14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Charlotte

"All I'm saying is, I'm not interested in dealing with the app or any other form of blind dating again, that's all. I cannot believe it set me up with an athlete. The coincidence is maddening, and I'm not really keen on bothering with it again." This is the third time I've explained to Destiny why I don't want to try again on an app that was supposed to work the first time. And maybe it did. Maybe I'm the one breaking the algorithm, but I can't help it.

Destiny frowns and shakes her head. "I wasn't thinking about that, I suppose. I was only thinking about how well it worked out for me and that I want you to be happy in love too. It was never my intention to hurt you, Lottie. You have to know that." She tucks her dark curly hair behind her ear, her warm eyes drifting back to mine with sincerity.

"I believe you, but the next time you get a wild idea like that, leave me out of it." I shove a stack of papers in my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Ironically, the kids were much better today. It was almost as if they knew I was off and decided to comply rather than fight me at every turn. I'm grateful for it, but this is exactly why I can't get in deep with anyone soon, let alone a baseball player.

But Andrew is difficult to ignore.

"You gushed about him before you knew he was a pitcher. Why not give him a chance? Athletes aren't all horrible, and you know that's true," she argues as we head down the long corridor to the teachers' parking lot.

I try to focus on my surroundings rather than allow my mind to drift back to last night. Teaching Andrew put me in a precarious position, and I can't stop smelling him in my mind.

I notice that the lockers are in dire need of repainting, the floor tiles need replacing in many spots, and the walls could also use a good coat of paint. In general, our school is dingy and sad. Throw in the ancient equipment, and I can't help thinking it's time for a fundraiser. As a private school, we don't get much funding unless we work for it.

"Lottie, where'd you go? You're daydreaming."

I shake my head. "I was just looking around. Do you think Headmaster Charles would allow us to organize a fundraiser?"

"That was not the topic of discussion," Destiny says and offers me a suspicious side eye glance.

I sigh. "I'm just not ready to go down that road again, okay? Now, moving on, we need to spruce this school up. What do you think?"

Destiny shakes her head and snickers, but doesn't broach the topic of dating again. "I think if anyone can convince him, it's probably you. Want me to go with you when you confront him with the idea?"

"Would you?" I ask and adjust the strap of my bag. It'll be a long night of grading papers, but at least creating little murder scenes in red ink on my student's papers will distract me from thinking about a certain Sharks player who has stolen my interest whether I like it or not. "If we can get it going, we might even be able to hire some tutors. I just can't offer the kids what they need without help. Half of my class is failing, and even with student tutoring hours every week, I can't get to everyone."

"What we need are more full time teachers, but the benefits package and pay are not competitive enough." Destiny pulls the door open and it creaks so loudly we cringe. That's before we have to yank it back closed behind us.

"I'm not sure one fundraiser will cover what this school needs," I admit. I tap my chin and contemplate what we could do on a larger scale. Selling cookies and calendars won't cut it for the improvements we need. No, we need the big guns. "What about a school carnival? I bet I can get people to donate items for an auction. We could make most of what we need in the shop department, and what we have to rent we might be able to get at a discount."

"You really are a go big or go home kind of woman, aren't you?" She smiles and pats my shoulder. "I'm with you. I'll be your cheerleader the whole time, just tell me how much you want me to schmooze, and I'm in."

"Oh, could you get your super sweet, oh so charitable fiancée to donate something from the Predators for an auction?"

"I'm sure I can. He'd probably even show up for it if you think it'll make money," she offers.

"Okay. Let me see if I can develop a basic plan tonight, and we can pitch it to Headmaster tomorrow. Sound good?"

"It sounds like wishful thinking, but yeah, I'm in." We approach her car and she pauses before unlocking it. "I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you if you'll come to my engagement party Friday night." She raises her hand before I can accept or decline and adds, "Yes, there will be single soccer players there, but they will be under strict order not to hit on any of the single ladies."

I chuckle and wave as I head toward my car. "Of course, I'll be there!" I shout, all the while wondering if I'll ever escape the world of sports and romance.

I've eaten and walked Ginger, graded papers that were much better than anticipated—and for good measure, I used sparkly purple pen to grade them—and now all that's left to do before sinking into my cozy bed is to lay out a basic plan for a school carnival.

A little voice inside my head tells me there is no harm in asking Andrew to help, maybe entice a crowd with two pro athletes, but another voice tells me it isn't fair to do that to him. How can I turn him down as a potential partner for playing baseball, then turn around and ask him to use that very characteristic to help me raise money for the school?

"It's downright rude," I say to Ginger, who raises a fuzzy eyebrow and licks her jowls. She whines a little and rolls over for a belly rub. I'm quick to oblige while I make a list of possible activities we can afford to implement. A dunk tank, races, balloon toss—a lot of generic, good clean fun.

In the background, the local news flashes on the television screen. It's only on for a little ambiance, but when I hear Andrew's name, my ears perk and I glance up. It's a video of him in a past game throwing the pitch that, I assume, originally hurt his shoulder. I wince when I see just how much pain he's in, but my stomach also flutters at the sight of him. I can't stop picturing the disappointment on his face when I told him I couldn't date him.

