by Elise Faber
“But for how long?” she said, out loud this time.
His inhale of breath was sharp, harsh amongst the quiet of the night, and she knew that he couldn’t tell her. No one could promise he wouldn’t get sick again, that she wouldn’t be forgotten and broken and forced to pick up the pieces once more.
“Fan,” he said, stepping toward her, the glass crunching under his shoes. “Can I come in? Please?”
She stumbled back a step, shook her head, her “No,” more of a shaking exhale than an actual refusal.
He heard anyway.
And he stopped.
Because he was the kind of man who listened, who was respectful of boundaries. Who wouldn’t force himself in where he wasn’t welcome.
“Fan,” he hissed, not moving, and the agony on his face had the claws inside her lashing out, striking deep enough to hurt.
Tears began falling, slipping out of the corners of her eyes. “No,” she said again. Stronger this time.
Brandon didn’t move.
She shut the door.
Fanny opened the front door of her house in the early hours of the following morning, having barely slept. The greasy food left to go bad; the wine and glass allowed to stain and litter the concrete of her porch.
Memories had tormented her all night long, had made it impossible for her to not see Brandon when her lids slid closed.
On the ice, playing travel hockey.
On the sidelines, cheering her on as she competed at increasingly bigger competitions.
Brushing back her hair and kissing her—her first—after she’d won Nationals.
Missing an important final so that he could watch her compete for gold.
Flowers and gentle touches, a room full of candles and giving her a narrow silver bracelet before they’d both lost their virginity.
The headaches. Passing out. The diagnosis. The surgery. The treatment. The—
She closed her eyes, focused on breathing in and out, but that didn’t exactly help. Not after last night, not after Brandon had stroked her gently and told her to, “Breathe,” in that husky voice of his. Because then she was thinking of his lush curls, those deep brown eyes, his strong shoulders, and roughened fingertips. He was the same and yet completely different.
A man.
Not a boy in the beginnings of adulthood.
And thank God the glass had stopped her from launching herself into his arms. He was a good person. She was glad he’d gotten better and that he looked so fit and healthy.
But she wasn’t going there again.
Speaking of glass, she stepped forward, bringing the broom and dustpan with her. Then froze, eyes scouring the porch.
The glass was gone, not even the smallest sliver glittering in the overhead lights.
And the wine had been cleaned up, only a faint stain on her doormat telling her the entire interaction hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.
“Brandon,” she whispered, knowing instantly that he’d cleaned it.
Either that, or the magical wine fairies.
Snorting and feeling a little better now that her sarcasm had made a comeback, Fanny turned for the house and made short work of stowing the broom and dustpan before heading back out to her car.
Coffee.
Carbs.
Skating.
Another trifecta that had gotten her through the last decade.
Luckily, there was a Molly’s around the corner, so she’d be able to obtain the first two easily enough, and the third was already on the agenda for the day.
She was running a power skating class that morning.
With seven-to-ten-year-olds. Heaven help her.
They’d be busy and talkative, and her head would be spinning by the time she was done, but she’d take the almost headache caused by her charges instead of the one that came from Brandon showing up on her front porch and making her remember.
“Carbs,” she whispered. “Caffeine. STAT.”
With that, she got into her car, hightailed it over to Molly’s, managing to make it to the front door just as the Open sign flicked on, and snagging two apple cinnamon muffins—still warm and smelling absolutely delicious—along with a chocolate croissant—because when she said carbs, she meant carbs. Molly took one look at her and wordlessly made the large coffee Fanny had ordered an extra-large.
“Thanks,” she said.
Molly just squeezed her hand before turning to help the next customer who’d come in.
Fanny stepped out onto the sidewalk, sucking down coffee and burning her mouth, but the caffeine rush was so worth it, and when she got to her car, she peeled back the wrapper of one of the muffins, consuming it so fast that she felt a bit like a snake. Just unhinge her jaw and let it slide down her throat.
“And now isn’t that a pleasant thought?” she muttered, navigating out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, downing the other muffin without the least bit of guilt. She hadn’t gotten her grease fest the night before. The least she owed herself was apple cinnamon deliciousness.
Along with chocolate croissant deliciousness.
Because that was also gone by the time she reached the rink.
Same as the coffee.
But at least she felt awake and somewhat better by the time she had her feet in her skates, the laces tied, the cold air biting at her nose and cheeks.
Home. This had always been and always would be home.
Cones and spray paint. Her clipboard, gloves, and beanie. The ice broken up with barriers and . . . kids. Talking and laughing, stumbling their way onto the ice, falling and getting up and tumbling into each other with a casual perseverance that reminded her of herself when she’d been their age. Well, that and the fact that they were so much closer to the ice than she was.
It hurt less when they fell that shorter distance.
Not that she was all that much taller, even now.
But a coach had to have her excuses, didn’t she? Especially when the twins skittered toward her, nearly taking her out in their exuberance to show her all the hockey checks they’d learned in the two weeks since she’d seen them.
