by Maria Luis
“It hasn’t been . . .” Knowing that neither one of them is going to care about the fact that I haven’t even known Marshall for ten years, I add, “Correction. I’ve never strung him along. Not once.”
“Lies.” Charlie points at my wine. “Take a sip.”
“Is this a new drinking game we’re playing?”
“It is tonight.” Charlie pushes the wine glass toward me with one finger to the base. “Now, how about that time three months ago when you made sure to order his favorite kind of wings when we were having dinner at Zoe’s?”
They’ve got to be kidding me. Since when does an order from the local chicken-wing joint equate to relationship-anything? Clearly, the two of them are absolutely, irrefutably bonkers. Which, to be honest, isn’t shocking.
Charlie thrives off being the life of the party, as much as she pretends to be the quiet wallflower decorating the furniture. She’s hilarious, friendly, and snarky enough that most people are caught off-guard when she opens her mouth and trash-talks with the same caliber as a professional hockey player.
Zoe’s not much better. Sure, she can be quiet in group settings—unless she’s got a drink or two in her—but she’s just as much of a snark-master as our girl Charls.
So, it’s with a bit of trepidation that I murmur, “It was wings, you guys. Fried chicken, of all things. I didn’t offer him my left kidney.”
“Would you?” asks Zoe, lifting her brows. “Because Hunt would do that for you.”
“Give me his kidney?” I shake my head. “Wouldn’t happen.”
“You sure?”
“Well . . . yeah.” Am I sure? I certainly think that I am. Yes, Marshall hasn’t made an effort to conceal his attraction to me over the years. But attraction isn’t nearly the same thing as caring about someone.
“Drink time!” Charlie shouts, giving me The Look. The one where she’s both triumphant and tipsy, and I’m pretty sure she’s swaying in her seat. “You need a plan,” she adds, most definitely swaying now. She tries to pass it off like she’s dancing to the beat, but while hip-hop blasts from the bar’s speakers, Charls looks like she’s wrapped up in a slow-jam number from prom night.
She’s even got her arms wrapped around her belly.
We should probably get ready to call it a night. I’m not feeling all that sober myself. I blame Marshall for this—because in the span of five minutes, he managed to undo everything. I have my role in our relationship; he has his. When I hook up with guys—which hasn’t happened in months—they’re always older, separated from their wives, and way too busy with their careers to think about me for longer than it takes for us to do the deed. I don’t do younger guys or men with a penchant for long-term crushes. That’s not my style; it’s never been my style.
But then Marshall walked away, closing a door I’d ignored for so long, and . . . maybe I’m feeling a sense of regret for missing out on what could have been. Maybe I secretly liked the chase, and now that he has no plans to keep up the game, I’m desperate for any sort of connection with him.
Maybe you just don’t want him to walk away.
I bring my wine glass to my lips for a swallow of the cold, irrefutable truth—that I didn’t mind ignoring Marshall’s advances when I always assumed he’d be there.
And now he’s not.
Like my friends so eloquently told me, I have no one to blame but myself.
“I need to woo him.”
The song switches over the loudspeaker as I speak, and my slurred words come out an octave louder than is socially acceptable. Heads swivel in our direction, curious glances painting everyone’s expressions as they sip their cool brews and watch the spectacle unfold.
Cringing, I draw my shoulders down and bury my face into my hands. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I just said that.”
Zoe pats me on the shoulder like I’m a good dog. “Glad you’re finally admitting what we’ve known all along. You’ve screwed up, bad.”
“Wooing is a great plan,” Charlie jumps in, tapping the top of my head so that I’ll meet her gaze, “as long as you do it correctly. And if you’re serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
Her head cocks to the side. “Um, maybe because you’ve had countless of opportunities to take him up on any of his offers to go out with him, and you’ve turned him down just as many times. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility to consider that you’re just interested because he’s no longer pining after you?”
