But there was nothing from Bill. Part of her wanted to text him just to ask if he was all right. This wasn’t behavior that she would have associated with Bill. If Bill was anything, he was considerate, at least of that. The other part of her wanted to give him his space. She also didn’t think she had done anything wrong. She didn’t feel she needed to reach out and call him or even send him a text. In that respect, Dean was right. He had left her in a parking lot at ten thirty at night, by herself, with no way to get home. Why should she reach out and talk to him?
She headed to her bedroom, phone in hand. She wanted to check Dean’s text but wasn’t sure if that was the best idea. She didn’t need to remind herself that there was some part of her, a small, dark part of her that still craved him. Or, at least, craved closure.
Clara crawled in bed and set her phone on the nightstand next to her. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. The house was still, too still. Deafening.
She turned on her side. The phone stared at her, teasing her curiosity.
She pressed her lips together and switched sides. She felt like Dean was watching her, his eyes heavy on her back. She couldn’t fall asleep.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Just check the messages and that’s it. You don’t actually have to respond.”
That was a good compromise.
Clara reached out and grabbed her phone, ticking in her passcode and bringing up her text messages.
What are you wearing?
Clara rolled her eyes and all but slammed it on the counter. So typical Dean. She knew he didn’t know what had just happened between her and Bill but that did not mean she was in any kind of mood to be a target for his jokes.
The phone chirped again.
Clara wanted to ignore it. She also felt her heart race at the prospect of letting herself go off on Dean for all of the frustration that had been building up the past six hours.
She grabbed it and slid it to the home screen before bringing up her messages.
Just kidding. I know you’ve had a rough night and I was just trying to make you smile. Probably didn’t work.
Clara felt herself smile despite herself. Yes. Typical Dean. He always pulled shit like that, said the dumbest things at the worst time, just to get some kind of reaction from her. She did believe that he was just trying to make her smile, but he had no idea how to do that. Or he did and his execution sucked.
You’re right on that front. Clara hit send and waited.
To be honest, she was slightly surprised he even texted her. Not that she questioned his feelings when they were together. He loved wildly and deeply; she had never doubted him. But now? He didn’t owe her anything. He didn’t need to give her some kind of loyalty, because they weren’t actually together. That, and he had a reputation. One that didn’t bother her. It had been eight years. Why would she care if he moved on? Clara was just surprised he wasn’t with any of the puck bunnies she knew he’d be able to find by simply walking into one of the trendy bar along PCH.
How are you?
Clara went to reply but saw he was still typing.
I miss you.
Something warm exploded inside of her chest and dripped down to her stomach.
She deleted what she was going to say, now unsure how to respond.
Did I say too much?
He deserved a response.
Well, maybe not deserved.
But she wanted to acknowledge what he was doing. He was checking in on her in his own unique way. And even though it wasn’t exactly the way she would have preferred, she appreciated the sentiment because he didn’t have to do it. More than that, it wasn’t in his nature to do something like that.
But how to respond?
She sighed.
Honestly, she didn’t want to talk about tonight at all. She didn’t want to talk about Bill or pretend she was okay when she wasn’t. In all fairness, Clara had no idea what she was, but okay was definitely not it.
She sighed again. There was something she wanted to ask him after they broke up but never had the courage to because it didn’t matter. It still didn’t, but she was still curious nonetheless.
Did you really chainsaw through your sofa before you left for Florida?
She made sure to leave out the part where he chainsawed through it the night they broke up. She didn’t want to talk about them. She didn’t want him to know she still thought about him - them - when they used to be together.
There was a slight pause, so much so that Clara clicked back on her phone to see if he had texted back and she just hadn’t heard. However, she could see the cloud with the dot-dot-dot inside and she knew he was writing something.
She held her breath; she didn’t know why, but this meant something to her.
Yes.
Clara waited. Surely he was going to write more than just yes. That explained nothing. Besides the fact that it answered her question, it didn’t explain anything at all.
Oh. Clara paused, unsure how to move forward. I liked that couch.
She wasn’t sure what else to say.
Why do you think I did it? There were too many memories. I needed to get rid of it before I thought any more about you. About what happened on that couch.
Clara closed her eyes and remembered as well. The couch was worn and used. She didn’t know where Dean had picked it up from but she did know he hadn’t been the first owner. After a thorough cleaning of the couch, he insisted they break it in. The couch wasn’t leather - but it was smooth and comfortable to lie down on.
It would always start innocent. They would watch a movie together, maybe a television show, and he would have his arm around her, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her arm. It always gave her goosebumps. Minutes later, he would scoot closer to her so their thighs brushed and she could rest her head on his chest - which she always did. She loved getting lost in that scent of sweat and Irish Spring. He would kiss the top of her head, his lips would linger, his fingers would stop mid-caress and tighten their grip on her, enough to make a point but not so much to hurt her - he would never hurt her.
And then...
She felt a shudder rip through her body and she took a deep breath. Bill could come in at any moment. If he saw her texting someone this late and it wasn’t him...
