But hell…I was miserable without her. They could cut off my fucking arm and I’d still miss her more.
It was more than just the image—the sexy pop star. It was her heart, her humor, her unaffected, unassuming manner. She bowled and played air hockey and drank beer. She was afraid of candles. She lost her keys, her phone…she’d even lost her car once, when she forgot to note where she parked it. Sometimes she was a bit of a drama queen, and some might think she was a ditzy blonde, but I knew better. She was smart and talented and cared about people, even the fans she’d let down by having to postpone her album. She’d come to the hospital with me that day, and she’d been awesome.
Maybe I’d had a crazy crush on her before I met her, but after I met her…it was a helluva lot more than a crush.
I eyed my phone again. Swallowing, I picked up it up. There were a bunch of notifications, including one from my dad. I shouldn’t have looked at it, but I did.
What the hell happened? You let Larsson rob you of the puck! It cost you the game.
I closed my eyes. Yeah, Dad, thanks for telling me that. Like I didn’t know.
It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t hurt me after all these years. Actually, I was already hurting so bad, it didn’t really make much difference. I didn’t reply to him.
I closed that app and opened Twitter.
I saw Jordyn’s tweets right away, tweets about the game, then a reply to someone who’d called me out for screwing up and losing the game for us. Don’t blame Hartman entirely. That was a bad line change leaving him all alone.
It felt like the world actually stopped. Everything else faded away as I stared at that tweet, my chest expanding, swelling painfully, stealing my breath. Warmth radiated slowly through me.
She’d defended me.
I’d screwed up…so fucking badly…and she’d defended me.
I’d hurt her. And she’d defended me.
Mind. Blown.
I just kept staring at the tweet, reading it over and over. Then I scrolled and read more…
No defense whatsoever! He was all alone there!
That was a shitty line change!
I dropped my phone onto my chest and closed my eyes. Every muscle in my body felt stiff. My throat constricted painfully, and a fire burned in my chest and my gut.
I couldn’t say nobody had ever defended me before. I’d had some damn good coaches in my hockey career, coaches who’d praised me and believed in me, who’d stood up for me and helped me learn from my mistakes. If it hadn’t been for them…I don’t know how I would have made it.
I thought about six-year-old me, so scared because I felt like my parents didn’t love me anymore. I thought about all the times they’d been disappointed in my mistakes and how much their disapproval had hurt.
Hot pressure built inside me. I squeezed my burning eyes shut, trying like hell not to cry.
The only way I’d known how to make it better was to do what they wanted. Try harder. Try to be perfect. I’d spent the rest of my life trying to earn their love again.
I knew they loved me, in their own way. Maybe at first, my motivation to excel had been to earn their approval, but at some point, playing hockey had become more about my own needs than theirs. To prove to myself I could do it. And I did love it. But still…those memories were painful.
I couldn’t hate them for that. They were my parents. They’d done so much for me, and when it turned out I actually loved hockey and was pretty good at it, they’d made sure I had whatever I needed to be successful. It wasn’t like they smacked me around or abused me…except I knew that it sort of was abuse, withholding love from a child like that. And it had apparently left some pretty deep scars. Because now I felt that without hockey…I wasn’t worth loving. By anyone. And when Amanda had dumped me…and my old team had dumped me…and Jordyn had tried to push me into doing what she wanted, making me feel like I had to or she wouldn’t care…I’d been that six-year-old boy all over again, alone and hurt.
Now hockey was being taken away from me by something else, by a stupid fucking injury that I’d been trying to deny and ignore, because if I didn’t have hockey…why would anyone care about me? My parents. The team. The fans. Jordyn.
But Jordyn had defended me.
I remembered her talking about how her friends thought she interfered in their lives. I remembered her saying that she did it because she cared about them.
A harsh sob rose in my throat. Because I’d fucked it all up.
Even knowing I was hurt, even knowing I’d have to give up hockey for a while at least, even knowing how stubborn and stupid I’d been about it all, she’d defended me.
I’d never had that before, someone who had my back even when I screwed up.
Maybe Brick was right? Maybe she was really into me. And maybe…even with my stupid fears and flaws, I was actually worthy of her love? I was almost afraid to believe it…but I wanted to.
I jackknifed up on the bed, staring wildly around the shadowy hotel room. I loved her, and I’d screwed everything up. I had to do something. I had to fix this.
I had no clue what to do.
I had a moment of déjà vu, remembering the night I’d been watching her on TV, me in Ottawa, her in New York, when she’d lost her voice. I felt the same…a desperate need to get to her. To fix things. A frantic feeling of helplessness.
I paced the room, over to the window, back to the bed. My mind felt way too empty. I needed a plan. I needed to get my shit together.
Chapter 22
Jordyn
This was torture.
I was dying. I needed to know what was happening with Chase, but I couldn’t call him. Or text him. I was still so hurt and angry. But worried. Really worried.
He wasn’t playing. The news reports said he was out with an “upper body injury.”
I knew what that meant. It was his wrist. But what had happened? Why wasn’t he playing? Had he hurt it even worse? Was that what had happened in that last game he’d played?
I felt sick thinking that he might have done more damage to his wrist. I was having a hard time concentrating on anything lately. I’d been having a hard time even before that, because my heart was broken and I missed him so, so much, but now it was even worse.
Tonight was game seven between Minnesota and the Aces, back in Chicago. Somehow the Aces had pulled off three wins, and the series was tied at three games each. Tonight was do or die for both teams. One would go on to the next round, the other would be eliminated, their season done.
And Chase wasn’t playing.
This was what he’d wanted so badly, and he wasn’t there. My heart ached for him.
Malik had invited me to go to a movie premiere tonight, but I’d told him I didn’t feel up to it. Which was sort of true. But really, I’d wanted to stay home and watch the game.
I settled onto my couch with a container of ice cream—chocolate cherry chunk, my favorite. I’d been scarfing down way too much chocolate cherry chunk lately. I winced as I dug the spoon into the creamy treat, but ate it anyway. I’d work out extra hard tomorrow.
I had my phone on the table in front of me, as usual, ready to follow the Aces hashtags. A notification appeared. Huh. I leaned forward to tap the screen.
My eyes flew open wide.
Do or die for these 2 teams tonight. Maybe @JordynBanks would like to make a wager on the outcome?
I swore my heart stopped. For long painful seconds I didn’t even breathe as I stared at Chase’s tweet.
He’d tweeted at me.
Why? Why now?
My hands shaking, I picked up the phone. For a few long minutes, I had no clue what to do. What to say. Then I thumbed in my response. Hmmm. What would we be wagering?
I waited for his reply, barely breathing, my stomach full of birds’ wings.
Oh I don’t know. How about…a date?
My lungs seized up again. What was happening? I set my fingers over my mouth and stared at my phone. Okay. Okay. I could handle this. Maybe. It took me a few tries to type my response because I kept messing up. The only problem is, we’re probably both cheering for the same team…