As he walks off the field, a younger pitcher takes the mound with a great big smirk. He nods toward Andrew, but it's no friendly gesture between teammates. It's laced with sarcasm, full of an almost I got you now sense of entitlement. I don't like it, and I check the name on the back of the jersey. Martinez.

"Well, Mr. Martinez, you are officially my least favorite Sharks player." Not that I have a favorite. Of course, I don't.

The video switches to the news anchor recapping the game, then adding, "Rossi's most recent injury might not only be a season ender, but a career ender. The thirty-two year old pitcher is seemingly still at the top of his game, but no one can deny over ten years of pitching takes its toll on the human body. We wish Andrew Rossi the best and pray for a speedy recovery."

I reach for my phone to find out more about this Martinez character when someone knocks on my door. Checking the time, I'm a little surprised to note it's after nine. I'm not expecting anyone, so Ginger is already tense. I shove all my sketches and lists aside and stretch before heading to the door with my protector by my side.

One glance in the peephole and I want to curl into a ball and hide. Or die. Whatever keeps me from having to confront the situation standing at my front door. Every six foot, black hair, blue eyed, broad shouldered part of Rory Elsher is filling my doorframe, and I can't decide what to do about it. It would be fantastic to open the door, shove his stuff into his arms, and slam it in his face. The only problem with that scenario is that I can't lift his gear bag. It's a backup bag, but still holds expensive equipment he wants, though why he needs it after several months at nine at night is suspicious. Or perhaps not after our chance encounter at the bistro the other day.

He raises his hand and knocks again, prompting Ginger to low growl.

"It's all right girl. Go to bed." She gives me her best are you sure stare before heading to her fluffy pillow when I point away from the door.

Rory must overhear our interaction because he says, "It's just me, Lots." As if this is somehow reassuring. I might prefer a robber to my ex at this point.

With a deep breath, I open the door. Rory's lips part as he takes me in. He hums something under his breath I can't decipher before he runs his hands through his hair. "You…look…you look perfect, Lots."

I glance down at myself. Oh fudgesicles. I'm wearing the only pair of sweatpants that I own paired with a long sleeved tee with my college's logo. The outfit itself isn't a big deal, but the fact that the image on the sweats is an Arctic Fox logo is not good right now. It could have literally been anything else, and I could pass it off as me being comfortable while grading papers. But no. Of course, it has to be the sweats with his team's logo.

Oh, and his last name emblazoned across my rear end.

Kill. Me. Now. Kill me and get it over with because I will never convince him that I'm not interested in getting back together with him now. It was habit that drew me to the comfy, worn in gag gift he gave me on our one year anniversary. I'm simply used to the same routine—get home, go for a walk, eat dinner, crash in cozy clothes and grade papers.

"Can I come in?" Rory asks, drawing my attention back to him. "I really want to talk to you."

"Rory, I'm busy right now. You didn't call, and I'm trying to finish my work and get to bed."

His tongue darts out to lick his lips and he rolls his lower lip in before biting it. That's his habit, and one that means he's winging every second of this. He didn't plan ahead, which is probably a good thing since planning to show up at my house uninvited at such an hour would not win him any points. Not that he has a prayer of earning them anyway.

"I'm sorry it's late and that I didn't call. I was passing by and…" He sighs and rubs both hands vigorously over his face. "Before I knew it, I was standing at your door. I think my mind is used to turning into your neighborhood when I'm up this way. And I think that was the problem all along. We got into so many habits and I took you for granted. Things just weren't as exciting as they were in the beginning and—"

"Wait, wait a second. Are you trying to say you strayed because you were bored with me and our relationship? Because I have news for you, Rory. All relationships settle in and get boring sometimes. That's when you put in the work and try to find new and creative ways to keep that spark. You don't invite a new person into the equation."

None of this comes as a surprise to him. He knows, and judging by his tense facial expression—pursed lips, clenched jaw, and unwavering stare—he's known it for a while. He's unhappy, which is still, unfortunately, second nature for me to know. I felt it at the end of our relationship, but no matter what I did, it never eased that tense unhappiness that lingered between us.

"I know," he whispers, his voice husky with emotion.

I almost feel sorry for him, then I remember how much I cried when he left. He didn't even turn around to see the pain he caused. Didn't think twice about moving on with someone else. He hasn't even publicly announced our break up after four months apart, which I can only assume has brought significant speculation about where I am and what I'm doing. I haven't dared look at any social media apps since our breakup. I don't want to know what people assume—or worse, what Amanda, the social media manager, might have posted.

But when it comes to him, or anyone really, I'm a glutton for punishment. And I can't help but remember how good we used to be. It wasn't all bad, and part of me can't help wondering what exactly went wrong. I step aside and let him in. A snowball stands a better chance on a Georgia front porch in July than Rory has of winning me back, but if I listen to what he has to say, maybe we can both move past this and find a happier future. When there's nothing left to argue, he'll see why I can't forgive and forget. Perhaps forgive…never forget.

