“So, a while.”
He nods quietly. “They’re taking another X-ray tomorrow, so they may be able to give me a better idea.”
“Nervous?”
“A little.” He pauses. “But with my team done for the year, I’m not being hounded for updates from the public. At least there’s that.”
“I’m sorry they lost.” And I’m so sorry I never returned your call to at least tell you that. I had so proficiently convinced myself that avoiding contact would help squash my rising feelings for him. Two seconds into seeing him today, I realized that those feelings haven’t gone anywhere and I’m not only an idiot, I’m also an asshole.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he offers after a long drawn-out moment, his gaze drifting to the lake again.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
His jaw tenses. “It’s one thing to get injured taking a hit in a game. But how this happened?” He shakes his head. “People are right. That city has paid me so much fucking money and this is what they get in return.”
“No, Brett. People aren’t right. Not those people.” I could argue more but I doubt he’ll believe me.
I sense his mood shifting, so I switch to a lighter topic. “I’m sure California will be nice for the summer. Are you heading there after this, or going back to Canada?”
He’s quiet for a moment, as if considering his words. “I guess that depends on you.” He turns to regard me with an intensity I haven’t felt since that night of the interview, when we sat on my bed and I confessed my deep, dark secret about nearly leaving him in the car that night. When he embraced me and I found myself wishing we could stay in my room forever. “Kate Wethers may have put a spin on that interview, but can we stop pretending that there’s no truth to it. At least . . .” His eyes drift over my features, settling on my mouth. “You can’t look at me like that and tell me there isn’t.”
My cheeks burn, and I avert my eyes to the lake. I didn’t realize my adoration was so blatantly obvious.
“Why didn’t you call me back?” He asks the question so softly, and without even a hint of malice, and yet I still flinch.
“I’m sorry, I—” I falter. Searching for a good answer but coming up short.
“Was it because of Courtney?”
Yes. And no. If I admit that that is part of it—a big part of it—then I’m basically admitting to having feelings for him. Though it sounds like he’s already figured that out.
“It’s because of a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“There’s just . . . lots of reasons.” I stumble over my words.
Silence hangs between us. Somewhere in the distance I can hear Brenna giggling, and I’m grateful that she hasn’t insisted on interrupting us just yet.
“Is it because of the cameras and the reporters? Because it isn’t so bad anymore, is it?”
“For now. What if they come back?”
He shrugs. “Then we figure it out together. It’s manageable.”
“I can’t sit inside my house with a bodyguard outside.”
“Then you don’t.”
“And what? Wear a disguise?”
He chuckles. “I actually know some people who do that. I’ve never tried it. Well, unless you count my hockey gear. No one recognizes me in that, especially if I’m wearing an unmarked jersey. It’s kind of nice. But really, it’s not as bad as you think it is.”
“Can you just walk out of your building right now without being noticed?”
“Right now, no. Not with everything that’s been going on. They’re hoping they’ll catch a picture of me and Courtney, or me and you. Magazines pay big bucks for those. But normally . . . it’s fine. I might sign an autograph here and there, but otherwise I can walk around without being recognized at all. At least, I could before the accident.” He pauses. “It’s honestly not that bad.” His voice is soft, pleading.
“It’s not just the media, Brett.” I wish it were.
“Then what else? You have to tell me.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” He chuckles. “Because I’m crazy about you and you won’t even answer my calls. I need to know how to fix that so you’ll give me a chance. Please.”
I’m suddenly light-headed and wondering if I heard him right.
His gaze shifts to focus intently on his hands, folded in his lap. “I’ve never had trouble making friends or finding girlfriends. But it’s always been harder figuring out exactly why they’re there. They say they don’t care who my mom is, or who I am. But everyone’s secretly angling for attention or money, or both. You, though . . . you really aren’t looking for either. Who I am seems to be working against me with you.”
“I don’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Cath. I like that about you.” He turns to study my face. “And, God, you’re so . . . You took me completely by surprise, that first night I met you. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
I recall the oversized sweats and my hair in a messy pile on top of my head. “I’ve seen the women you date, Brett. Now you’re lying to me.”
“Trust me, those women don’t look like that when they’re not layered with makeup and in front of a camera.” His gaze skates over my features—over a mouth that I’ve thought was too wide more than once, and eyes that seem too catlike, and a nose that is too pointed at certain angles. “They’re not like you.”
You’re beautiful, too, I want to say, but I can’t manage the words.
He grins sheepishly. “When I went home that night, I told my parents that I was madly in love with the woman who saved my life.”
Oh, my God. My heart’s beating in my throat.
“Of course they convinced me that I was completely overwhelmed and that I needed to get some rest.”
“I’m sure they were right,” I mumble.
“I thought so too, honestly.” He swallows hard. “But then you had to go and be not just brave and beautiful but also humble, and funny, and honest. And I couldn’t stop thinking about what it’d be like to be with you.” His hand stalls midair, catching himself as he’s reaching for a loose strand of my hair. “So I need you to tell me what I need to do for you to give me that chance.” His jaw tenses as he locks eyes with me. “Please.”
“I just don’t fit in your life.” It’s barely a whisper. I’m struggling to think straight.
He runs his hands back through his mane of wavy hair, the color of sand after a heavy rainfall. “That’s just money, Cath. That’s not who I am. Please tell me you don’t think I’m that shallow. It’s insulting.”
I’m taken aback, his plea sparking an unexpected wave of shame. Never had I looked at it that way, that acknowledging our different social classes would disparage anyone but me. “I don’t think you’re shallow. I just think you’re caught up and the feelings you have for me won’t last. And I’ll be the one hurt when you finally figure that out.” There. I’ve said it as plainly as I can.
I don’t know what I expected from Brett in response, but a broad smile of satisfaction isn’t it.