Grinning, she gently shoved them back, those claws in her mind finally slipping free. She could breathe. She could laugh. She could . . . torture.
Muahaha.
Lifting her whistle to her lips, she blew a sharp trill to call the kids in.
And then she got down to torturing.
Chapter Two
Brandon
His eyes felt gritty, and his finger still throbbed from the cut he’d gotten picking up the shards of glass from Fanny’s porch.
But that wasn’t what had kept him up the night before.
No, that was all Fanny.
Or at least, the expression on Fanny’s face when she’d seen him, when he’d told her he remembered everything about them. Because it had been raw and hurt. No. She’d been anguished because he’d hurt her.
Too many times.
Cancer had taken too much from him. From them.
And still, he’d expected to walk up to her house, ring the bell, and for her to just fall into his arms.
Fucking idiot.
Sighing, he started for the front doors of Prestige Media Group, or PMG for short. He’d gotten a job here only recently, having made the switch from independent athlete representation to a firm. Not only did it pay better and the risks were lower—especially when the established company was the premier sports agency in the business—but his clients now had access to better perks than he could secure on his own.
Including Kaydon Lewis.
The former number one pick had recently been traded to the Gold. A good pickup for them because Kaydon had talent, even though he’d been battling some lingering injuries and hadn’t yet lived up to the hype of being the first-round selection in the draft.
That would be different this season.
Brandon had seen that in the few pre-season skates the team had organized.
Which was how he’d
stumbled upon Fanny. He hadn’t known she worked for the Gold, hadn’t known anything other than she’d moved to California all those years ago when he hadn’t understood how important she was to him.
When the fucking cancer had taken that from him.
But fate had given him something back. Fanny on the ice when he’d gone to watch Kaydon, to make sure he wasn’t pushing his recovery.
Brandon had . . . well, he didn’t know what in the fuck all he’d done aside from standing there, mouth agape as he’d spotted Fanny on the other side of the glass, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a light blue headband standing out sharply against the brown locks, glittering earrings dancing in her earlobes, legs and ass encased in tight black leggings.
A woman now.
And even more beautiful.
So he’d become a statue, soaking in every detail of her—her smile, the confident way she approached the players and nudged them this way or that, touching a knee through a shin guard, a hip through hockey pants, a shoulder through pads. He’d hated that she had her hands on other men, even knowing it was ridiculous for any number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that it was her job and perhaps, the biggest being that he had no fucking claim over her and hadn’t for nearly a decade.
He’d shoved down the jealousy, and instead, he had seen.
That she was good, that the guys respected her. That she knew her shit, even for Kaydon, who was new to the roster. She’d helped him through favoring that right knee, had pulled him aside and worked with him individually for a while.
Then she’d gone back to the team, running them through several drills that had the giants on the ice moaning and groaning.
By the end, the guys had dragged themselves into the locker room, and she’d all but skipped her way down to the hall that led to the offices of the practice facility, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she disappeared.
Not once had she looked his way.
So, he’d done some sleuthing.
And he’d found out where she lived (thanks to the IP address registration for her website).
Then had shown up on her porch like an asshole, obviously interrupting her evening in and making her hurt all over again and . . .
Being an asshole.
Fuck.
“Why do you have a sour lemon face?” Olivia—a VP at Prestige—asked, and he realized he’d been glaring at the front door to the business but hadn’t gone through it. “The sponsorship deal with Kaydon giving you problems? I can reach out to my rep.”
“No,” he said, forcing himself to snap out of it. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”
She eyed him for a long moment before shifting forward and opening the door, holding it wide for him to pass through ahead of her. The light breeze whipped her black hair around her face as she stepped closer and asked softly, “Are you feeling okay?”
They—Olivia and Devon, the owner of Prestige—knew about his history.
Brandon had felt the need to be straight with them before they’d hired him on. He needed time off occasionally for doctor’s appointments and checkups and though, up to this point, his scans had all come back clean, Brandon knew that might not always be the case.
And he didn’t want to hide that.
“I’m good,” he said. “Just a shitty night’s sleep.”
She nodded, studying his face for one more moment before turning toward the parking lot. “Let me know if that changes.”
Now was his turn to do that.
At least to start nodding.
Because just as he’d started to incline his head, Devon Scott stormed up to the building, the former hockey player’s body encased in an expensive suit, though the tie was loose around his neck and there appeared a be a Cheerio stuck to the collar of the crisp white shirt. “You will not believe what Becca did,” he announced without any preamble.
Olivia whipped around, her eyes gleeful—she loved to gossip—as she clapped her hands together. “I thought you were going to stay home after lunch?”
“I went home—”
“And were apparently attacked by Cheerios?” she asked, brushing the collar of his shirt and tightening his tie.
Brandon bit back a chuckle.
Devon’s face softened, the love he had for his toddler son evident. “Jasper was a little . . .”
“Don’t talk bad about my godson,” Olivia warned, lips tipping up at the corners. “He’s a perfect angel, just like his Auntie Olivia.”