“I don’t think he ever pined after me,” I mutter, nevertheless feeling the sting of her words. I can’t help but wonder if they’re true. Anything’s possible and I’m definitely wasted right now. But . . . there’s also the fact that the last two days have been alcohol-free, and I still haven’t been able to rid myself of the hollow feeling which gripped my soul the minute Marshall dismissed me.
“He pined after you,” Zoe confirms with a nod and a toss of her long, dark hair. “Pining was definitely involved. Fact is, Gwen, here’s a little tough love. You’re perfectly comfortable living the single life. I mean, I’m actually rather convinced that you enjoy it. When you do date, it’s always casual and rarely lasts longer than a week or two.”
While the words ring true, they also ring loud, as though I’m witnessing more of my sins being paraded out in front of me.
Bitchy Gwen James. Icy Gwen James. Horrible Gwen James.
I know my faults, every last one of them.
Clearing my throat, I say, “That’s what I do, Zo, you know this. No-attached sex means there aren’t any hurt feelings when we go our separate ways. I don’t think I’m cut out for the ever-after sort of thing.”
“Then what are you doing sulking about a lost opportunity with Hunt? If you don’t want to date or get into anything more permanent, what’s the point?”
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I think of my mother, who I plan to visit tomorrow. She’s been divorced multiple times, and yet she still jumps into new relationships with complete abandon. In a way, I almost envy her for that. Because in that respect, the apple might as well have landed in another continent.
I trust men to—excuse my language—fuck my body. Hell, I even trust them to make sure I orgasm. But I don’t trust men to choose me over someone else. And, if I’m being honest with myself, perhaps that’s always been my issue with Marshall.
I choose men who don’t want me for the long haul. They walk away faster than I can blink and I do the same.
Marshall . . . Marshall wouldn’t end things so heartlessly, not with me. But when he does leave—they always do—I don’t think I could recover from that. Not really. Not in the same way that my mother can rant and rage for a few weeks before finding a new man to marry.
There’s a seedling of doubt cracking my armor, a quiet question of what if? What if Marshall didn’t abandon me? It helps that my best friends are happily in relationships, too, although I know Charls and Zoe would never, ever consider hooking up with a guy I wanted to date.
They’re not like that.
Marshall isn’t like that.
“I think I’m an idiot,” I announce.
“Agreed.” This from Zoe. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“Go after what I want.”
It’s time to woo Marshall Hunt.
6
Hunt
There’s something to be said about living in the same city where you were conceived, born, and raised.
I use the word “raised” lightly.
Because as I sit in my older brother’s shitty-ass apartment only two blocks from my old foster-care house, I can’t help but wonder how I managed to pull myself out of this hellhole. A determination to succeed, maybe. A fear that I’d end up just like my brother, Dave. An innate knowledge that if I allowed myself to linger too long in the memories, they’d fist my shirt and never let go.
One minute I’m staring down at a chipped mug full of rum, and i
n the next I’m drowning in the past.
Coming here to Dave’s apartment always does this to me, and our routine never changes. He calls, needing something and, inevitably, I come running. When it comes to my brother, I operate almost exclusively on guilt. We both know it’s the only reason I show up—that, and a naïve but still lingering hope that he wants to see me because we’re family.
I push away the mug with a sigh. “I’m not writing you another check,” I tell Dave, forcing myself to meet his bleary blue eyes. “I told you that last time.”
“Nah,” my brother says, dragging his fingers along the side of his pockmarked face, “you said you’d think about it. Big difference, bro.”
Bro.
Like he really gave two shits about me growing up or like he even gives two shits about me now. It wasn’t until Northeastern recruited me that Dave started popping into my life again for something more substantial than a “hello.” By that point, I’d seen enough of Boston’s seedy side to know that Dave was bad news all the way around.
The way he scratched at his nose, a telltale sign that he was addicted to coke and God knows what else, was just the tip of the iceberg.
