The longer I stare at him, the more I come to realize he’s not bluffing.
“I have a very tempting trade offer pending on my desk.” Chris purses his lips. “Break up with him, and I tear it up.” He shrugs a shoulder like it’s no big deal. “Don’t break up with him, and… well… do youreallythink he’ll still want you when he finds out you’re the reason he’s been traded?”
“Three minutes, Chris,” someone calls out from behind me.
“Sure thing, Ben,” Chris says with a pleasant smile, like he didn’t just blackmail me.
I try to swallow around the lump in my throat, but acid burns my tongue. I feel sick. Like I might actually be sick. But I also know I can’t show weakness in front of a man like Chris. I won’t. Plus, Lucky needs me right now.
“Enjoy the game.” Chris winks at me, looking down at Lucky and throwing her a finger gun before spinning around on his shiny loafers and walking away.
“Hannah?” Lucky’s small voice breaks through the myriad of conflicting thoughts suddenly racing through my mind.
I glimpse down at her with a smile I know doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Are we going to go watch Daddy?” she asks, such raw innocence in her big brown gaze.
“We sure are, Lucky Duck.” I squeeze her hand. “Let’s go!”
CHAPTER 45
HAPPY
We win game one of round one, five-three, Logan snapping the puck into the back of the net with four seconds remaining in the third, clinching the W.
The guys and I celebrate on the ice as the home crowd goes ballistic, the energy ricocheting throughout the arena, enough to lift the goddamn roof off the place. My body feels like it’s been run over twice by a fucking truck, I can already feel the bruise on my left side from an unfriendly check against the boards by the Halifax third line goon, Janacek, which earned him two minutes in the box. But I could be missing a goddamn limb, and it still wouldn’t bring me down right now. Like Coach said, you win the Stanley Cup one game at a time, and winning game one is the start. And we did it. This is the best fucking feeling in the world. Well, second best, at least.
I follow Logan out of the locker room, the cheers erupting through the tunnel almost deafening as camera flashes go off inour faces. We’re stopped by VIP fans to sign jerseys and take selfies, which we of course do, because hell, we’re just as excited and stoked for the win as they are.
By the time we make it through the makeshift ticker-tape parade, I spot my girl up ahead, standing with Millie, Emily, Fran, and a few of the other wives and girlfriends, all wearing their matching jackets, and my heart almost bursts. It’s a strange feeling going from perpetually single and slutty to suddenly feeling whole every time I see one person, but it’s a feeling I never want to lose. Having someone here to greet me after a game, especially after a game like tonight… it’s the one thing I never knew I always wanted. I’m just bummed that I missed out on it for so long.
Allie took Lucky home because Lucky was tired and overstimulated and starting to withdraw. Mom and Lewis left with them. And I’m taking Hannah home to her apartment, where I intend on making love to her all night long because I need my girl right now, more than ever.
“Good game, you guys!” Fran congratulates Logan and me as we make our way to them.
Millie practically mauls Loges, nearly knocking him flat on his ass. And I would never expect such a reaction from Hannah because, compared to Millie and all the other girls, she’s a lot more subdued. But when she turns to me, I can’t help but notice how the smile on her lips doesn’t meet her eyes, her voice so soft I almost miss it through the din in the tunnel when she says, “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, baby.” I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush against me. Her hands lay flat against my chest through my shirt, and when she peers up at me, I narrow my eyes, studying her closely, my eyebrows knitting together because something’s wrong. Leaning in, my lips graze the shell of her ear as I murmur, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” She nods, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. “Just… tired.”
I’m not sure I buy it, but I nod anyway. “Let’s get you home.”
I don’t like this one fucking bit. Something is definitely wrong. Hannah hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even fucking looked at me as I navigate the city streets, nothing but an old Three Doors Down song playing softly through the stereo, filling the void.
Hannah stares out the window, a contemplative look on her face, her hands clasped together in her lap. And I’m dying to reach out, to touch her, to rest my hand on her thigh where it belongs while I’m driving with her in the passenger seat, but instead, I grip the steering wheel, holding onto it like it’s the only thing stopping me from falling apart right now while my mind works overtime to drive me crazy.
Did I do something? I can’t remember, but maybe I did without even realizing.
I rack my brain with everything that happened over the last few hours. I mean, I spent most of it playing hockey, but I don’t know, maybe I fucked up somehow. God, I’m so fucking stupid.
As I turn onto Bleeker Street, I drive slowly, rolling to a stop outside Hannah’s building and pulling up to the curb. And normally I would shut off the engine, unfasten my seatbelt, and hop out of my truck, but tonight I don’t do that. I sit staring at her, the engine idling, Three Doors Down fading into a super fitting Collective Soul song, waiting for what, I don’t even know.
Come on, Baby Draper,I think to myself.Look at me. Flash me that sassy-ass grin, and ask me in that bratty way if I’m just gonna to sit here all night. Put my mind at ease, baby, please.
“I should go up,” Hannah says, finally looking at me with another half-assed smile, unfastening her seatbelt.
I swallow hard. “Do you… want me to come up?”
