“You should also probably slow down,” he says, moving the remaining glass out of my reach.
I don’t even bother arguing with him. What’s the point? Hell, what’s the point of anything anymore?
“The point is that she’s here now.”
Shit, did I say that out loud? Am I drunk?
He slides a cup of water my way, and I realize I must be because I have no idea where the drink even came from. Still, I take it, gulping half of it in one go. I belch loudly, and even that reminds me of her. All I can think of is how she would cover her mouth and look mortified by something natural.
Fucking hell, I miss her.
“But she’s not. She’s not here.”
“Not technically, but you said her note said she was coming back, right?”
Fuck, did I tell him that?
“Yeah.”
“Then believe her,” Lawson says. “Let her show you she means it. Give her time. Give her space.”
But I have. I’ve given her so much space and so much time, and I don’t want to anymore. I told her I’d wait for her, and I meant it. I will, but I’m not going to pretend I’m okay because I’m fucking not. I’m not okay.
Lawson senses that, and as his lips pull downward, all the tequila I just downed tries to fight its way back up my throat.
“I’m—”
“Don’t,” I warn him. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry, Lawson. Not you. Anyone but you.”
His brows pull downward, but he nods. “All right. I won’t say it. But, Keller?”
I sigh, running a hand over my face, which feels hot and a little tingly. “What?”
“You’re always the first to drop the gloves out on the ice, and I’ve always respected the hell out of you for that. So do that this time too. Fight for her. If you love her, fight. Don’t let this be the end. Just fight.”
I hear his words. I really do. But sometimes, it gets to a point where fighting isn’t worth it anymore. As much as I don’t want that to be the case with Chloe, I might have to just accept that I’m the only one in this battle.
She’s my wife, and I love her, but maybe…maybe it’s time to let her go.
Every hockey player knows at a certain point in the season, even the most skilled and seasoned fighters decide to keep their gloves on, especially when their team is in the position the Serpents are in. Apparently, the fuckhead from Vegas didn’t get the memo, and he picked the wrong person to mess with tonight. I’m hungover thanks to my little trip to Top Shelf yesterday, and I’m fucking angry because Istillhaven’t heard from Chloe. I even texted her last night and got nothing in response.
“Come on, 10.” He cross-checks me right on top of my pants. “I thought you were the goon. I thought it was you they sent out when they want to fire up the crowd. What?” Another shove as Ibattle to keep the puck away from him. “Can’t get it up now that your team is down four to zero?”
Ignore him, I say to myself.Just fucking ignore him.
“Fuck off,” I tell him, turning around and giving him a taste of his own medicine, shoving my stick against his chest.
“Nah, don’t think I will. Maybe it’s not just your wife you can’t get it up for.”
As soon as the wordwifeleaves his lips, I lose all ability to hold myself back, and I attack. The edges of my vision go blurry, but I can still see him as I grab his jersey and land a blow right to his cheek.
“Come on, you fucker!” I scream as my fist connects with his face again. “You wanted a fucking fight, didn’t you?”
He stumbles, but I steady him as I lay another blow.
“You bastard!” he yells as he tries to swing at me but misses.
I laugh, and it only pisses him off more. Faintly, I can hear sticks being smashed against the boards, and I can feel the other players trying to drag me off the guy, but I fight them all.