They would probably be in a long discussion right about now.
Not that Bill had any right to question what she did or to go through her phone, even if he knew the passcode.
And judging by your silence, I take it you’re remembering now too. He sent her a winking emoji, just to piss her off.
She nearly threw the phone across her room but found herself laughing instead.
Goodnight, kid. Call me if you need anything.
Good night, old man.
There was no response, but Clara wasn’t expecting one. She left her phone on her nightstand and felt slumber tug on her. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to care about Bill and where he was. She was okay now. As okay as she was going to be, thanks to Dean.
And that was when she could finally sleep.
Chapter 8
Dean was not a morning person. However, Cherney was a coach who preferred morning skates early. As such, there were plenty of times when Dean was late to practice and got reamed by the coach.
This morning was one of those mornings.
In Dean’s defense, he had been up all night because he could not stop thinking about Clara. He had finally seen her, after all of these years. He had finally touched her, if briefly. He heard her voice, watched her smile, seen that wrinkle on her nose. His heart thumped against his chest. He knew his feelings for her - feelings he had tried to bury and forget about - had crawled back to the surface and held him hostage. Now, he wouldn’t be able to look at other women the same way. He wouldn’t be able to do things the way he had done before.
Life wasn’t as easy as it had been, and he had only been with her for a moment. A few hours, at best.
Dean laced up his skates, put
on his helmet, and headed to the rink. The bitter chill pinched at his exposed skin. He preferred the cold, but Florida and Southern California - the only two teams he had been part of in the league for the duration of his career - hadn’t been particularly cold so he was still getting used to it. Once he got on the ice and got his blood pumping, the coldness - like everything else - vanished and his focus was primarily on the ice.
“Morgan!” Cherney barked from the center of the ice. He wore a helmet over his bald head, his chin strap left undone. He wore a navy blue track suit with the anchor logo in white on the top left of the jacket. “Get your late ass over here.”
Dean huffed a sigh and all but rolled his eyes. Cherney might be an old, slight man who was bare five foot ten, but the guy had the vision of a hawk and would be able to spot the eye roll a mile away. If Cherney saw the smartass gesture, he might attempt to teach Dean a lesson by benching him for a game even though it was Stanley Cup finals. While Dean typically had no problem rolling his eyes, he didn’t want to risk missing a game based on his pride being wounded in front of his teammates.
Dean did as he was told and skated over to Cherney. Cherney ripped into him, as expected, and Dean took it, nodding his head at the appropriate intervals but not really listening to what he was saying.
Not that Dean didn’t respect Cherney - he did - but he just didn’t want to hear it right now. Not when there was so much other shit on his mind. Besides Clara, there was another game tomorrow. Yesterday had been a tough game, but the Gulls needed to keep up the momentum, especially if they were going to go into Florida’s barn in the next couple of days.
When Cherney has finished seven minutes later, he sent Dean over to Jackman so he could jump into the practice.
An hour later, Dean was left skating, doing suicides for another twenty minutes while the rest of the team watched. If Dean was late a second time for practice during this series, the whole team would be forced to participate.
By the time Dean had finished his punishment, Art was dressed in his typical muscle shirt and jeans, his wild chestnut hair dripping with water from his shower. Meanwhile, Dean’s legs felt like they were jelly. He couldn’t even stand without shaking and he would be forced to sit somewhere.
Jackman grinned his asshole grin as he watched Dean struggle to make his way to the locker room. Dean shot him a glare that probably did nothing in terms of intimidation when it came to Jackman. Thankfully, the bastard held the door open for him.
Once Dean was in, he collapsed onto the bench and hunched over. He would probably be there for a while.
“How were your suicides?” Jackman asked in his sandpaper voice. The arrogance in his tone was enough for Dean to look up and contemplate socking his friend in the face.
Probably not. He didn’t want to risk damaging his hand, especially not before the finals.
“Godawful,” Dean said.
“Yeah, well, you know how Cherney is.” Jackman glanced away, letting the door close behind him, tucking them both inside. “He’s always been a bastard, but a fair one.” Jackman took a seat next to Dean on the bench. “Thinking about that girl?”
“I fuck girls every night,” Dean said, picking his head up to look at his friend. “Clara is a woman.”
Jackman smirked. “Good,” he said. “You need one of those in your life. Keep your ass in line.”
Dean’s lips quirked up. He straightened his legs, feeling the familiar tug of his muscles. However, his legs couldn’t keep steady. They kept shaking but Dean kept the stretch in place.
“Everything work out okay?” Jackman asked. The arrogance was gone from his tone. He looked at Dean with a serious expression on his face. Dean couldn’t be sure but it almost looked like concern flashing across his features. “I know she was with somebody.”
“Yeah, that somebody left her in the parking lot by herself,” Dean snapped, feeling his fingers curl into right balls that shook nearly as much as his legs.
“You kidding me?” Jackman asked.
