by Aven Ellis
I push around the strawberries on my plate, avoiding his gaze. “I think it makes more sense for me to go home. It’ll be easier to look for a job when I don’t have to worry about paying for an apartment and expenses.”
“Don’t be crazy, you know you can stay here with me for free,” Nate insists. “And you can use one of my cars.”
And know Matt is mere miles away, most likely with some random girl in his bed, while I’m nearby dreaming of him?
A sharp pain shoots through my heart at the thought, one that threatens to break my resolve not to burst into tears.
“Nate, you’ve been an amazing host,” I say slowly. “And so have you, Kenley. But it’s time to start my life. Minneapolis is the best place for that.”
“I approve of this decision,” Dad says, smiling at me.
“I still think Dallas would be better for you,” Nate insists, pausing to eat some eggs.
“I know what I need to do,” I say. “In fact, I’m going to change my ticket right now. I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”
I slide down off the barstool and make my way back to the guest bedroom. I grab my planner and flip to the back where I wrote down the confirmation number on my open-ended itinerary.
I reach for my phone, and I check my notifications, and although I know it’s stupid, I pray for one from Matt.
There’s nothing.
I draw a shaky breath of air. Then, before I lose my courage, I shoot him a text. If he doesn’t reply, or replies negatively, I’ll go back to Minneapolis.
I text Matt:
I’m making plans to go back to Minneapolis tomorrow. Please give me a reason to stay. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.
Then, with a shaking hand, I send it.
My stomach twists into a painful knot. Will Matt even reply? Will the memory of what we started last night be enough to make him change his mind?
Beep!
I freeze. I look down at my phone.
It’s Matt.
My heart slams against my ribs. With a shaking hand, I open his text:
Have a good trip back, Holly. I wish you nothing but the best.
The tears I held at bay earlier blur my vision. I drop my phone. Silent sobs rack my body as I realize Matt doesn’t want me to stay. He doesn’t want anything other than what we shared on New Year’s Eve.
I won’t have my fairy tale ending.
And for the first time in my life, I experience what it’s like to have a broken heart.
I glance up at the clock. It’s late, almost eleven in the evening, and I’ve been writing all day, only stopping to get dinner, then retreating to my room. I’ve put my broken heart into Calla’s story, and the words are pouring out of me. Of course, they might be shit, and tomorrow I’ll delete everything, but for now, it’s the only thing I can do to keep from falling apart.
I glance down at the last paragraph. Calla is aiding Heath, the wounded dragon slayer, despite the fact that she is a fairy and she knows Heath poses a danger to her. She is drawn to him, even more so after she helps him.
Calla knew his injuries were severe. The dragon slayer opened his eyes, the deepest blue, and her heart fluttered in response. While he was a mortal enemy of her people, she wouldn’t let him die here.
She would heal his wounds. He wouldn’t remember her, she knew that. From his dazed expression, he would no doubt think her aiding him was a dream.
She should leave at once. Merely gazing into those pools of blue stirred something new inside of her.
Her head told her to leave.
But her heart told her she needed to stay.
I hit ‘save’ and close out of the file. I’m exhausted. Writing all day is tough work, but I love it.
And it’s my only salvation right now.
I put the laptop aside and reach for my phone. I look at my notifications again. I did hear from JP today. A very nice text asking if I wanted to grab a coffee or go to a movie with him since he had the day off.
JP is everything I should want. He’s kind. Smart, too. He’s working on a degree in accounting in his spare time, so he’s always studying when he’s not working on hockey.
Of course, he’s absolutely gorgeous, with that cool European vibe going on along with the dark-brown hair and vivid hazel eyes.
But he’s not what I want.
He’s not Matt.
Beep!
I see a notification has been sent to me from Instagram.
My heart freezes.
It’s from Matt’s account.
Nausea sweeps over me. I know it’s stupid, but I have notifications turned on for his account. It was my ridiculous way to see what my crush has been up to these past few years. Most of the time, the notifications have been of him out and about with friends, or girls, or when he’s on vacation.
But a bad feeling sweeps over me before I open it.
Should I? Or should I start cutting him out of my life now? He will never, ever be a part of it. I need a clean break from him. To go home tomorrow, unfollow all his accounts, and grow up.
But I can’t.
Even though I know my brain is right, my heart isn’t ready to let go.
I open his account. It’s a picture of Matt at some chic bar with a gorgeous blond woman. He has one hand low on her waist; the other is gripping a beer bottle. I feel bile rise in my throat. Tears blur my vision, but being a glutton for punishment, I read his caption.
Having a great start to the New Year.
I angrily throw down my phone. Is he doing this on purpose? To make it crystal clear I mean nothing to him?
Well, if that’s his goal, mission accomplished.
“Damn it,” I say to myself. “Damn him for making me feel this way. And for making me resort to using horrible writing clichés. Damn him for it all!”
