It was worth a shot. What did he have to lose by making one more play for the woman he loved?
“Oh, I don’t know…” the guy hesitated, checking his watch.
Ben turned the car onto Main Street, heading toward the highway exit. “You wanted to know how it feels to have it all? Do this for me and let me find out.”
* * *
Was there anything else on television the week after a Stanley Cup victory?
Each station somehow found a way to talk about the Avalanche’s win. Had it always been like this, or was she just overly sensitive to it this year in her attempt to avoid seeing Ben’s face everywhere?
Including her intercom monitor when her door buzzer rang at almost midnight. “Ben?”
“Hi.”
The sight of him had Olivia’s heart pounding in her chest and her palms sweaty. What was he doing there? A week without a word from him had felt like an eternity. She’d expected each day to get a little better—time healed, right? Apparently not in her case. She just missed him more and more. And now he was here. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “What do you want?”
“Can I come up?”
Yes! “No.”
“Look, I won’t stay long, I just thought you might like to see…the Stanley Cup,” he said, grabbing it from someone standing next to him and holding it up to the monitor.
“Who’s with you?” Had he brought the whole Colorado Avalanche team as reinforcements?
“The keeper of the cup,” he said, his face reappearing on the screen. “And he’s got me on the clock. I have literally four minutes left. Please let me come up.”
God, could she really come face-to-face with him and not give in to the urge to climb into his arms and forgive him for hurting her? Could she really say goodbye to him again?
“Olivia, please.”
She was so screwed. She sighed as she hit the button.
“Thank you,” he said before opening the door and entering the building.
Going to the door, she opened it and leaned against the doorframe to wait. She wouldn’t allow him inside. Whatever he wanted to say so badly, he could do it in the hallway. She had nothing more to say. Her heart apparently disagreed as he appeared at the end of the hall and the sight of him buckled her knees.
Stay strong.
The guy next to him was barely visible behind the Stanley Cup he carried as they made their way toward her, but she wasn’t looking at him or the shiny metal trophy anyway.
Dressed in a pair of jeans and dark blue sweater that brought out the color of his eyes, Ben looked far too amazing to resist.
Stay strong.
The pep talk wasn’t working. She could feel her resolve melting away.
“Hi,” Ben said, stopping at her door.
She cleared her throat. “You’re right. It is impressive.” She folded her arms across her trembling body, as she kept her gaze locked on the cup. Safer. The only hope she had of surviving this.
His was locked on her. “God, I’ve missed you.”
Tears threatened, and she shook the emotions away. “Should I take a selfie with it or something? Then you’ll leave?”
He reached into his bag and pulled out the dress she’d fallen in love with at Becky’s shop weeks before. Her mouth gaped.
“Becky gave me this for you.” He handed it to her.
She took the dress, unable to speak without tears escaping. How did she tell him that she wasn’t sure she’d ever have a little girl to wear it? The stress of the previous weeks made it hard to fight back the overwhelming emotions bubbling up inside of her. “Ben, I…”
“And, just in case it’s a boy…” He interrupted, producing the tiniest jersey she’d ever seen. Turning it around, she saw the name Davis and a number 77 on the back. Her name. His number.
She sighed, accepting the jersey. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.
“Look, Olivia. I know you don’t trust me, but I swear to you, nothing happened that night. I drove her home, and I hurried to be with you.”
She wanted so badly to believe him. If she was honest with herself, she already did.
“I want to be there for you. And not just for the pregnancy. For everything. I want to be with you. I love you.”
Her head snapped up, his words helping to erase the dull aching in her heart. He loved her? They’d never said it before, but she’d felt it. And she knew she loved him. “But…” She hesitated, glancing at the stranger, holding the cup next to him, looking uncomfortable by their show of emotions. “This is probably not the best time to talk…”
Taking her hands, Ben stepped into her apartment and closed the door. “Please, just hear me out.”
Her eyes widened as she pointed to the door. “You just left that guy out there,” she said, not ready to talk to him. Terrified that what he had to say might make her forget all of the reasons being together was a bad idea.
He opened the door and tossed the guy the keys to his Hummer. “I’ll pick her up from the airport. Thanks, man.” Closing the door, he took her shoulders and crouched to look into her eyes. “I was an idiot. And I know I don’t deserve a second chance. Hell, the ink isn’t even dry on my last disaster. I know you have no reason to believe that I’ve changed. But I have…because of you. I’m different because of you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” he said, emphasizing the last word.
“Ben…”
“Please. Give me a chance to prove that I can be the person you believed I was and a good father to this child, a good husband to you.”
She sighed. “Ben, stop.” He was trying so hard to convince her of something she already knew: life would suck without him. But, “The in vitro didn’t work. I’m not pregnant.”
He frowned. “But the pregnancy test?”
“False positive. Dr. Chelsey says it can happen with all of the different hormones in my body.”
He pulled her toward him and hugged her tight. “I’m sorry,” he said, strain in his voice.
