Game On (Hometown Players Book 6)

by Victoria Denault

  He calmly pats my knee again. “You could do free work with these kids—at shelters. You don’t have to take it all on yourself. The charity is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, But I honestly don’t know how you’re going to keep it going and move forward with your own life. It’s too all consuming.”

  I clench my jaw to keep from saying something about that last comment. Victor wants to get married. He’s been dropping that hint for about a month as subtly as you’d drop a boulder on a pinkie toe. But he hasn’t come out and asked me, officially, because he thinks I’m not ready. He’s right. I’m not. If this was two months ago, I would have probably said yes but the last few weeks Victor has made it clear that he either isn’t listening to the things I tell him about who I am and what I want or else he doesn’t believe I’m serious.

  “Victor, your work is all consuming too,” I argue back in a resolute tone and shift so his hand falls onto the seat between us. “Remember, I could have easily turned into one of those kids. If my parents hadn’t seen my story on the news, I would have spent my life in foster care.”

  “You said yourself you don’t remember much about foster care. You were four,” he says as the cab slows to a stop in the gridlock just a block from my house. If it hadn’t started raining I would’ve gotten out and walked the rest of the way but I don’t have an umbrella.

  “I remember crying. A lot. And I remember being scared and I remember the paramedics and police when they came to take us away from that horrible house.” I remind him of everything I’ve shared with him already. “I’m never going to stop fighting for kids so they don’t end up in places like that.”

  He moves his hand to pat my knee but I cover it with my own to prevent him from doing that again. He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the back of my knuckles. “We don’t have to talk about this. The charity is your job right now. And if nothing else it shows what a wonderful, protective heart you have for kids, which means you’ll be a great mom one day.”

  The cab finally turns onto my street and stops outside my door. As Victor pays the cabbie, I jump out and run up my front stairs . By the time I get the door open he’s right behind me and we scurry into the front hall. I love my townhouse. It’s huge in New York terms—two stories with two bedrooms, two bathrooms and archways, crown moldings, and big lead glass windows. I adore it. Both the townhouse and the building where Daphne’s House is located were willed to me by my grandmother when she passed away. I don’t need a place this big to live, but I’m clinging to it because it reminds me of my grandmother. Eventually, if I have to, I’ll sell it, get something smaller and put the profit toward Daphne’s House.

  Victor closes the door behind us and helps me out of my coat.

  “What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

  “You,” Victor says and kisses my shoulder.

  I smile and turn in his arms to face him, but I pull back when he tries to kiss me. “I’m not on the menu tonight, honey.”

  He looks confused for a minute and then he groans. “We haven’t had time alone in weeks and now you’re on your period?!”

  “It’s not like I planned it,” I remind him because it somehow feels like he’s accusing me.

  “But you could have told me,” he replies, clearly annoyed. “There’s a mixer for my alma mater tonight I am skipping for this.”

  “Not to spend time with me, just to have sex with me?”

  His mouth opens, but closes without a debate. He sighs. “Why are you constantly trying to twists my words lately?”

  “I’m not. You’re being an ass,” I tell him bluntly.

  He takes several deep breaths and steps back, his long, lean frame blocking the small light I leave on that sits on the hall table. The narrow hall gets as dark as my mood. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  I don’t want to fight with him either, but it’s all we’ve been doing for a couple of weeks now. I’ve been ignoring it and trying to tell myself it’s not big deal, because I don’t want confront him, or honestly even myself, with what might be the cold hard truth—this isn’t working out. “I’m not going to be a mother one day.” It’s a whisper but it’s stern and resolute. “I’ve told you that. I am not risking passing on my bum genes to someone else.”

  “Sweetheart, you also told me you don’t know if you carry the same gene your birth mother did,” Victor replies calmly and then he steps closer and pulls me to his chest. He has always known the right time to hug me. I have to give him that. “And even if you do carry it, it doesn’t mean you’ll pass it on.”

  “But I could,” I reply. “And if I have it I could die of ovarian cancer as young as my mom did and leave my kids motherless.”