I get up and go to the bathroom, turning the faucet on. I angrily splash cold water on my face, as if I can wash him away.
I reach for a thick cotton towel and pat my face dry. Then I study myself in the mirror.
I can see heartbreak in my dark-brown eyes.
Matt is moving on.
And the best thing I can do for myself is to do the same.
I zip up my suitcase and lug it off the bed. I wheel it down the hall, knowing my parents will be here in about fifteen minutes so we can go to the airport.
Marabou follows me, his tail wagging at having company this morning. I sink down on the couch, and he comes over to me, placing his head in my lap and staring up at me with his huge puppy dog eyes.
“You’re such a good boy,” I say, stroking his fur. “I will miss your kisses in the morning.”
He remains still, letting me pet him, as if he senses I’m sad and need the distraction.
Beep!
My phone goes off inside my purse. I get up and reach for my tote, which is parked on top of my suitcase.
I grab it and see it’s from Nate.
Call me. NOW. URGENT.
I don’t waste a second and call Nate right back.
“Have you left for the airport?” Nate asks the second he answers.
“No, why?”
“Matt hasn’t shown up for practice. Holly, the shit is going to come down on him in a big way. He’s not answering his phone either. I’m betting he’s hungover.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “Oh no,” I say.
“Holly, please, you have to do me a solid. Change your flight. I need you to go over to Matt’s. You have to get him up and get him here as soon as possible to try and diffuse the situation. I don’t want to see him screw up his career like this. He’s on thin ice. I don’t know how much more the Demons will put up with.”
Oh God. This is bad, really bad.
Matt is going to be in so much trouble. I can’t speak as I imagine what could happen.
“Holly,” Nate continues, “Matt listens to you. I’ve seen it over the years. And I think you’re the only one who can reach him. Will you do this for me? But more importantly, will you do this for Matt?”
Chapter 8
“Your destination is on the right,” my GPS tells me.
Fear washes over me as I swing into the circular drive of the contemporary, stucco home in the swanky Preston Hollow neighborhood of Dallas.
I put Nate’s Bentley in park and grip the steering wheel as I stare at the huge house Matt calls home. My heart is sick. What will I find when I ring the doorbell? Will Matt be okay?
Please let him be okay, I think desperately. He has to be.
I swallow hard. If he is all right, will he be here with another woman? The blond from his Instagram picture last night?
I blink tears out of my eyes and get out of the car. No. No matter what—or who—I find on the other side of the door, Matt is my priority. I have to get him up and to the Demons training facility as quickly as possible.
With that thought in my head, I run to the door. I press the doorbell multiple times and pound on the front door with my fist for good measure.
“Matt!” I yell loudly, beating my fist again on the wood.
No response.
Oh God. What if he’s hurt? What if he never made it home? I begin pacing on the porch. Or what if he went on a binge drinking tear and—
No. I’m not going to go there. I can’t.
I pound with all my might on the door and ring the bell over and over.
“Matt, it’s Holly!” I yell.
Suddenly, after what seems like an eternity, I hear the lock being turned.
I hold my breath as the door opens.
And standing before me is Matt, in nothing but black boxer-briefs that leave little to my imagination.
He’s huge.
My face flames furiously as I take in that small, er, large detail. My eyes can’t help but detour up his athletic body, from the chiseled six-pack abdominal muscles to the beautifully sculpted ivory shoulders. Oh, God, he’s perfect. Instinctively my eyes lower one more time, down the hot V-shape that his waist tapers down to, and to those amazing boxer-briefs. My pulse, despite the situation, races as a result.
“Holly?” he asks, his voice scratchy. “You didn’t leave?”
I manage to tear my eyes away from his boxer-briefs and up to his face. He’s a mess. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is sticking up all over, and he smells like gin and tonic.
I step past him into his foyer. I turn and face him, asking a question that, depending on the answer, might kill me.
“Are you here alone?” I ask, my voice breaking.
Matt looks confused. “Of course I am. But why are you here?” he asks, his blue eyes locking on mine. “I thought you were leaving. But you didn’t. You’re here.”
I hear something in his words.
Could he be glad I stayed?
I shake my head. Now is not the time for my heart to control what needs to be done.
“Matt, listen to me. You’re supposed to be at practice. That’s why I’m here. Do you know what time it is?”
“Practice? What time is it?”
“It’s nearly eleven.”
Matt’s eyes pop wide open. “Shit. Shit!” He scrambles around the room, and I see his clothes from last night are dumped on the hardwood floor of the living room.
“No,” I say. “Go upstairs, throw on clean clothing. Use mouthwash. Now. I’m going to drive you. Hurry!”
Matt does as I say, and I watch as he bolts up the open staircase. I pace back and forth in his living room, willing him to dress quickly. Every second he’s late is a strike against him. I know for a fact he won’t play tomorrow. If he’s late for practice, he’s scratched from the lineup. And the fact that the Demons will see this was driven by partying will make them furious.
