Page 29 of The One Timer

I laugh at myself, swiping a hand through my hair as I head to the bathroom, not feeling the humor at all. Because, fuck me. I found someone I want, and she stayed true to her word—one night only. No possibility of a second.

Splashing cold water on my face does little to improve my dark mood and nothing to change my situation. I stalk into the living room, still looking for something of her. And I laugh at myself again because I’m not sure if this goes under the be careful what you wish for column or the fool saved from himself by the girl column.

“Fuck.” I stand in front of my window and search outside, looking for her, when it occurs to me that I drove her here. “How the fuck did she get home?” Shaking my head, I realize what an idiot I am to wonder in the day of Uber.

Turning back to the large, empty room, I glance around again, figuring she must have left something behind. Without her last name, I don’t have a clue how I can find her. Because, yes, I want to find her, even if it’s only to have a proper goodbye.

Then I remember the photo of us taken at Regina’s Pizza, and my gaze darts to the spot where I left it. Nothing. Shit.

“She took the photo.” I smile for real with a glimmer of hope. Because that means she wanted it. The photo must mean something to her.

Or, it could mean she didn’t want to leave a trace behind because she really meant it when she said last night was a one-timer.

Fuck. Why didn’t I insist on getting her number last night?

I can always go back to Regina’s and get a copy of the photo they kept. Later today. Of course, I have no idea what I’ll do with it when I get it. But it’s a start. I’ll figure out something. I need to hang onto that hope because, suddenly, the idea of never seeing Emery No-Last-Name again is fucking intolerable.

My phone rings, sending a jolt of hope racing through me that it could be Emery. I literally run to my room like an idiot and snatch up my phone.

“Fuck.” It’s Sabien. Taking a deep breath, I tap the call on, reprimanding myself to get a grip. She was a one-timer. Get over it.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says, and I can picture the Grinch-like grin on his face because I know he means the opposite.

“That why you called? Sorry to disappoint you. I’m getting ready for practice like always.” Like I should be. Fuck. Did I forget my mission after only one night?

He snorts. “Pick me up on your way to the rink. My car has an appointment with the mechanic.”

“That’s what you get for driving those finicky foreign sports cars.”

“Fuck you. It’s regularly scheduled maintenance, you plebe.”

I laugh. “Only you would dig up a word like plebe and hurl it as an insult.”

“Only you would know what I was talking about.”

“Touché. See you in a few.”

Firmly planted back in my hockey world, I throw on some fresh sweats and sneakers and head for the door, hoping it’s not going to snow later, but not really caring because the sneakers are dispensable, and my time is not. No one’s time is dispensable. I remember my mom telling me that not too long before she suddenly had no more tomorrows.

As I get in my car, I feel the bruise on my shin. Luckily, we have films to review this morning and then some time with the trainer and PT, as needed.

“Call Gran,” I say to the car, and she dials up old Molly Whittier. It’s my ritual to call her every day, though not usually this early.

“Missed you at the game last night, Grandma.”

“I’m so sorry, Chase, honey. My hip’s been giving me nonsense, but I’ll put it in its place with a cortisone shot later today. I’ll make it up to you and come to your next game in Portsmouth. I watched your entire game on television. Congratulations on your hat trick. I’m so proud of you. You were absolutely terrific. As always.”

“Thanks, Gran.” I let her praise and love seep in for a beat, then jump in. “About your tickets last night—any chance you can ask the Fosters what they did with them?” I try sounding nonchalant, but my heart is beating out of my chest, and I know damn well it’s a ridiculous request.

She laughs. “That’s an odd request. As much as I’d like to indulge you, I’m afraid we won’t get anything from the Fosters. They’re otherwise occupied. The oldest daughter went into labor, and everyone went to the hospital. They’ve circled the wagons, so to speak. Though Sheryl stopped over a minute ago to let me know it was a girl. They have so many girls in that family; I swear poor Papa Harry must feel like the odd man out sometimes.”

And here comes Grandma’s daily hint about me getting together with Sheryl. I grunt in response, so she continues.

“She’s a senior at Boston College this year. Who knows where she’ll be next year. If you have any interest, you should snap her up now.”

“Not that kind of interest, Gran—or should I call you Molly the Matchmaker.”

She laughs, and the sound makes me forget my disappointment over Emery’s vanishing act.