Dean snorted. “Class act, right?” he asked. “Apparently, he was respecting her decision about wanting space and trusting in her capabilities of getting home by herself.” He rolled his breath and released his hold on his fists, flexing his fingers as he did so. “Can you believe that? I drove her home. Well, I took her to dinner first and then drove her home.”
Jackman’s brows shot up. “Dinner, huh?” he asked. He shook his head and stood up. “You have a pair of balls, I’ll give you that, Morgan.”
Dean nodded his head once. He placed his hands flat on the bench and pushed himself to a standing position. He couldn’t immediately walk but it was better than before.
“That’s what I’m known for.” Dean grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Need me to walk you to your car?” Jackman asked, grabbing the door handle and holding the heavy door open so Dean could walk out.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend, wanting you home?” Dean asked. He glanced over at Jackman, who caught up with him in two strides.
“Chloe’s at work,” Jackman replied with a shrug. “We’ve been together for a couple of weeks now but I want her around all the time, man. I fucking hate it.”
Dean snorted. He understood the feeling. Before seeing Clara again, he had thought of her briefly at least once a day. It only ramped up once he was here, where they had first met. Where they had first gotten together. Now that he had seen her, come in contact with her, talked to her, she was all he could think about. Granted, it had only been hours since actually seeing Clara but he didn’t think it would mean anything - at least, in terms of thinking of her less.
And he hated it. He hated that there was someone who had such power over him. Clara was the only person he knew of who possessed such power. The women after her meant nothing to him. They were simply an means to an end. Clara... if Clara was his, he wouldn’t mind her invading his thoughts and forcing him to think of her all the time.
“So,” Jackman said, as they left the rink and walked out into the parking lot. “Did you kick his ass? The boyfriend?”
“I would have,” Dean said, “but I didn’t want to risk breaking my fingers.”
“Bullshit,” Jackman said, shaking his head. “That didn’t stop you.”
“You’re right.”
A feminine squeak caught his attention and Dean looked up. The players all had a special parking lot just for them that the general public wasn’t allowed to use. After practice, it wasn’t uncommon to find fans hanging around, hoping for an autograph or a picture. Dean had assumed he wouldn’t have to deal with them only because he had stayed late to do Cherney suicides. However, he was confronted with the sight of two women - dressed for the upcoming summer - their faces heavily buried underneath cakes of makeup, smiling and waving at him.
“Enjoy,” Jackman muttered, shaking his head.
“They aren’t with you?” Dean asked.
Jackman barked out a laugh and slapped Dean on the back.
“I know bunnies don’t give a shit that I’m with someone,” he said. “But I sure as shit do and I’m making it a point to ignore them. You, on the other hand, are not committed to anything except your dick. And you have made it a point to let them know that. Clowns aren’t my types anyway.”
Dean smirked and shook his head, giving Jackman a wave as his friend went off to his car. Jackman might have been right about the puck bunnies, because they stood right next to his car.
“Ladies,” Dean said as he got closer to them.
Both squeaked, turning to look at each other. From this vantage point, he realized that they were younger than they seemed. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were twenty, if that. Suddenly, a large knitted ball twisted and turned in the pit of his stomach. It clenched hard and he was gifted with the ability of having his legs much easier to maneuver around.
“Morgan,” they cooed.
“How can I help you on this fine April morning?” He tried to push out his usual ch
arm. He didn’t feel it like he typically did, however. It felt forced, almost foreign.
“I think the real question you should be asking is how we can help you,” the blonde said.
He chuckled to himself, reaching in his bag to grab his keys.
“I actually don’t think I need any help today.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth, even if they were exactly how he felt.
He saw the women - girls - look at each other, confusion evident on their faces.
“Thanks for swinging by, though.” He unlocked his car with a click of a button.
“Wait,” the brunette said. “Are you sure?” She stepped towards him. “We heard -“
“I know what you might have heard,” Dean said curtly, cutting her off. “I understand why you did what you did. But I’m not interested. Not anymore.” He opened his car door and slid inside.
The girls still looked confused, muttering things to themselves. The blonde crossed her arms over her chest, almost as if she was trying to cover herself up, ashamed of what she was wearing.
Guilt surged through him and he nearly cursed out loud. Where the hell had the guilt come from? He shouldn’t care how these girls felt. It wasn’t his responsibility to make them feel better about themselves. They took a chance trying to seduce him, and that chance didn’t work out the way they hoped for. He wasn’t going to sleep with them so they felt better about themselves.
‘True,’ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Clara’s, ‘but you also don’t have to be a dick about it either.’
Dean groaned and rolled his eyes. He started the car and rolled down his window.
“Ladies.” He stick his hand out of the window to wave them over. He could not believe what he was doing. This was completely unlike him and he hoped his reputation didn’t take a hit for it.
‘It was a shit reputation to begin with. You should be thanking me.’
Brutal Love & Stanley Cups: A Slapshot Novel (Slapshot Series Book 7) Page 5