The sincerity of the gesture brought tears to her eyes once more, and while she longed to take comfort in him, in his being there, in his arms, she wasn’t sure she could. She handed him the precious baby clothes. “So I’m sorry to say, but the clothes…and all of this was unnecessary.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You think I’m only here because I thought you were pregnant?”
“I’m not sure why you’re here, Ben. I mean, I haven’t seen or heard from you in a week. Why now?”
“Believe me, I wanted to come to you before now. Every minute, you’ve been on my mind and in my heart. But I had to stay focused. I had to prove to myself and everyone that I could win that cup, that I wouldn’t choke under pressure this time. I won’t choke under the pressure of us, either. You have to believe that. Believe in me.” He took her face between his hands. “I know I can be a better man for you.”
The temptation to give in, to sink into his arms and let the love she had for him ease the tension and pain in her heart was overwhelming, but unlike him, she was still terrified. The last few weeks, she’d opened herself up to the possibility of so much hurt and disappointment, like she’d never done before. And he’d hurt her, the way she’d believed he would. “I love you, but I’m not sure I can do this, Ben,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Okay, well, tell me—what do I have to do to convince you that I’m not giving up on you, on us?”
“Ben…” Why did he have to make this so hard? What if she let him in again and he changed his mind? “I still want a baby.” She knew it was true. She still wanted a family.
He pulled her in close, his eyes intense on hers. “Give me some practice, and I promise I can make that happen.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Ben Westmore, confirmed bachelor, was telling her he wanted to have a baby with her? That he wanted a life with her?
“In fact, why don’t we start trying right now?” In one swoop, he picked her up and headed toward the bedroom.
Kicking open her bedroom door with his foot, he set her onto the bed, then knelt on the floor in front of her. The look in his eyes wasn’t one she’d seen before. It wasn’t filled with desire or the burning need she’d seen flashing in them before. It was pure, raw emotion—exposed and vulnerable. Ben Westmore was on his knees in front of her. The man she loved was asking for her love and forgiveness.
“Olivia, I love you, and I want to make a life with you. Not just right now, in this moment, but for always,” he said softly, touching her cheek. “I promise you, taking another chance on me—on us—will be worth it.”
She knew it was true. She’d never felt more loved, needed, cared for as she did with him. Her heart was so full of love for him that it erased all her fears and hesitation. Moving closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck and stared into his eyes. “Do you always get what you want?” she whispered against his mouth, all her insecurities fading as the expression in his eyes told her everything would be okay. Better than okay.
“You tell me,” he said as his lips met hers.
Asher Westmore is taking his hockey career to the next level, until an injury forces him to the sidelines. When he turns to physical therapist—and best friend—Emma Lewis for help, Asher starts to realize that the game of his career might be the game of love…
See the next page for a preview of Maybe This Christmas.
His body was getting used to the injections. The effect of the cortisone seemed to be weakening after months of abuse. Fully dressed in his hockey gear and ready to go, Asher opened his locker and retrieved the last of the prescription painkillers that he’d been resisting the urge to take all afternoon. He shook the three and a half into his hand and popped them into his mouth, chasing them down his throat with a shot of Gatorade from his water bottle.
Hopefully it would be enough to reach the numbing sensation in his limbs to prevent him limping visibly onto the ice, but not too much to throw off his other senses. He still needed his razor-sharp focus and sensory awareness.
He wasn’t sure when he’d become an expert on pill-popping, and the dosing effects on his body, but his heavy reliance on the meds was starting to bother him. Before the injury, he barely took anything at all. He rarely needed anything.
But he wasn’t addicted to the shit. Not yet.
After Tuesday’s game, it all ends.
Luckily, the electric energy in the stadium would be enough to get him through his twenty-six minutes of ice time that evening.
Checking his phone a final time, he read the text from Emma, saying she’d arrived and wishing him luck. An emoji at the end of the text blew him a kiss and he grinned. He looked forward to her pregame text. Counted on it on his off days. He was glad she was there that evening. Having her in the stands somehow put him at ease.
Closing the locker, he reached for his helmet and swayed slightly off-balance, his shoulder falling against his teammate, lacing up on the bench next to him.
“You drunk, Westmore?” Darius joked.
No. Just probably high as a kite. He felt sweat gather on his low back beneath his jersey as he forced himself steady. “You’re not?” he retorted.
Darius laughed. “We will be.” He checked the clock on the wall of the locker room. “In two hours and forty-six minutes. Do not let your brother push this game to overtime,” the semiretired left wing who was hanging up his skates at the end of that season said.
“Don’t sweat it. Ben’s got a girlfriend now waiting for him at home. He’s not allowed to stay out past eleven,” Asher said, only half joking. Since winning the cup for the Avalanche that spring, Ben had visibly relaxed on the ice. Asher didn’t doubt for a second that his brother’s new, slightly laid back “there’s more to life than hockey” attitude had to do with the lawyer he was crazy about. The one who’d almost destroyed his life earlier that year. How easy love made his brothers blind to reality.
Sticks before chicks used to be the bro code between the three brothers…one the other two had forgotten. Not Asher.
