The cold is already vicious. Single digits at least, maybe lower. That Minnesota cold that bites through thin coats and reminds you that winter doesn’t care about your problems.
“I said don’t follow me.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a small miracle.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. The wind immediately messes it up again. “But you need to hear this. What happened in Barcelona?—”
“I don’t need to hear anything.” I pull my coat tighter. The fabric is thin, not nearly warm enough. I should’ve replaced it last year, but rent took priority. “You made your choice six months ago.”
“Someone took our picture.” The words come out fast. Urgent. “That night. At the café. And…I panicked.” He stops. Breathes. More clouds between us. “I didn’t want to drag you into my drama.”
Wait. “What drama?”
He hesitates. There’s something in his expression—shame, maybe, or exhaustion—that makes him look less like “Candy Kane, media-trained hockey star” and more like the guy from Barcelona who told me about his fear of letting people down.
“My dad was in a big poker game. And he…” He sighs, and it works its way into my body like a hot-oil massage, letting down my guard. “He owed money he didn’t have to people who don’t exactly take IOUs. I had to bail him out, literally and figuratively, and”—his voice drops lower, and it sort of sinks into me—“I didn’t need the press knowing about my life.”
Oh.
That’s not what I expected.
I was prepared for excuses. For charm. For some smooth explanation that would make me feel stupid for caring in the first place. But this?
This feels almost…real.
Don’t fall for it, Chloe. You are a stone wall. A STONE WALL. This is Brody “Candy” Kane, notorious charmer, hockey-world sweetheart. It’s his job to protect his image. Do. Not. I repeat, DO NOT fall for it.
But there’s this tiny, traitorous part of my heart—the part that felt that pitter-patter when he said girlfriend, the part that’s been wondering for six months what was so wrong with me that he had to vanish—that is whispering: Maybe it wasn’t about you not being enough.
Stop. Stop.
“So what? You panicked, and you just left?” I’m trying to keep my voice level. My hands are shoved in my pockets, fingers already numb. “Without a word. Without?—”
“I’m sorry.” He steps closer. Not crowding, just…closer. I can smell his cologne now—something expensive and woodsy that brings back Barcelona in a rush. “I know that doesn’t fix it. But I am.”
My phone buzzes again. Insistent. I pull it out with stiff fingers.
Maya calling…
Perfect timing, universe.
I look at Brody. At the phone. At the digital sign. 3 minutes.
“I have to…” I gesture with the phone. “It’s my sister. She’ll keep calling if I don’t?—”
“Answer it.”
I swipe to accept, turning slightly away for some semblance of privacy, even though we both know the older woman and probably half of Hennepin Avenue can hear everything.
“Hey, Maya, I’m kind of in the middle of?—”
“Derek just saw a photo.” Maya’s voice is tight. That particular tone that means she’s upset but trying to sound reasonable. “Of you. With Brody Kane. Chloe.”
“What?” My mind is swirling. A photo of me…and Brody? Heat rises to my cheeks as I think back to the picture of us captured in Barcelona. “What photo?”
“It’s you and Brody inside what looks like a restaurant. From today.”
I let out a sigh of relief and immediately suck it back in. Oh no. Is this your girlfriend? the girl inside had asked. Oh…no, no. “It’s…complicated.”
“Complicated?” Her voice climbs. “He’s Derek’s teammate. They don’t exactly get along. And you—” She stops. Recalibrates. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
