“I know. And she’s going to tear me a new asshole for doing that to you.” He looks up and gives me a mirthless grin. “But it’s worth it.”
“Is she ever coming back to San Diego?” It feels like the scariest question I’ve ever asked because I don’t want him to confirm my biggest fear.
He locks eyes with me, and after what feels like a millennium, he finally says, “She’s probably quitting her job. But…she might end up back in San Diego anyway.”
“Because of me?” I ask as hope seems to crest inside me like a wave engulfing my heart.
“No, you egotistical jackwad,” he growls. “You’re actually the reason she might not.”
Oh.
He sighs again. “When Stephanie runs, she intends to stay gone from your life. Even if you want her back, you may not get her. She’ll do everything in her power to keep you out once you’re out of her life. She could have come to my mom and me at any point after she ran away and we would have helped her, but she didn’t. We had to force ourselves back in her life when she hit rock bottom.”
“I can’t force anything if I can’t find her,” I remind him.
Sebastian stands up and glances at the clock. “The period is ending in two minutes. You have to get out of here.”
“I know.” I turn slowly, because I didn’t get what I came for—her location—but I’m scared if I ask again he’ll clock me again, so I don’t.
“I’m going to get shitfaced after the game and then stay at Shay’s,” he announces, talking about his girlfriend, and I glance back at him, confused. Is he inviting me out for drinks or something? He scowls at me like he’s in pain and adds, “I’d say my house will be empty, but that would be a lie.”
She’s here. Stephanie is in Seattle.
Chapter 37
Stephanie
I’m clutching the red throw pillow so tightly I’m certain the seams are coming apart. I’m not even breathing. I sucked in a breath about three minutes ago when my brother’s fist connected with an unsuspecting Avery’s jaw and I haven’t let it out yet.
I pace my brother’s large living room, back and forth, behind the couch for the entire first period. I wish I had gone to the game with Shayne and Jessie. At least then I’d have someone to calm me down. My brother begged me to, but I was worried I’d run into Avery. If I were there now, I would be able to know if he’s okay. The fact that he isn’t back on the ice is a sign he’s not. I’m going to kill Sebastian! But at the beginning of the second period Avery is the first one onto the ice for the Saints.
He not only plays, but he also plays well. The Saints score three goals, two by Avery. But he’s playing rougher than he usually does—more aggressively—and he takes two penalties, which is unheard of for him in one game. He also gets into a shoving match with Chris Dixon, who I know he’s good friends with. So clearly, the fight with my brother left him agitated.
At the end of it, they’re tied two all, and after a round of overtime, it comes down to a shoot-out. For the Saints Ty scores, but Echolls doesn’t and neither does Avery. For the Hawks Garrison scores, Asinov doesn’t but Dixon does. Winterhawks win. Saints are not making play-offs this year.
Avery is the first person off the bench and down the tunnel. He moves so fast and with his head tipped down that the cameras can’t catch him. But I don’t need to see his face to know it’s set in a scowl, and he’s most likely irate. He left everything on the ice tonight and, for the first time in his career, he’s not playing in the postseason. This is a big deal. This is soul crushing for him. He’s going to be a fucking mess. Honestly, despite what happened between us, my heart breaks for him.
Is this my fault?
I hate myself for even contemplating that question. He made me break up with him. He is responsible for his own failure. And formybroken heart. Maybe karma has decided to take this moment to unleash all the hurt and pain I wished on him when we broke up. If so, it is kind of my fault. But if he hadn’t decided his precious image was more important than the “unnecessary distraction” my past caused, there would be no reason for karma to kick his ass.
I sigh and head into the kitchen, busying myself with making a salad for dinner. My diet had been shit since the breakup and now that I’m trying to get through this instead of wallowing in the pain, I’m making a conscious effort to eat well.
An hour later, I’m on the couch trying to convince myself to change the channel, but I just can’t. It’s like a train wreck. I’ve watched the highlight show twice already. Of course my brother punching him ten seconds after puck drop is replayed ad nauseam. Everyone is sure it’s going to be an automatic suspension; they’re just guessing at how many games he’ll have to sit. The general consensus seems to be three.
I fast forward through the fight on every replay, because it makes me sick, but I keep rewinding the postgame interviews. Well, Avery’s interview anyway. Now for the third time his sweaty, angry, beautiful face fills the screen. He tries so hard to hide his rage, but it’s a losing battle this time. The asinine, obvious questions from the reporters have his frustration and anger boiling over.
“Because he doesn’t like me,” Avery snips at some faceless reporter in the scrum when someone asked why Sebastian hit him. When asked why Seb doesn’t like him, like an obstinate child, he simply snipes, “Because I did something he didn’t like.”
I roll my eyes at his response. I want to smack him and hug him at the same time. But I’ll get to do neither because I’m not in his life anymore.
When his eyes shoot up to face the camera, they’re the color of sandstone and as hard as it too. “He knows what it’s about and I know what it’s about. You don’t need to know what it’s about.” He pauses and I can see him struggle to relax. He loses the battle. “Anyway it didn’t affect my game. I left everything out there. And it clearly didn’t stop the Winterhawks.”
They’ve switched to the Winterhawks locker room interviews, and I’m about to rewind and watch Avery again to indulge my heart’s masochistic tendencies when the doorbell rings. My heart skips and I immediately mute the television. I crane my neck, pushing my ear toward the front hall because I can’t believe that just happened. It’s after ten on Sunday night, Sebastian is out and I’m not expecting anyone.
It rings again.
I stand up and walk gingerly toward the front hall. The oak floorboards creak and I flinch—as if the serial killer on the other side can hear it and has started sharpening his machete.