Dave sits forward in his chair, elbows on the table as he snags my rejected mug. He downs the rum in one go, Adam’s apple dodging downward, without even a wince. Porcelain meets wood with a clank! and then my brother is looking at me earnestly. “Let’s do it together, bro. Can you imagine if we created a genius app? You’ve got the funds. I’ve got the brains.”
His accent is just as thick as mine, so that “together” sounds a lot more like “togethah.” I’ve done what I can over the years to soften the Boston in my voice, mostly so I don’t have to answer to idiots asking me to “pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd.” But Dave is completely unaware of all that, and he speaks as brashly as he fights on Friday nights down in Brockton.
Yeah, he doesn’t think I know about that. But I do.
The missing teeth here or there were good indicators to start—those that weren’t already gone from the drug use, anyway.
Swallowing my growing temper, I pull on my charming façade. Pissing off Dave usually ends in him threatening to bash me over the head with the closest object. “How’re your other businesses going? You gotta be a little too busy to add on more right now . . . don’t you think?”
I can see him pondering this, taking the time to plot out his next move. I’m not at all surprised when he opens his mouth and lies like a motherfucker. “Not too busy for my baby bro. Who do you think I am?”
A drunk. Cheat. Liar. Thief.
I may have missed one.
He must read my thoughts in my expression because his lips twist in displeasure and he gives up all pretense. “C’mon, dude. I fuckin’ need the money, alright? While you’re out on the ice scoring hat tricks like you’re shittin’ out baby unicorns, some of us have to make a real living.”
Because, apparently, having grown-ass men pummel me on the ice isn’t a real job. I roll my eyes, my hands going to the table in preparation to get the hell out of here. “You already owe me close to fifty-k, Dave. I’m not looking to sink anymore cash into plans that aren’t going anywhere but to your addictions.”
It’s a low blow, I’ll admit.
And it’s absolutely the wrong thing to say.
Dave climbs to his feet, swaying from the booze. Drunk or not, he’s still a big dude. Almost as big as I am—his fighting keeps him muscular even if the alcohol has his waistline bloating like a pufferfish.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls, coming around the table with jerky steps. “You got the fuck outta here, bro. You skipped out of Southie faster than I take a piss most days.” He shoves his face close to mine, and the scent of rum is overwhelmingly sweet. “You think you’re some bigshot now, huh? Who knows that little Marshall Hunt, fucker of all supermodels and the NHL’s golden boy, is nothing but a—”
My vision clouds.
Keep calm.
I don’t keep calm.
The old me, the angry youth, shoves to the surface as my hands go to Dave’s chest and push. Hard.
Thanks to the drink, his balance is shot and he stumbles backward. Crashing into a chair. Tripping over a stray sneaker. Falling onto his ass.
Mouth curving in a snarl, Dave lifts a shaky finger to point at me. “You know what makes me feel better each night?” he demands, voice quivering with undiluted rage. “The fact that every game, I’m hoping you’ll lose. That you’ll keep on losing, night after night, until you’re booted off the Blades . . . and you’re right back here with me. Surviving.”
I don’t want to admit it but his words freeze my heart with the fear that drives me every day. I play hockey because I love the sport, but I’m not delusional—I bust my ass in the rink, in the gym, because the alternative is this.
Dark-paneled walls. The stench of cigarettes and booze. The tiny apartment seated over a convenient store more known for the number of armed robberies occurring within its walls than any of its inventory.
My stomach heaves, both out of guilt for escaping and also for that damn fear that never fails to tighten my skin.
“How much?” I rasp, hating myself for giving in yet another time.
The slant of Dave’s smile is like a right hook to my face. Once again, I’ve been played right into his trap.
Marshall—zero.
Dave—fifty-thousand dollars and counting.
He rests one wrist across his bent knee, casual and cool the way he wasn’t five minutes ago when he was whispering prayers that my livelihood would be stripped from me. “Just ten, this time.”