  “Or you could not have it, or have it and not get cancer and not pass it on,” Victor replies and runs a hand over the back of my hair. “You know what my endgame is, Brie, honey. Marriage and a family. If you’re going to let this gene dictate what you do with your life, then you need to get tested and find out if you have it so I know what I’m dealing with.”

  “What you’re dealing with?” I repeat. And this is exactly why I never told him I got the test done last year but never picked up the results. Because he would pester me relentlessly to find out and I’m not ready to face the news.

  “I want a family, Brie. That does not make me a monster.”

  I stare into his hazel eyes. “There are other ways to have a family. I’m living proof of that. I’m not against adoption or fostering, you know that. In fact I feel very strongly that I want to do that one day.”

  He lets go of me.

  “I know.” He averts his gaze, heaves a deep breath and loosens his tie a little. “Jesus, how did this conversation get so heavy. Can we change the subject?”

  “Go to your mixer.” I give him a peck on the cheek and hang my coat on the antique coatrack before I head through the living room into the kitchen. I open the cupboards and examine the contents waiting for the sound of the front door opening and closing. It doesn’t come. And a second later I hear the oak floorboards creek and his hands are on my hips as he gazes into the cupboard from over my shoulder.

  “We could order sushi,” he suggests.

  I shrug. “Honestly, Victor, if you want to go to the mixer, go. It’s fine. I swear. I’ve had a long day and I’ll probably just make mac and cheese and go to bed.”

  “But you love those spicy shrimp rolls at the place on the corner,” he reminds me and I glance over my shoulder at him. He gives me his best dashing smile and squeezes my hips. “Screw the mixer.”

  I feel lighter. Like maybe things are turning around. God I hope so. I don’t deal well with giant upheaval or changes. It comes from all the upheaval and changes I faced when I was little. I’ve been to psychologists my whole life, my parents were very proactive knowing my past. I knew even before I became a professional myself that I tend to hang on to things—people—longer than I should because my childhood traumas made me feel like jumping out of the frying pan always meant you landed in the fryer. Of course knowing my issues and actually facing them are two different things. So I smile back at Victor and hunt around in my junk drawer for the menu from the sushi place.

  Chapter 5

  Alex

  I wake up screaming. I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming, but my throat is raw so I’m guessing it was a while. The sheets are damp with sweat and twisted around my legs. I know without even looking that I’ve dug my fingernails into my palms again and they’re bleeding. I can feel the sting and sticky dampness of the blood. I struggle to get air into my lungs and reach for the bedside lamp. I squint against the light and stare at my palms. There are little half-moon fingernail imprints across them both. Only a couple on each palm broke the skin though and they’re not too deep, but there is blood and it’s on the hotel sheets too.

  Fuck. I am so sick of this.

  The nightmare is the same as it’s been since I was eight. I’m trapped in that damn concrete room—the “
time-out room” as the foster monsters used to call it—and it’s cold and for some reason it shrinks. And shrinks. And it makes me call out for help because I’m panicked and it won’t stop shrinking. And I’m crying and I’m terrified and then all the concrete—all the walls and the ceiling are pressing into every part of me, cold and hard, and I scream.

  The thing that always makes me angry after the dreams is that I’m calling for help. I learned in the first couple of weeks of being at that foster home that there was no help. I always sat silently for the hours, sometimes all day, that I was in there. I didn’t cry and I didn’t call for help. But in my dream I do, and I even sometimes know I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.

  I sit up, untangle myself from the sheets and head to the bathroom. I leave the light off, but it’s not completely dark because the bedside light is filtering in through the open door. As I’m running my hands through the water to clean the small wounds, there’s a firm knock on my door. I yank off a bunch of toilet paper and press it into my left palm because it’s got the most cuts and then grab a towel and wipe my right hand on it. There’s another firm knock. I’m only wearing my underwear so I grab the complimentary bathrobe off the back of the door and throw it on.

