“For now.” His words ring out like both a threat and a promise.
I easily slip back into professional mode when I note that Patrick and Natalie are at the end of the rink, waiting for us. “So, as part of my role here, I’ll be doing a media profile on you.And, if I’m being honest, what everyone wants to know, your teammates most of all,” I say, letting my gaze slide his way, “is where you’ve been for the last year.”
Having the last two hours to prepare has allowed me to dig into his injury and return, look at what fans had been saying, and send off some texts to my friends’ significant others asking what I should ask Renaud.
It all yielded one clear question. As McCabe put it:Why the fuck did he go MIA for the last year?
So now, what I really want to know is how Aidan Renaud went from an all-star hockey player to a recluse over the past twelve months?
I can tell by the way his jaw flexes that the mention of his teammates has annoyed him.
Good. Because while they might behisteammates, they’remyfriends.
I’ve only been back in Boston for a couple years, and I’ve spent that time carefully building friendships with women I admire and respect and men who know how to treat a woman right. If he thinks he’s going to waltz in here and insert himself into my circle of friends, he’ll need to reconsider.
“I moved back home. Everyone knows that.”
“And home is Ember Cove?” I reference the small town south of Boston that, until today, I didn’t even know existed.
“Done your research, I see.”
“I’ve done myjob.” I try to emphasize that this is work, not me looking intohim. He doesn’t need to know that I spent hours yesterday trying to track down who he was. “So, you’ve been less than an hour south of Boston, but couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch with anyone or even come to a game?”
When he hisses out an exhale through his clenched teeth, I know I’ve struck a nerve, just as I intended. The only way I’ll get through this is to keep my armor on and my defenses up.
“Hey,” Patrick says with a friendly smile, as we approach. “Sorry, we’re a bit early for the photos. I know you probably haven’t had time to fully finish the interview,” he says to me, before turning towardAidan—a name that’s going to take some time to get used to—shaking his hand, and welcoming him back. “Mind if we just shoot some pictures real quick and then we’ll get out of your hair?”
“I think I’ve got enough to get started, and something I ate for lunch isn’t sitting well.” I rest my hand on my belly and wince, even though the only thing going on in there are hunger pangs because I was too anxious, after learning Danny’s real identity, to actually eat lunch. “I’m going to head out. I’ll follow up with you if I need more info, Aidan. Thanks for your time.”
I turn and flee, barely making it outside before I’m dry heaving into a metal trash can. It’s not the hunger pangs causing this. It’s the realization that there’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid him—and the uncertainty about whether I truly want to—that’s making me sick. So when I hop in my car, I head to the one place guaranteed to make me feel better.
On the bluestone patio surrounding the pool at my dad’s house, I sit on a chaise lounge with my laptop open on my legs. I’ve written up the skeleton of what will eventually become a press release about Renaud’s return to hockey, and a bare bones social media profile that will need a lot more work before it’s ready.
But right now, I still have way more questions about Aidan Renaud’s return to the Rebels than I have answers, and it’s my own fault because I ran away instead of asking those questions.To be fair, I didn’t really want to puke in front of him, my boss, and the intern who is reporting to me until Tatum returns.
“Imagine my surprise, coming home from work and finding your car in the driveway,” my dad’s deep voice booms from behind me, and I turn to find him walking out onto the patio from the living room. “How was going into the office today?”
I tell him a bit about my day, leaving out any mention of my previous connection to Aidan—not only because I’mnevertelling my dad that I slept with my stepbrother, but also because we talk about my mom as little as possible.
When they divorced, she didn’t even fight my dad for custody. She just quietly moved across the country, leaving us both behind. She’s moved several times since then, always because she needed “a change of scenery” after her latest divorce.
Dad would never tell me not to have a relationship with my mom, but he also hates the way she constantly disappoints me. I appreciate that he gives me the space to figure it out.
I keep my voice as casual as possible when I say, “I can’t quite get a read on Renaud. It seems like he has a pretty big chip on his shoulder. What’s his deal?”
Dad’s belly laugh is exactly what you’d expect from someone of his stature. He’s six feet tall, with a big bald head, a dark auburn beard he keeps neatly trimmed, incredibly broad shoulders, and a Santa-like belly. I’ve got my mom’s height and coloring, but my “big boned” structure and the touch of red in my hair are definitely all from Dad. Sometimes I wonder if my mom’s comments about my body are because I remind her too much of him?
“You’re writing an article about him,” Dad says, “so obviously I’m only going to say good things about my client.”
I roll my eyes as I glance over at him, where he’s pulled up a chair from the dining table that sits under the massive woodenpergola. “This isn’t investigative journalism, Dad. My job is to make him look good. But since I’ll be working with him on crafting the story about his absence last season, I’m genuinely curious what type of person he is.”
Dad blows out a long, slow breath between his lips.
“He’s a damn good hockey player, but he can be a dick. You’re right about the chip on his shoulder. I’ve worked with him since he was in college, and he’s always had it.”
I can’t help but think about what his life was like then. His dad dying when he was younger, his mom dying while he was at college. That would put a chip on anyone’s shoulder, wouldn’t it? Maybe hockey was his escape, the same way singing became my escape when my mom left?
“What can you tell me about his background?” I ask, wondering if he knows as much as I do.