I’m not stupid enough to think he’s talking about a crisp Alexander Hamilton. I need to get the hell out of here before I agree to re-mortgage my house for him. “I’ll transfer it to your account,” I mutter, grabbing my cell phone off the table.
I barely make it to the door before my brother is laughing like a maniac and shouting, “Love you, bro!”
Yeah, joke’s on me.
I’m out of the rancid apartment in seconds, yanking the door shut behind me as I head for the stairwell.
Once upon a time, I used to fully believe that I could outrun my past. My mistakes. Dave is a constant reminder of how not true that’s turned out to be. The more success I have on the ice, the more my brother is there, waiting, to collect on what he thinks is owed to him.
And maybe . . . maybe there’s some truth to that. But after seventeen years, I’m pretty sure my debt has been paid—if debts are even supposed to exist among family. They do in mine, which I guess is all that matters.
Not for the first time do I wonder what it’d be like to belong to a family like Duke Harrison’s. Not only does he have both his parents, but they support him. Even his mother, who has a phobia of flying, has started conquering that fear by forcing her husband to book flights from Minnesota, where they live, to our games along the west coast.
Hell, if we’re looking at my teammates, Jackson Carter probably has the sweetest deal. Parents who think he hangs the world. An equally doting wife. My captain might be an asshole on the ice, but off it, he’s the quintessential Texas gentleman.
I brace myself for the brisk cold air when I step outside Dave’s building. Trash bags line the street, broken glass bottles are scattered within the snow, and even the colors of the buildings are bleak. Gray, mostly, with a few brick ones mingled in.
Without even realizing it, I find my feet taking me in the opposite direction of my truck. I don’t stop until I’m staring at the house where I spent most of my teenage years.
It looks just as awful as it did a decade ago.
My foster parents don’t live here anymore. We don’t keep in contact, so it’s just as possible that they’ve moved out of state as it is that they’re dead. I feel a stab of guilt at the thought. Sue and Marty Gottim weren’t horrible people; they just hadn’t cared about the kids in their care.
Maybe they had, when they’d
first started out working with the system. But, by the time I came around when they’d been in their sixties, time had worn them down. Hell, I’d been worn down.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost don’t hear my phone ringing. I dig it out of my pocket, still noting all the ways the Gottim’s old triple-decker hasn’t changed as I answer the call.
“Hunt,” I say, as I catch a flutter of a window curtain on the first floor.
Time to go.
“Marshall?”
I have no control over my body, and my cock stiffens at just the sound of Gwen’s breathy voice over the phone. As I step away from my childhood home, I walk briskly back to my truck, head down against the bitter wind.
“You’ve never called me,” I say. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Of course I’ve called you before.”
Guess she’s still stuck on the first bit.
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Negative, Ghost Rider. Not a single time and we’ve known each for, what? Five years?”
It’s been six, but I’m a bastard and I want to know if she’ll say something.
“Six,” she corrects, and warmth spreads in my chest. “Never mind that, I’m pretty sure I’ve called you at least once.”
“Give me an example.”
“Uhh . . . maybe when we used to study together?”
Her hesitation is like victory thrumming in my veins, and I let out a low chuckle. “I’ll let you off the hook, Miss James. What can I do for you? I’ll be blunt, though, I’m all out of fucks to give today. Fair warning.”
She laughs, and I can almost see her tucking her red hair behind her ears. I miss it blonde, but the red is hot, too. More appropriate, maybe, given the fact that she’s a spitfire in designer clothing.
“You should tell me about it.”
Throwing a quick glance to my left and right, I jaywalk across the street. “Tell you about what?”
“Why you’ve got no fucks to give.”
Is it wrong that I feel a little suspicious over that? My stride slows as I approach my truck. I don’t even know how to best respond. Gwen doesn’t call me. Ever. She doesn’t ask me about my day or wonder why I might not be in a good mood.