  I’m just about to open the door when it starts to open for me and one of the hotel’s security guards is standing there. He looks startled to see me. I’m annoyed to see him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larue. We normally would never enter your room without permission. However, we called and you didn’t answer.”

  “I was sleeping,” I reply tersely and shove the bloody toilet paper in the pocket of the robe before crossing my arms. “I sleep deeply.”

  “Oh. Again, apologies, it’s just that we had a noise complaint,” he explains and starts to look a little uncomfortable and I know exactly why he’s here. Someone heard me screaming.

  “The screaming?” I question and he nods. “Yeah, I fell asleep with the television on and I guess there was some cheesy horror movie on. It woke me up too.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He glances toward the television, which is clearly off, but as far as he’s concerned it’s because I shut it off. “Again we’re sorry to bother you but when you didn’t answer the phone and someone reports screaming we have to—”

  “Yeah. Sure. No problem,” I cut him off. “I’d like to go back to bed now.”

  “Yes, sir. Have a good rest of your night.” He leaves, closing the door behind him. I throw the latch on the door so he can’t just walk in again if I fall back asleep and start screaming again. It’s doubtful that’ll happen anyway. I glance at the clock. It’s four in the morning. I got four hours sleep. Oh well. Better than nothing. I’m meeting Kristi for the keys to my new apartment at ten.

  I shrug out of the robe, leaving it on the floor and throw on some sweats, a hoodie and my sneakers. Might as well go for a run. Staying in this tiny room isn’t going to stop the nightmares from coming again if I go back to sleep. I hadn’t had one in almost two weeks, but I know that incident in the closet with Brie triggered it. I really wasn’t trying to be an asshole about not helping her. I just can’t do confined spaces. That closet didn’t have concrete walls and wasn’t in a dank root cellar, but it was the same long, narrow shape and…I just couldn’t. I should have told her I was claustrophobic, but that woman is so damn judgmental.

  I grab my iPod and headphones and leave the hotel. It’s colder than I anticipated. Locals probably wouldn’t find it cold at all, but I still have California blood from living in San Diego. I suck it up and start to jog. I head straight for the bridge so I can run to Manhattan. I can’t wait to live there. As much as I love my teammates—and I honestly do—I don’t think living near them is the best thing. Being a third wheel is fine in small doses, but now there’s no Jordan without Jessie, Devin without Callie, Luc without Rose. The girls are all fantastic, truly, but they don’t want me around all the time and I don’t want to be around all the time.

  It’s not that it’s hard seeing them all in love and everything. It isn’t. I don’t miss what I’ve never had. But it’s a distinct reminder that my life—these friends I’ve considered family—are getting their own families and I’m not. I’m happy for them. I’m just not particularly looking forward to the next phase of my life.

  I’m fucking thirty. And I’m feeling thirty. Late nights before a practice or a game affect me now. I’m sluggish and achy and foggy mentally. Also, I’m kind of over the puck bunny thing. I’d never admit that to the guys, because I have a reputation to uphold but yeah…not feeling it anymore.

  I jog across the bridge and then slow to a walk. I don’t want to overexert myself because I have practice this afternoon. I’m run-walking for about an hour and stumble across a Dunkin’ Donuts. I head inside and order a coffee and a Boston Kreme donut. I sit at the small counter against the window and scarf down the donut, then order one more and take it with me, gulping down the last of my coffee and tossing it in the trash can as I exit.

  The city is getting busier. Of course it wasn’t exactly empty when I started this run, even at four in the morning. With any luck, the city is lively enough to meet some new single friends. Maybe. Hopefully.

  I decide I’m going to grab the subway home so I wander down the block in the general direction I think it might be. The music in my ears suddenly disappears. I pull my iPod from my pocket and see the battery is dead. Damn it. Well at least it didn’t crap out on my run. As I start to pull my earbuds out I hear a female voice—loud and firm. “Don’t!”

  I stop and look around. There’s a woman walking about ten feet ahead of me, but she’s by herself. Across the street there’s a guy in a business suit and another one a few feet back in jeans. No other women though.

