.
Be casual, man.
Right. Be casual. How’s that even possible when all I want to do is muss Gwen up even more? With my fingers. My tongue. My cock.
I purposely slide my gaze down her trim frame, taking in my fill, before slipping my phone into the back of my jeans and cocking my head to the side. “Fancy seeing you here, Miss James.”
Her blue eyes flick away from my face, but I suspect the aversion has less to do with checking me out and more to do with hiding her flushed cheeks—a flush that has nothing to do with the chilly weather.
“Marshall,” she says somewhat stiffly, sliding her hands down the length of her skirt. “I was hoping to run into you.”
Had she? I squelch down a burst of pleasure, stomping the bastard hard into the ground. I’m done with the hope. I meant what I said last night. Shoving my hands into my jeans’ pockets, I tilt my head toward my truck. “Looks like you found me.”
The flush burns even brighter, and this time I know damn well the freezing temperature isn’t responsible.
“Yeah, I . . .” She visibly swallows, and I realize that I’ve never, not once, seen her so at odds. Gwen is the epitome of ice and class, a concoction that keeps her nose in the air and her true feelings wrapped up in steel walls.
But this Gwen . . . the messy, uncertain Gwen standing before me? Well, color me intrigued.
Wanting to push her a little more, I lift my brows in a show of deliberate patience. “You are . . .?”
Her red hair is shoved indelicately behind one ear. “I’m here.”
She’s pretty much told me nothing. I nod slowly. “Congratulations. You lookin’ for a trophy or something?”
White teeth sink into her bottom lip. I suck down a groan and force myself to stop thinking about those lips wrapped around my cock. Never gonna happen, that’s for sure.
“I, um.” Gwen shifts her weight, tucking one foot behind her opposite calf like she’s nervous to have me see her this way. “Listen, I . . . So, this is officially a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
I watch her expectantly, giving her nothing. Oh, how the tables have turned. Plus, I doubt she’s here for anything us related. If anything, she’s probably here on her boss’s bidding. Walter Collins has been trying to lock me down into hiring Golden Lights Media for a year now.
I’m not interested.
I’ve already signed on the dotted line for another firm—a firm, I might add, that took me on even when I was still on the farm team, when the Blades had yet to pull me up onto their official roster.
“Okay, okay.” Gwen shoots me a glare, like I’m the one at fault for her halted speech. I hear her mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, “I can do this,” and then she’s straightening her shoulders, thrusting her full breasts up and out, and announcing, “I’d like to take you up on that offer for our date. The date that I won from the charity auction last spring.”
Shock clamps my jaw shut.
But now that Gwen has opened the gates, proverbially speaking, she doesn’t stop. She steps to the side, head down, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I know that I sort of . . . you know, turned you down rather harshly. I’d told Zoe I didn’t plan to bet on you, and I know the money was going to first responders, but I just couldn’t . . . I mean, it’s never been about your looks.” She offers an awkward ha-ha, her blue eyes skirting up to my face before swiftly darting away again. “You’re handsome. And young. Oh, God, what I mean is—I already said that. The I mean thing, I mean. I just did it again.” Her eyes go wide as though begging me to end her misery.
I don’t.
Let the misery continue.
I fold my arms over my chest and keep up the mute act. I like this Gwen. Hell, I really like this Gwen.
She huffs out a heavy breath, repeating the tuck-the-hair motion again. There’s no more hair to tuck. It’s already been plastered behind her ears. But she’s nervous. For the first time in years, I think I may be witnessing Gwen James come undone.
Over me.
Does sweet justice actually exist? I think it does.
“So, yes, I turned you down repeatedly. That’s on me. I was going through . . . life? Yeah, we’ll go with life. But I listened to what you said last night, Marshall, and I realized that I’d like to go on a date with you. It’d be nice. I mean, I think it would be nice. We won’t know if we’re compatible until we go out or whatever. To be honest, I’m not even sure a relationship is the best thing. Does love even really . . . it doesn’t matter.” Her shoulders hike up, her flouncy shirt fluttering around her breasts.
Blue eyes meet mine, hopeful and nervous.
“Will you go on a date with me, Marshall?”
I stare down at her—the woman I’ve crushed on like an idiot teenager for half my adult life—and say the one word I never anticipated telling her.
“No.”
5
Gwen
“I can’t believe he said no.”
Both Charlie and Zoe roll their eyes, two nights after Marshall’s rejection. We’re seated at a high-top table at our favorite bar, and not even my favorite Pinot Grigio can soothe the sting of his firm “no.”
“I can’t believe he said no,” I repeat
, motioning to a passing cocktail waitress for another round. “How could he even do that? How do you go from asking someone to dance one night to shutting them down the very next day?”
“Easy,” Charls says, surprising me. She snags my wine glass and downs what’s left. “Sorry, not sorry,” she tells me, pointing the glass at me when my mouth falls open. “We’ve been listening to you repeat the same phrase for thirty minutes now. I can’t take it anymore.”
I turn to Zoe, the bride-to-be. Instead of glowing radiantly like every bride should, she’s feigning sleep, one hand holding up her head. Clapping my hands together, Zoe puts on a good, performative jolt like I’ve startled her awake.
“What?” she says, glancing around. “What did I miss?”
Charlie snickers, and I resist the urge to kick her in the shin. “Oh, nothing. Our beloved Gwen is still talking about Hunt.”
“About how he turned her down?” Zoe replies, reaching for Charlie’s glass of wine. In other words, my glass of wine.
“Yup.”
“Oh, huh, guess I didn’t miss much then.”
“Is this pick-on-Gwen night or something?” Smiling politely at the cocktail server as she drops off our second round of much-needed booze, I turn back to my friends. “Why don’t you two have my side on this?”
Charlie and Zoe exchange a look, and it’s one that I can’t read. After a sip of her fresh Manhattan, Charlie props her elbows on the table and stares me down. “Do you want this easy or hard?”
I give an awkward laugh, knowing both of my friends aren’t the sort to beat around the bush. “Is this where I make a bad sex joke? That’s what she said, and all that?”
Zoe scrubs a hand over her mouth like she’s fighting off a smile but doesn’t want to encourage me. “No,” she says, lips still twitching, “this is where we tell you that we love you. You know we do. But this is all your fault.”
Charlie nods her curly blond head in agreement. “Totally your fault. What did you expect when you’ve strung the poor guy along for ten years now?”