This time Brandon couldn’t hold back the chuckle, earning him a glare from Olivia and a smile in male solidarity from Devon. “What did Becca do?” he asked, trying to get Olivia’s piercing blue eyes off him and back onto Dev, who was clearly more adept at handling her laser focus, if only because the other man had known her longer.
Devon sighed and thrust a hand through his hair. “You won’t believe it.”
Olivia grinned. “She made you sleep on the couch again because you snore?”
Dev scowled. “No.”
“Hmm.” Olivia tapped a finger to her chin. “Then are you mad because she had barely agreed to work for Prestige again before getting pregnant, having Jasper, and then decided not to come back and work for us—for me—again?”
“What?” A sharp shake of his head. “No,” Dev said. “I’m fine with her working or not. I liked her here, even when she was working with you. It’s just . . .” He trailed off, eyes going unfocused.
Olivia patted him on the shoulder. “That Bex cut you off from sex because you have an obsession with desktop fucking fantasies?”
“What?” Dev shook his head, his scowl deepening, though there might have been the slightest bit of red on his cheeks. “Where do you get these things?”
Olivia tapped her temple. “From the gloriousness of this giant brain.” A beat. “And also because I’m friends with your wife.”
Brandon snorted.
Dev continued shaking his head, kept scowling as he said, “Becca signed me up to be raffled off.” He tossed up his hands. “I’m a prize for the Miner’s Club charity event.”
The Miner’s Club was the Gold’s charity, focused on providing sports opportunities for kids in the Bay Area, along with donating school supplies and funding after school activities for kids who either couldn’t afford them or who didn’t have safe places to be once the school day was done.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Olivia said. “I know a lot of men would like to be considered a prize.”
“Would Cole”—Olivia’s husband—“like being a prize?”
“Well,” she said, waving a hand, “one could say he already is one. Both figuratively and literally.”
“He’s being raffled off, too?”
A nod.
Dev’s scowl came back in full force, as though learning that piece of information meant that any hope of getting out of the event had now been dashed.
Olivia went on, “He’s taking one winner up to the ranch for the day.” Cole’s ranch was another children’s charity, introducing kids to the outdoors—hiking, swimming, horseback riding. All things that might not be readily available to children who lived in the city.
“The ranch.” Dev made a face. “I’m a date!”
Brandon’s brows lifted.
“So?” Olivia asked.
“So?” Dev’s nostrils flared. “My own wife is setting me up on a date!”
Brandon’s phone buzzed, a reminder that he needed to get moving.
“Oh Lord,” Olivia sighed, threading her arm through Dev’s. She met Brandon’s eyes, him checking his phone apparently not having escaped her notice. “Run off while you can, young Jedi. I’ve got this one.” She started to lead him back to his car. “Becca knows that you’ll be a good prize. You’ll raise lots of money and . . .”
Their voices began to fade, and Brandon found himself smiling.
Then he found himself trailing after them and offering, “Let Becca know that I’m happy to help out, too?”
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Dev’s eyes widened. “To take my place?”
Brandon shuddered. The only one he wanted to go on a date with was Fanny, and only if that meant he wasn’t going to hurt her. The idea of entertaining some random man or woman for the evening, having to make small talk all while being uncertain of their expectations . . .
Well, he was hard-pressed to stifle his shudder for a second time.
“I . . . um…”
Olivia frantically shook her head, mouthing, “Don’t do it.”
“No,” he said, “I was actually thinking that I could help in some other way.”
Dev’s shoulders fell. “Right.” A beat. “Cool, thanks. I’ll tell her.”
Olivia patted his arm. “Your wife loves you. The date is a good thing. And if it really bothers you, just tell Becca you don’t want to do it.”
“You know I can’t do that,” he said. “The baby—” A sharp shake. “I don’t want to stress her out and have something happen . . .”
Becca and Dev had struggled with infertility over the years, and Brandon knew she was only a few months along with their second baby. That alone nearly had him rescinding his refusal to take Dev’s place. Olivia, apparently, knew that. She shook her head at him and made a shooing motion. “Go,” she mouthed. “He’s fine.”
Hesitating for another moment, at least until his phone buzzed again, the reminder telling him he really did need to go otherwise he’d be late, Brandon slipped away and retreated to his car.
And drove away just as Olivia folded Devon into his, the other man still scowling.
But at least he was sans Cheerios.
He closed his eyes and held still as the noise rattled through the space around him.
Loud enough to make his ears ring and his jaw clench.
It was his yearly scan, and one would think he’d gotten used to the sound and claustrophobically small space by now, but he still hated MRIs with a passion, and just being in the narrow tube had sweat breaking out on his nape.
Slow, even breaths.
Not moving unless he wanted to repeat the whole damned thing.
Which, for the record, he didn’t.
But being trapped in a white tube, magnets zipping all around him, was not his favorite place to be. Being still and quiet with no other distractions also wasn’t his favorite place to be. That allowed him far too much time to think.
