by Elise Faber
To remember.
When fuck, this whole shitty scenario began because he couldn’t remember.
And now, he could only think of the bad things. Of the buzzing sound that had replaced words when he’d sat in that doctor’s office and heard he had cancer the first time. His parents had been there then, still alive, and Fanny had been, too, her fingers finding his and holding tight when he’d received the news.
Her fingers had found his so many times over the years.
Just before he’d gone under for surgery the first time.
When he’d awoken and not remembered who she was, even though it was only for a week the first time. She’d still come every day, still held his hand.
She’d skipped school, snuck out from her house, stopped skating until he’d remembered and had forced her to return to the rink, to her training.
But even with school, with her skating, he’d never doubted that she was there for him.
Their friendship, begun at the rink, had grown into young love, and after he’d gotten better, they’d shared their first kiss, their first time making love, they’d spent every single day together, including him traveling to watch her bring home a silver medal on the world’s stage. Then he’d gone to college while she’d performed on the pro tour circuit, and though the distance had been brutal, she’d been wrapping up her commitment, and he’d just graduated when he proposed.
She’d planned—they’d planned—everything. The venue. The food. Their honeymoon.
She’d tried on dresses, dresses he’d never gotten the opportunity to see her in.
They’d tasted cakes and couldn’t wait to lay out on the beach together as newlyweds.
And then it had all gone to shit.
He’d made it all go to shit.
His eyes stung, throat burning, and he knew that he was seconds away from losing his shit in this fucking tube, the goddamn buzzing scratching over his skin. It was too small, too loud, too much stimulus for his overwrought brain.
He needed to get up, to get out, to—
His fingers twitched then his toes, and he clenched his jaw.
Don’t move.
Don’t move.
Don’t—
Fuck it, he was going to move. He had to get out of here, had to—
The whirring stopped. “Mr. Cunningham?” the radiology tech’s voice rolled through the small space. “Are you all right? Your heart rate has accelerated.”
Fuck. Fuck.
He forced a deep breath, released it slowly. “Sorry,” he rasped. “I must have dozed off there for a bit. Nightmare.”
The tech laughed, and Brandon’s throat burned. The prickling feeling didn’t dissipate, but he forced his breathing to slow, to steady.
“I feel your pain,” the tech said. “Good news is we’re almost done here.”
“Okay, thanks,” he managed to squeeze out, even though the words were hardly decipherable.
The whirring picked up again, the tech didn’t say anything else.
And Brandon slammed his eyes shut, pretending that he was anywhere but there.
Chapter Three
Fanny
She was right about her head spinning by the time she got the kids off the ice, much later that afternoon.
Exhaustion had crept into every inch of her, and her toes were absolutely freezing . . . along with her fingers and her legs and her nose and her arms and—well, every part of her was frozen. She was ready to call it a day, probably should have called it a day about three classes ago. But her coach that typically did the afternoon lessons had looked a little peaky, so Fanny had sent her home.
She didn’t mind . . . except for the whole freezing part.
She’d warm up. Eventually. And the exhaustion would help her sleep.
Plus, before she hit her bed, she’d have her wine and horror flick and carbs, take two.
After skating to the far side of the ice to snag the last cone—there always seemed to be one left behind—Fanny made her way off the rink. A perky, adorable redhead was waiting for her at the door to the ice, practically bouncing on her toes. She waved, nearly dislodged her glasses, and then immediately pushed them back up her nose. “Hey!” she called.
“Hi, Scarlett,” Fanny called back, biting the inside of her cheek to hold in her smile.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“No kidding?” she asked dryly, coming to a stop before her.
Scarlett, the assistant publicist for the Gold, swatted her arm then backed up so Fanny could get off the ice, move to the bench, and pick up her skating bag. She rolled it toward the front of the rink, pushing through the doors that led into the warmer lobby area—thank God for that.
Step one of unfreezing.
Step two?
Resting her tired tootsies by sitting on the bench as she unlaced her skates. Scarlett plunked down next to her, talking a mile a minute. “. . . and so the raffle is going to be the big fundraising initiative for the year, and we need to raise enough to fund all the big projects, and our agenda this year is huge, and that’s a lot of responsibility, and Rebecca wants me to—”
“Scar,” Fanny interrupted, smiling at her friend. “You can save the hard sale for someone else.” She bumped Scarlett’s shoulder with her own. “I’m happy to help. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
Scarlett beamed. “Can you donate some private lessons?”
Fan dried the blade of her skate, slapped on the guard, and tucked it into her bag. “Of course, I’ll donate some. How many? Five?”
“Five would be awesome!” Scar’s smile went somehow wider.
Fanny took off her other skate, dried it, and put it away as Scarlett kept talking about the raffle—Devon Scott—retired player and former member of the Sexiest Player of the Month club—would take a fan to dinner, Stefan Barie—their former captain—had offered a seat next to his for a home Gold game, Char Harris—the Gold’s GM—was making herself available as a mentor. And all of that goodness would be followed by a silent auction with more items like tickets to Disneyland and wine tours of the North Bay. “Wouldn’t my prize fit in better with those?” she asked when Scar finally took a breath.
