Okay. Aces win, we go on a date. Wild win, we go on a date.
I laughed out loud, then covered my mouth again. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. I gasped in a breath and laughed again.
What was this? It better not be some cruel joke that he didn’t even mean.
Another tweet showed up. I hope you know I’m serious and intend to collect on my bet.
The tears squeezed from my eyes and slid down my cheeks. With a tremulous smile, I typed my reply. Okay, when are we doing this?
I waited for his response, my breathing shallow and harsh, my heart galloping.
How about right now?
I literally sobbed. I couldn’t make sense of this, my poor bruised heart was beating wildly, painfully in my chest, my brain was shorting out.
A knock sounded on my door.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I dropped the container of melting ice cream and my phone on the coffee table, scrambled off the couch and raced to the door. It couldn’t be. Could it? No. But who else could it be? Oh my God.
I peeked through the side window and saw Chase standing outside my front door. Another sob burst from my mouth and I squeezed my eyes shut, resting my head against the carved wooden door. Then my fingers fumbled on the dead bolt, and I flung the door open.
It took about two seconds for me to drink in his handsomeness, the warmth of his eyes, the sexy curve of his mouth and his tousled hair, before my gaze zeroed in on the cast on his arm. “Oh, Chase.” My eyes shot back up to his. “Are you okay?”
“My arm? Yeah.” He thumped his chest with his good hand. “Right here? Not so much.”
I stared at him. “I don’t know what that means.” I was afraid of what that meant. Afraid…to hope.
“Can I come in?”
“Y-yes.” I stood aside to let him in.
He walked into my house. His soft-looking navy T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, chest, and flat abs, and faded jeans showed off his tight ass and long legs. I couldn’t stop looking at the cast.
I shut the door and gestured to my living room. He swept the house with his gaze as he strolled in. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. I, uh, just rent it.” The house was a contemporary style, with shiny Brazilian cherry floors, pale walls, and large windows. “I liked it because of the views. And it’s nice and quiet, but close to Hollywood.”
“It’s a gorgeous neighborhood. Makes me wonder why you came back to Chicago in the winter.”
“I love Chicago.” And I love you. “H-have a seat.” I motioned to the taupe sectional in a corner of the room.
He sat on one side of it, still taking things in—the framed photographs on the walls, the TV playing the game, which had started, mounted on the wall above the wood-burning fireplace I never used, now filled with fresh flowers. His lips twitched at that.
My knees were about to give out so I sat too, on the other side of the sectional, perched on the edge. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.” He rubbed his hands up and down his jeans. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“Okay.” When he didn’t say anything, I said, “You had the surgery.”
“Yeah. Last week.”
“It went okay?”
“Yeah, fine. The doctor said it was a total success. I have some rehab to do, and it’ll be a while, but hopefully I should be good as new by training camp.”
I eyed him. “I guess you’re not happy about not playing right now.”
“Not really. But it’s for the best.” He met my eyes, and his were steady. “You were right. I needed to do it. I should have done it a long time ago. Hell.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Athletes are stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“We are, because we’re willing to risk being seriously injured so we can just keep playing. Even though I knew in my heart and my head that what you were saying was right…that I could do more damage to my wrist…that need to be out there, to not let my team down, to not let the fans down, was way stronger. Maybe it’s part of the hockey culture—that ‘ice warrior’ mentality. Hockey players are tougher than anyone. But you were right…playing through pain is one thing. We all have those times where we have sore muscles or bruises or some kind of nagging ache. We block a shot, get checked hard into the boards. That’s playing hurt.”
“We’re all playing hurt, Chase.” I touched his face, understanding better now about where his head had been. To me it had seemed crazy to put himself at risk. But for him…he was an ice warrior. “In one way or another. Sometimes they’re bruises you can see. Sometimes they’re things you can’t see.”
He pressed his cheek into my palm. “Yeah. That is so true. So that’s how I felt…we had all those injuries, guys called up from the farm team, going into the playoffs…I felt I had to keep going.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand it. I’m so sorry. I…I admire your loyalty and unselfishness.”
He closed his eyes. “But if I’d taken care of this early in the year when it was first bothering me, maybe I’d be playing right now.”
My heart bumped, then squeezed with sympathy for him. My bottom lip quivered. “You tried,” I whispered. “You tried so hard.”
“There is no try.”
I moved my head from side to side. “That’s not true, Yoda. I don’t believe that. I know you want to be the best. You think you need to be perfect. But nobody is. It’s not about being the best…it’s about trying your best.”
“Christ.” He hung his head. “Where were you when I was six?”
“Huh?”
“I want to tell you a story.”
I pressed a hand against the rolling, fluttery feeling in my stomach, my mouth dry. “Okay.”
“You asked me one time, why I’d said something…about people only caring about me when I’m perfect.”
“Yeah.”
“Well. I told you about my parents. How they’d pushed me into hockey. How I’d wanted to quit and it hadn’t gone well?”
“Yes.” I thought way, way back to our first date. “I got the impression your parents were determined you were going to play.”
“Yeah. That’s putting it mildly. I was only six when I started playing, and I wasn’t very big. I didn’t skate very well. I hated it.”
My heart clenched.
“I was actually scared out on the ice but I wouldn’t admit that to my parents, I just told them I didn’t like it and I wanted to quit. They let me quit. But they shut down on me. It was how they let me know their disappointment. No affection. No love.”
“Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Of course they loved you, Chase.” That had to be true. It had to.
“I know they did, in their own way. But they made my life so miserable. I don’t know if you know how scary it is for a kid to feel like he’s on his own, unloved. Fuck.” He pressed his lips together and gave his head a shake.
“I don’t.” My lips trembled even more. “I can’t even imagine.” My parents had supported me and encouraged me, no matter what. I couldn’t stop myself from getting up and moving over to sit beside him. I had to. I had to touch him. To comfort him. I laid my hand on his leg and squeezed.
He covered my hand with his, so big and warm. He kept his head down, as if looking at our hands.
He told me more…things that horrified me and made me ache. What a brave kid he’d been to go back out there on the ice when he was afraid. Times he hadn’t played well and had been punished with silence and disapproval. Times he had played well when he’d been rewarded with smiles and hugs. Coaches who had saved him from becoming consumed with a fear of failure, from feeling isolated, who’d believed in him and encouraged him to believe in himself. And yet…doubts remained.
“I know I didn’t handle it well when you pushed me to take care of my wrist.” He curled his fingers around mine, turned my palm so our hands were clasped. “It made me feel the way I did when my parents bugged me because I didn’t play well. Didn’t try hard enough. Didn’t live up to their expectations.”