But right now, he didn’t care what was causing Ben’s lack of competitiveness, as long as his brother didn’t fuck with him that evening.
Ten minutes later, as he skated out onto the ice, it didn’t matter that he wore the opposing team’s colors. The fans, his friends and family and neighbors, were all on their feet. There was Emma cheering and smiling at him from the seat always reserved for her behind the players’ box. Immediately, the tension in his shoulders eased as he winked at her.
The reception whenever he played in Denver was always positive, but that evening the significance of the game was felt throughout the arena. He swallowed hard, raising a quick hand to acknowledge the love, feeding off the energy of their support, but knowing he needed to temper his own excited nerves to get through this game.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine games weren’t enough.
His blades cut across the ice, and he felt the painkillers taking affect. The throbbing sensation in his knee subsided as he made several warm-up laps around the rink. Still slightly off-balance, he shook his head, hoping to knock his equilibrium back into place.
Taking his place in line with his team as the lights dimmed, he barely heard the words of the anthem, desperate to get this game started.
Desperate to get it over with.
The first period, he played six minutes and was relieved to have to sit out a two-minute penalty for the team’s goalie. Less time on the ice, less chance of injury. He hated his new chickenshit mentality, but he was too close to a professional career goal to throw it away on overeager cockiness.
He’d spent years proving himself in the sport, they could cut him some slack that evening if he played at less than 110 percent.
Coming back for a second period, the score was still nothing and the pacing of the play was more intense. The Devils’ coach could be heard shooting the same sentiments as the Avalanche’s: steal the damn puck, head up, pay fucking attention to the play! The two teams were neck and neck for points in the league so far that season, and the Devils had a very real shot of stealing the Stanley Cup away from the Avalanche that year. Not that his brother’s team was letting the trophy leave Colorado without a good fight.
Asher’s legs felt heavy as he pushed through his second shift, and his mind was foggy. Skating through a haze, he climbed back over the boards as the lines changed, grateful for the break.
But when the Avalanche sent Ben out on a double shift, his coach gave him the nod. “Westmore, get back out there.”
Shit. He’d been hoping for a few minutes to calm his thundering heart rate and clear his head. Most games, he loved facing off with Ben. He knew his brother’s few weaknesses on the ice better than anyone, and it made for exciting hockey for fans to watch the two of them square off, but that evening, he lacked enthusiasm…and energy. Damn, he was feeling drained, zapped of the adrenaline induced drive he usually thrived on.
But grabbing his stick, he was back on the ice in seconds, skating toward the puck. A Colorado right wing took a shot and he stole the biscuit, skating back toward the blue line with it. The ice beneath his skates felt far away, and he shifted his gaze to the sidelines, but the advertisements blurred in a colorful psychedelic pattern that made him blink furiously. He struggled to focus and shifted his weight as his balance swayed left.
The puck left his stick and he switched directions, moving on instinct more than anything else, as he followed the player in burgundy and steel blue back toward his net. When the offensive player passed, he intercepted and skated along the back of the net with the puck, looking for someone to pass it off to. A defensive player who longed to play offense, he was usually eager to score any chance he had, but not that evening. Right now, he wanted nothing to do with the puck. He was a liability with it
.
He glanced at the time clock, desperate to hear a line change. His shift had to be coming to an end, and as soon as his ass was on the bench, he was heading into the locker rooms.
Something wasn’t right. Dizziness was making him nauseous, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears, felt it pounding in his chest.
He scanned the ice. Where the hell was Ericksen? Or Taylor? Or any other fucking teammate? He was going to black out, and there was no one to safely take this puck.
The only person he did see was his brother skating at full speed toward him, where Asher still lingered too close to the boards.
Fuck.
The hit took him clean off his feet, and the pain in his knee almost stole his consciousness. The arena lights blinded him from above as the ice below his body spun uncontrollably before his eyes shut.
The last thing he saw was his brother’s cocky grin replaced with a look of concern.
Asshole took me out.
Want a sneak peek of Owen’s love story?
See the next page for a preview of Maybe This Summer!
Paige glanced at the old jukebox between the booths. “Does that still work?”
“Yes ma’am…” He reached into his pocket for several coins. Quite an inflation in price from the quarter price listed on the machine, covered by the new sticker. “It has everything from the classics of its day to modern noise from twelve-year-old YouTube sensations. What song can I play you?”
“Oh no. I’m good. I was just curious.”
“Come on. If I choose the song, it’s going to be a sappy country ballad that will make your ears bleed.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Country? Really?”
“What? I’m a sensitive, truck-driving, momma-lovin’ kind of guy.” He winked as he stood. “So…what’s it going to be?”
She sighed as she stood and followed him to the jukebox. “Okay, let’s see.” Leaning over, she peered inside to read the selections.
And damn, if he didn’t try so very hard not to let his eyes wander to her ass, but he was only a man. One completely taken by this woman whose hard exterior of a shell seemed to be chipping away faster than he’d expected, as the time passed.
Maybe This Love Page 24