Private lessons from a skating teacher hardly compared to the goodness of the others.
Her friend shook her head. “Um, no. A silver medalist giving free private lessons is a big prize.”
“Except they can”—she swept her hand toward ice—“just come to the rink and sign up for a class.”
Scar shrugged. “I’ll give you that much, except that you don’t teach too often anymore.”
Not true exactly.
She did teach, but rarely instructed adults outside of the Gold roster. Maybe that was the draw?
Whatever the reason, Scar was emphasizing her silver medal and the private nature of the lessons—which was starting to sound a little more call girl and a little less instructor—and Fanny’s strong suit wasn’t selling people or spinning publicity or creating a great charity event. It was skating.
So, she let Scarlett run the show.
“Okay,” she said during another pause in the one-sided conversation. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Scar clapped her hands together. “I love it when people say that!”
Fanny snorted as she rolled her shoulders and stood. “I bet you do.” She stifled a yawn. “Well, I should head home. I’m exhausted.”
“Kids.” Scarlett made a face.
And exes, she thought, struggling to keep her own expression neutral.
“But that’s no excuse,” Scar said. “Because you’re not going home. You promised to go to dinner with Dani, Ethan, and me, and you’re not flaking out this time, not just because of some kids.”
“So says the woman who hardly has to deal with kids.”
“So says the woman who is helping to run a charity for kids,” Scar countered.
“For doesn’t mean dealing with.” Fanny chuckled at the expression of consternation on her fri
end’s face. “But I really am tired. Do you mind if I flake?”
More consternation.
Crossed arms and a pouty bottom lip.
“No,” Scar muttered, though that was very much a yes.
Fanny was immune to pouting. She’d had kids throw pretty much everything at her over the years—and that went for men and players, too. Because kids weren’t the only ones with temper tantrums, though typically the ones she dealt with from the Gold were in jest.
Still, Scar’s pouting in that moment had her reconsidering.
Not because of the stuck-out lip, but because of the prickling in Fanny’s brain, the sudden knowledge that if she went home to her quiet house, to her cleaned-up front porch, to her wine and movie, that she wouldn’t be able to keep her mind off Brandon. No matter how much popcorn she crammed down her throat. No matter how many carbs she consumed.
Maybe going to dinner would be better than being alone.
Scar’s lip slid out a little further.
Maybe not.
Scar dropped her arms and pulled out the big guns. “We’re going to Bobby’s,” she cajoled. “Mozzarella sticks, tacos, that weird panty-named drink that you love.”
“A Panty Dropper?” Fanny sputtered. “I got that as a joke one time.”
Scarlett nudged her with her elbow. “Well, maybe it’s time for a second?”
It was the eyebrow waggle that did it. That and the fact that exhaustion meant she didn’t have a lot of fight left in her.
Lie.
But sometimes a girl needed to lie to herself.
Plus, there were tacos on the menu.
“I know that face,” Scar said. “It’s the coming to Bobby’s face.”
Now she wanted to lie and say no all over again, just to wipe the smug expression off Scarlett’s face. But . . . tacos and maybe she would go crazy and order a Panty Dropper, just to watch Dani blush all over again.
“Am I wrong?” Scar said when all Fanny did was glare at her.
“You’re not wrong,” Fanny said, ignoring the gleeful squeal as she grabbed the handle of her skate bag and started to roll it out of the lobby. Her car was parked out front, and when she got to the lot, she saw that Scar had taken the space right next to hers. “I’m surprised that you didn’t block me in before I agreed to come with you.”
Scar winked. “I had confidence in my skills of persuasion.”
Laughing, Fanny just shook her head as she stuffed her bag in the trunk. “Want a ride?”
A nod from the girl with sparkling blue eyes. “You know how much I hate driving.”
That her friend did. Not only did she hate it, but she was also terrible at it, having gotten into a number of smaller fender benders over the year or so she’d known Scarlett.
Mock-sighing, she hitched a thumb toward the passenger’s side. “Get in, Trouble.”
Scar frowned. “I don’t try to be trouble, you know that, right?”
“Right,” Fanny said, agreeing both because it was the truth—Scar didn’t appear to seek out trouble, even if trouble seemed to follow in her wake everywhere she went (hell, it was a miracle Scar had parked next to her and Fan’s car had remained unscathed)—but also agreeing because she really was hungry, and those tacos were calling her name.
Mmm.
Carne asada.
Maybe that was better than wine and solitude and slasher flicks.
She opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat, opening her mouth to ask Scarlett how work was going.
But she didn’t get one word out before Scar blurted, “My brother’s moving to town, and I want to give him your number. His name is Charlie, and he has pretty blue eyes, a great smile, and a stable job. Plus, he’s got the perfect amount of squish.”
Fanny’s brows lifted, but she didn’t get the chance to ask the question on the tip of her tongue (namely asking what was the perfect amount of squish) before Scar kept talking.
“He’s huggable and good-looking and funny. Plus, he’s single. He’s the perfect Fanny material.”
She’d hope so—the single part, anyway—if Scar was trying to set them up.