  “Stop!”

  Same voice, only this time it’s louder and filled with fear. And I can tell it’s coming from behind me. I start walking backward. One step. Two steps. On the third step I’m parallel with an alley. Halfway down it I see this big, hulking dude leaning over a very skinny, scraggly-haired woman. She’s pressed against the side of the building and he’s grabbed her by the arm of her ripped puffy coat. He’s speaking, but his voice is low and I can’t make out the words, only a rumbling sound.

  I start to walk toward them. They don’t notice and when I’m about ten feet away I stand straight, pull my shoulders back and in my deepest voice I say, “Hey! You all right, lady?”

  Her head snaps over and I realize she’s not a lady. She’s a kid with dirt-stained, coffee-colored skin and matted curly hair and light eyes. Is she even a teenager? I take a few steps closer and try to look calm and not shocked. The guy glares at me. He’s meaty but not muscled, which bodes well for me if I have to get physical. And he’s dirty, stains on his jacket and tears in his jeans; not the fashionable kind.

  “She’s my kid. Mind your business,” he warns and yanks her away from the wall and turns her and himself away from me. He starts to drag-walk her down the alley. She looks back at me, eyes wide and filled with fear.

  “Hey!” I take more steps toward them. “Kid! Is he your dad?”

  “No!”

  “Fucking bitch!” he barks, but doesn’t let her go and starts drag-walking her faster.

  I pick up my pace too and clamp a hand on his shoulder. He spins to face me quickly, arms up. He doesn’t swing, he doesn’t seem to be holding a knife or a gun and more importantly, he lets her go.

  I reach out and motion for her to get behind me. She does with quick, quiet steps. He turns his glare to her. “You fucking owe me, Mac!”

  “I owe you nothing!” she yells back.

  He bares his teeth, what’s left of them, and swears again taking a step toward us so I step toward him. “Fuck you…” he hisses at me. “I’m going to fucking find you and I’m going to make you pay.”

  “What does she owe you?” I ask. But I’m really not sure I want the answer. She’s a street kid, clearly, so the answer could be anything from money to clothes to sexual acts. Oh please let i
t not be sexual acts.

  “Not your fucking business.”

  “I looted his Dumpster,” she blurts out.

  Ah. Turf war. Okay. I sigh in relief because I can fix this. I reach into the pocket of my hoodie and pinch some, but not all of the bills I have in between my fingers and pull them out. A twenty and a five. “Twenty-five bucks to forget about whatever she took from your Dumpster.”

  He rips the money out of my extended hand. “Tell her not to do it again.”

  “She won’t. Right, Mac?” I glance over my shoulder. She’s not there. The entire alley behind me is empty. “What the fuck?”

  I start to jog. When I get to the sidewalk I look right and then left. She’s across the street, half a block up. I sprint and catch up to her in no time. I even manage not to be hit by any cars when I jaywalk to get to her faster. “Mac!”

  She doesn’t turn. Instead she starts walking faster and then she breaks into a run. I speed up. She’s fast, but she’s not a professional athlete with over a decade of endurance training. I reach her before she even gets half a block. She turns on me when I grab her arm and she’s ferocious, like a wild animal in a trap. It’s meant to be intimidating and to scare me and I’m thinking it works on a lot of people, but not me. I’ve been her. I know the tricks.

  “I’ll scream. I’ll tell them you touched me,” she threatens.

  “But then you won’t get the sixty bucks I want to give you,” I explain calmly, quietly, as I reach into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie with the other hand and pull out the bag with the now mostly crushed donut. “And this.”

  Her eyes, which are a light green color, dart down to bag and then back to my face, harder than ever. “It’s probably laced with roofies.”

  I laugh. This girl is tough. “They wouldn’t dissolve like they do in drinks. You’d see them. And I swear on my life I just bought it a second before I ran into you. It’s my favorite donut in the world and I’m giving it to you, so take it before I change my mind.”