All she asked for was for me to listen. I refused. We’d been together for years.Didn’t that deserve a modicum of respect even if she betrayed me?Maybe there was a reason. Not that I gave her the opportunity to confess to it.
“I gave her no chance because I was certain the scandal would hurt my chances at playing pro.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “Turns out I did a damn good job of ruining my own career.”
I’ve wondered far too many times over the last eight years how she’s doing. I’ve mentioned it on more than one occasion to Mark. He’d gone pale each and every time, reminding me I walked away for a reason. “Her behavior was destructive. You did the right thing staying far away from that.”
That still hasn’t stopped me from thinking I should reach out. To touch base and make certain she’s found her happiness. Despite how we ended, I want to know she found peace. I mutter, “One of us deserves it.”
As expected, the sports world went insane when the Kings PR team announced my retirement due to a “permanent injury.” Requests for interviews inundated the Kings. Fans went crazy online. They were unable to believe taking a hit I trained my body to withstand would remove me from the sport I loved.
I ignored everything. What was the point? None of it was going to get me back on the ice.
Now that I’m here, I’ve been settling into my new home in Willow Creek. I hibernated for the first few weeks unpacking, settling into my new normal. I can’t say I’m not comfortable while I’m adapting to the endless future that lay ahead of me.
What am I supposed to do every day?
Slowly, I blink my eyes open and recall Mark’s boasting about The Honeyed Hearth. Sick of my own company, I decide to head to town to give it a try. I pause long enough to send Mark a message before pushing to my feet from the couch.
Me:
Big plans today.
Mark:
Oh?
Me:
I’m going to try that coffee place you keep meandering on about.
Mark:
Let me know what you think about it.
For the first time in months, my tension eases. This is what I needed. No cameras. No questions. No reminders of who I used to be other than those I choose to keep.
This place doesn’t ask anything of me. It doesn’t care if I’m famous or forgotten. Broken or healing. I just exist here. “If I’m lucky, it can teach me to do that too.”
For now, I’m not thinking about what I lost even though there’s a subtle churning in my gut telling me it’s not going to last.
Willow Creek is the very definition of a small town. With less than five thousand residents, there’s one main road which hosts a handful of brick buildings that have withstood the test of time.
I clock a romance bookstore next to a florist. A bank takes up space next to a grocery store. Down a few blocks in one direction is a school complex and in the other, shops and restaurants.
I park, exit my truck, and do my best to blend in with my cap pulled low. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for every passerby to greet me with a chipper “Good morning!” Yet, no one stops me at all. Instead, everywhere I turn, I’m met with people openly staring at me or worse, glaring at me as if they find my presence offensive.
Odd. I thought small towns were supposed to be friendly. Still, I shove it aside. They could be approaching me asking for autographs.
Crossing the street near the hardware store, I see the sign halfway down the block swinging gently in the breeze—The Honeyed Hearth. Something makes me hesitate on the sidewalklonger than I should. I don’t know why, since Mark swears this place is going to be life changing.
Trusting his instinct, I go in.
The inside is warm in a way that isn’t just temperature, but atmospheric. Wood tables. Soft lighting. A long glass counter displays mouth-watering baked goods that make me realize I need to start working out again sooner rather than later. A woman behind the counter looks up and offers a smile. “Morning. See anything you like?”
I’m about to ask what their special of the day is when I hear the name that’s been popping into my thoughts more often as of late. “Amy—large honey latte, to go.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I freeze. There’s a woman with dark hair falling down her back who accepts the drink. Her “Thanks, Trista,” resonates in the marrow of my bones.
Stunned, I turn my head slowly to make certain I’m not losing my mind.It can’t be…