“I’m not really—”
She picked up Fanny’s phone, plugging in the code to unlock the screen, and for a moment, Fanny regretted having shared the set of numbers that last time they’d ridden together. Then it had been to access a playlist; tonight it was to plug in Charlie’s information.
Or at least, that was what Fanny assumed by Scar setting the cell back into the cupholder and leaning back in her seat. “There. Now you can call him and you two can meet up and you’ll fall in love and then you’ll have to be my sister and put up with me.”
Heaven help her.
But she caught a glance of Scarlett’s sparkling eyes, the utter joy and life and . . . found Scar’s enthusiasm contagious.
At least enough to smile and say, “I don’t know about the love part.”
“But you’ll call him?”
Fanny pressed her lips together to stifle the chuckle. Persistent meet trouble.
And Scar hadn’t even pulled out the pout this time.
She drove out of the lot, navigated to the freeway, and found herself agreeing. “Yeah, Scar, I’ll call him.”
“And that’s when Dani started blushing and swatting me, trying to shut me up,” Scarlett said. “But I wouldn’t be deterred. Madeline”—Blane, a defenseman, and Mandy’s, the trainer for the Gold, oldest kiddo—“deserved that Tickle-Me Elmo, and I was going to die on that field to get it.”
“And by field, Scar means the long, white aisles of Target,” Dani said dryly.
Ethan was grinning, his arm around Dani’s shoulders, his hand rubbing up and down her arm.
She’d had that.
She missed that.
Missed Brandon.
Swallowing hard, she took another long swallow of her Panty Dropper—her third? Fourth? Fifth? Honestly, she’d lost count, hadn’t realized how hard it would hit her to see the diamond ring, the happiness on her friend’s face, the obvious love between her and Ethan.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen them all lovey-dovey before. Of course, she had. Hell, she’d pushed them together, had helped Ethan select the ring.
But . . . Brandon.
She was raw and exhausted and . . . drunk.
So, she had that going for her.
Cool.
The server came around, refilling drinks. “You want another?” she asked Fanny.
The room was starting to spin at the edges, but Dani and Ethan were still in focus, so she nodded. Irresponsible? Yes. But Scar, who was drinking water, could drive her home—and hopefully not wreck her car in the process.
Solid plan.
Yes, that was the Panty Droppers talking.
She lifted her glass, and oh look, it was good she’d ordered another because it was empty. Still, she sucked down a few more drops, mostly the dredges of melted ice. When she plunked the glass back down on the table, her gaze caught on Ethan’s.
And because he was still in focus even though hardly anything else was, she saw the concern on his face.
Fuck.
Scarlett was still talking, but he leaned closer to her and asked softly, “You okay?”
She slapped on her award-winning smile. The one that she’d once used with sponsors. The one that had given her enough cash to have a decent retirement savings and to start her business. “Just tired. Kids are monsters,” she added with a chuckle that sounded forced, even to her own ears, when the concern didn’t go away.
Scarlett chimed in. “Fanny was on the ice all day.”
“And I couldn’t even torture them by making them do ladder drills.”
Ethan winced. “I hate ladder drills.”
She smiled widely. “I like what they do to your endurance.”
A grin. A shake of his head.
“Plus, you really hate the Umbrella.” A drill she’d come up with that involved cones and a copious amount of edge work.
And one that Ethan, who struggled with using his outside edge on the right side effectively, really really hated.
Case in point, he shuddered. “I do,” he muttered. “I do.”
“You should make him do it anyway,” Dani said with a smirk that was very un-Dani-like.
Fanny lifted her brows. “Torturing him not one day after the man gave you a giant ring?”
“Yup.” The smirk widened.
Ethan clamped a hand to his chest, over his heart. “You wound me.”
Dani snagged that hand, kissed the back of it. “I kid. I kid. You know I love you, and I only approve of Fanny’s torturing because I get to reap the benefits of it on your body.”
Scarlett cackled.
Fanny grinned, pretended to make a tick on her mental checklist. “Umbrella. Check. Ladders. Check.”
Ethan groaned.
“Think of it like medicine, baby.” Dani patted his cheek. “It’s good for you.”
Another groan.
They kept teasing Ethan, and he was a good sport about it. And she was glad she’d come, even despite the happiness radiating from the happy couple across the table making her teeth ache. They deserved that happy, and . . . she did, too.
For the first time in a long time, she thought that she did, too.
And—oh look, right on the tail of that uncomfortable thought, the one that had her throat squeezing tight, bile churning in her gut—her glass was empty again.
She signaled to the waitress for another.
“You’re driving,” she told Scarlett when her friend took a breath and Dani started teasing Ethan about how he’d cried at the movie they’d watched the previous weekend.
Scarlett glanced from the glass to Fanny’s face. “You’re not okay,” she said.
Fanny sipped again. “No,” she admitted. “But I’ll get there.” A beat. “I always do.”
Later that night, Ethan took pity on Fanny (and her car and the risk Scar’s driving might bring to it), and drove them back to the rink. They stopped long enough to drop Scarlett off at her sedan before heading to Fan’s house.