Matt’s been warned about this. He was told he was down to his last chance. A knot forms in my stomach. They could trade him. Minnesota threw him in as part of the deal that brought Nate to Dallas this past summer. It could happen again. He could be forced to change teams.
I can’t let that happen. I can’t.
Matt comes flying down the stairs in a Demons hoodie and jeans.
“Shit, shit, we’ve got to go! I’ll drive,” Matt shouts. Then he stops. “Where are my keys? Damn it, where the hell are they?”
“I’m driving. Get in the car,” I say firmly. “We’ll find your keys later.”
Matt doesn’t argue with me. We get into Nate’s car and I start driving toward the Demons training facility.
“I screwed up,” Matt says, gazing out the passenger window as I drive. “God, I really messed up, Holly. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” I say as I turn out of his neighborhood. “You need to apologize to the Demons. They’re the ones who you let down, not me.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Demons.”
I feel Matt’s gaze on my face as I drive.
“W-What?”
“I messed up with you.”
My heart explodes to life inside my chest. I don’t dare look at him.
“What do you mean?”
Matt is silent for a moment. It seems like an eternity before he speaks, and I swear the only sound I hear is the frantic beating of my heart.
“When you texted me yesterday, all I wanted to say was ‘don’t go.’”
I can’t breathe.
Matt wanted me to stay.
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. I pull up at a red light, and Matt’s face goes pale when he reads the screen.
“Who is it?” I ask softly.
Matt clears his throat. “Peter Deveraux’s assistant. I’m to meet with the coach first, and then report to his office to meet with him and the general manager after that.”
My stomach bottoms out. The coach would normally handle this alone.
Unless they are ready to cut ties now, I think, fearing the worst.
“Text her back a profuse apology and tell her you are en route right now,” I say, my brain taking over.
He glances at me.
“You . . . you don’t think they’ll let me go, do you?” he asks.
And for the first time ever, I hear fear in his voice.
“You’re one of the rising stars in the league,” I say. “I don’t think they’d give up on you so fast.”
“Why not? Minnesota did,” he says flatly.
Think, I will my brain as I drive. What can I do to help him plead his case? Can anyone help me?
I don’t know if Harrison will continue to stick his neck out for Matt. Or even Nate. They’ve tried to mentor him, to get him to dial it back, but it hasn’t worked. What could they say now to get the owner and the general manager on their side?
Then an idea hits me.
It might not work. But I have to try.
“Go into my purse and find my phone,” I blurt out as I drive.
Matt doesn’t question me. He reaches for my blush-colored Ted Baker purse on the floorboard, unzips it, and retrieves my cell.
“Go to my contacts and dial CiCi,” I say.
“What?”
“Do it,” I say. “I think she can help you.”
“Wait,” Matt says, “you are going to ask the owner’s girlfriend to intervene on my behalf? No. Hell no. That will really piss Deveraux off!”
“You aren’t talking about an ordinary woman. You called her a CIA operative. She knows everything,” I say, remembering what she said about Matt to me at the party. “And if I were to put my trust in anyone to help yo
u right now, it’s her.”
“I feel like I’m making a deal with Marlon Brando in The Godfather,” Matt mumbles.
“You’re out of options now. CiCi is your best hope. Trust me on this.”
Matt nods and pulls up the number. He dials it and hands me the phone.
“Hello?” CiCi answers.
“CiCi, it’s Holly Johansson. I need your help.”
I’m going to be sick.
I stare anxiously at the glossy, dark hardwood floor in the waiting area of Peter Deveraux’s office where Matt is meeting behind closed doors with the GM right now.
I can hear voices rise, but I can’t make out what is being yelled. I’m sick for Matt. I don’t know if CiCi can save him, but when I talked to her, she said not to worry, she was on it. She said she had “research” to do, but as soon as she was ready, she’d be up here to talk to Peter.
Okay. I have no idea what “research” she needs to help Matt, but I trust her.
She’s all we have left.
What if Matt is traded?
My heart wrenches inside my chest at the thought.
No. That can’t happen.
Because I know that means I will never see him again.
And after what he said in the car—that he messed up with me—my heart has hope.
Hope that he wants what I want.
But we’ll never have that chance if he leaves Dallas now.
We need to be together, in Dallas, to see if this can work between us. It’s not like Matt would go to a new city and ask me to go with him. We haven’t even kissed yet. And good lord, what would Nate say? My parents? No. There’s no way I could go with him, even if he wanted me to.
The door to Peter’s office opens, and relief cuts through my anxiety when I see CiCi.
She sweeps inside, wearing a chic black suit, her platinum hair immaculately in place, a leather planner tucked under her arm. As she flies into the room, her luxurious camel cape coat swings dramatically behind her.
She’s Superwoman. I’m convinced.
“Darling Holly,” she coos, making her way to me.
