Andrew arrives with our food, and I sit back down across from Dominic. When we dig in, the only sounds breaking the silence are us chewing and swallowing as much as possible as fast as possible.
“Now that that’s out of the way”—he points at the tee with his fork—“what’s really going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” I say slowly.
Shit. I knew it was too good to be true. Gut punches on a full stomach are gonna hurt even worse. Maybe that was his diabolical plan all along? Knowing Dominic, probably so.
“You’re not only acting like a monster on the ice, you’re blowing me off left and right. Skipping pregame dinners? That’s not like you. What’s up?” This isn’t about hockey and being teammates that count on each other. His question is deeper, more personal than that. He’s asking as my best friend.
“Nothing. Just a lot going on in here, none of it good.” I tap my temple.
He tilts his head, looking at me shrewdly. He knows me better than anyone and can probably see the guilt written all over my face. But what he asks is, “Did your parents come out of the woodwork or something?”
“What? No. I haven’t talked to them in years. You know that.”
He nods, not giving up yet. “Yeah, just checking. You know they’ll try it eventually. You’re getting too much press for them not to try getting back in your good graces, and wallet.” He rubs his thumb and two fingers together. It’s a sad truth that when you get that prized NHL contract, one of the first things teammates and coaches warn you about is to watch out for people coming after your money. Too often, it’s thepeople you love most, like family. Thankfully, mine wouldn’t even know how to get in contact with me if they wanted to. My phone number, address, and email are top secret like the rest of the teams’, and even if my parents did somehow track me down, I wouldn’t respond to people who are effectively dead to me. “So if it’s not them screwing with your mind, what girl has you this fucked up?”
My heart rate skyrockets and a lump appears in my throat. But I manage to force out, “There’s no girl.”
There issoa girl. But if he doesn’t already know, I can’t tell him that. He’s the one person I’ve always talked to about everything, and the one I’d trust to give me the best advice, but this time, he’s the one I can’t talk to.
“You are such a shitty liar,” he taunts, smiling and laughing around his mouthful of chicken. “But before the first round kicks off next week, Pro-Bowl’s calling our name, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
I doubt he’ll want to have dinner with me by then. There’s no way I can keep this quiet that long. The guilt is already eating me up inside, as evidenced by the way I behaved on the ice tonight. Hell, by the way I’m acting right now.
Dominic is my best friend, and when he finds out I fucked Penny, it will be the end of this friendship. I know that down to my bones, which is why I’m too much of a coward to tell him. Penny’s words echo in my head—that any man scared of Dom isn’t worthy of her. As if that was some breaking news flash. I’ve never been worthy of her, that’s been the issue all along.
Besides, I’m not scaredofDominic. I’m scared I don’t know what I’d do without him at my side. For five years, I’ve chosen him over and over, reminding myself that I would be nothing without his friendship, his support, him reaching into the depths of hell I was existing in and saving my worthless ass. When I didn’t know what Penny felt like, tasted like, sounded like, I could make that decision and live with it. But now? I don’t think I can.
I want her too much. I’m a greedy, selfish bastard, and I can’t stop myself anymore.
Maybe I can become worthy of her? Is that even possible? I don’t know.
When I don’t answer, he stops eating to give me a calculating look. “Is it serious?”
I shrug noncommittally. “You know me.”
“I do. And I have never seen you give a woman a second thought. So what’s going on?”
This is real talk. Not the shit-stirring locker-room antics we usually stick to. Knowing that I’m writing my own death warrant, I sigh. “I’m pretty fucked up.”
“As we’ve established,” he offers supportively.
“What if I’m never good enough for anyone? I don’t know how to do emotional shit. And communication?” I ask, unconsciously tapping into my soul as I wave a hand between me and him with a look of misery. “I never learned how to do any of that. All I learned was how to hide emotions. Happiness, not that there was much of that, but if something made me smile, it’d get snatched away. Sadness meant I’d get called a crybaby and Dad would threaten to give me something to cry about. Anger only incited my dad’s, and he was bigger and stronger than I was for a long time. Even when I grew, he was still meaner than me. I just don’t know what to do with all the stuff inside me.” I pull at my shirt over my heart, wishing I could rip the damn thing out and stomp on it. That’d solve everything. “I learned to turn it all off, and not care about anyone, because they didn’t care about me either.”
“Fuck you,” Dom spits out, offended. “I care about you.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. You havenoidea how much. But I don’t want to fuck you.” It’s the smallest sliver of lightheartedness in the heavy dump of my trauma.
“But you want to fuck her?” he guesses.
I lick my lips, trying to figure out what to say. “I wanteverythingwith her. But I’m not good enough for her. For anyone.”
“Pshaw, you’re the best, so first you have to believe it. Then give her a chance to know it. And if she can’t see it, she’s not the one for you.” He smiles like that’s a done deal, and I tilt my head, challenging his Pollyanna advice. Relenting, he concedes, “Okay, so yeah, you’re a little complicated, but aren’t we all?”
“You’re not.”
Dom stretches his arms up and out and leans back in a parody of jackassery. “Well, I’m special.”