"Thank you," he says and pauses in the entryway. His gaze lands on the last of his things waiting for him to pick up. He's wearing jeans and a band tee, his usual attire when we're not out on the town, which means he wasn't heading home from hanging out with the guys or a date. I can't say why, but curiosity eats at me.

"What made you pass by my neighborhood?" I ask and cross my arms.

Rory shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at me. "To tell the truth, I just drive around a lot now. I don't enjoy hanging out with the team without you, and I haven't…I mean, I'm not dating. So, yeah, I ride around and think mostly."

"You think?" I don't mean for it to sound as skeptical as it comes out, but he still chuckles anyway.

"Contrary to popular belief, yes. I think about a lot of things, like my career and future. Mostly I think about you though."

"Yeah, well, don't worry about me. I'm doing fine. How's Amanda?" I almost choke on the name of their social media manager, a woman I used to call a friend who stabbed me in the back repeatedly while smiling to my face.

"I don't know. We don't talk."

I raise an eyebrow, desiring some sort of clarification.

Rory groans and runs his hands through his hair. This knocks his ball cap off of his head, so he catches it midair and puts it back on backwards. He knows I always liked it that way with a little of his dark hair peeking out the front. Darn him.

"Can we sit?"

I motion toward my sofa and let him sit first so I can ensure I'm on the opposite side of him. Far, far away from those crystal blue eyes, backwards cap, and intense focus. Once he takes a seat right in the middle of my large sofa, I choose the two-seater sofa. I know his ways.

"We're sitting. Now tell me what this is really about, Rory."

"Amanda was never all that interested in something long term. I guess it was the challenge for her. Once she got me, she didn't want me anymore and dumped me like last week's garbage."

"That must have been painful for you," I say without bothering to hide my sarcasm. I don't use it often, but when I do, I mean it. I'm frustrated that he thinks bringing me this sob story will somehow soften my heart to a bona fide cheater. Despite what he said months ago, kissing someone who is not me, is cheating. A point I had to clarify several times before he got the hint. Then he chose her over me, and now here we are going over the details of why that was a dumb idea.

"Not really. I missed you. I wanted to fix things with you, but after you found out about us kissing, I knew you wouldn't forgive me. I left because I was embarrassed and frustrated with myself, Lots, not because I wanted her over you."

I clench my jaw to keep in the nasty words. Three years. All wasted because he got bored and instead of acting like an adult and working through it with me, he took the easy route and found something fun to do.

"Why are you here now, Rory? To get your things? I have them ready for you," I say and point to the pile of hockey gear.

"I don't care about that stuff. I care about you and—"

"Rory, stop. It isn't just you that I can't deal with right now, but all of them. None of my supposed friends bothered to tell me what was happening right behind my back. I trusted you so much, I never would have suspected a thing if I hadn't literally caught you. For all the talk of being a family, the whole team sure threw me under the bus without a second thought."

His cheeks flush bright red and he nods. "I know. But you should know that Patrick and Grant won't even talk to me. They were on me about it the whole time, and the only reason they never told you was because I kept telling them that I would. They're team Lottie all the way, if that matters."

So the goaltender and one of the defensemen actually have spines, but what about the rest? At the end of the day, it doesn't matter. I can't look any of them in the face with any degree of dignity ever again.

"Lottie, I will do anything you want for a second chance. I'm asking for a date, that's all. No commitment, nothing more. Just a chance to show you that I regret everything I did more than I can say. I love you, and I realize that more now that I've lost you."

I ball my hands into fists in my lap. "That's not my fault!"

He raises his hands to slow me. "I know that's not your fault. You tried so hard to make me happy, and you were an amazing girlfriend. It's all on me. Of course, none of it was your fault. I was an idiot. I know that."

"I can't forget and simply pretend you didn't ruin me, Rory. I loved you so much. I wanted to marry you, and nothing hurts more than knowing I wasn't enough for you. I don't think you can fix that." I don't mean to respond with even a hint of hope, but it's there. Some part of me wonders if he has learned his lesson, but the louder and much more frustrated part of me sends a scolding chill down my spine. It doesn't matter if he has. I don't trust him anymore.

"I know I don't deserve another chance, but I'm asking you anyway because I want to spend the rest of my life being what you need. I want to revive the good we had and work through the stuff in me that made me take you for granted."

I purse my lips. "I think that's work you need to do on your own. I can't be a stumbling stone or a ladder for you. What happens if nothing changes and you take me for granted again?"

His audible swallow hits me hard. He's legitimately trying to hold back tears, which, admittedly, softens my heart just a little. I've never seen him this emotional. "Because nothing is worse than being the man who lost you."

I swallow and bite back the lump in my throat that threatens to erupt in a bout of sobbing, because why couldn't he have come to that conclusion before ruining everything? I'm not prepared for this, not right now.

"We can talk. Nothing more than that, okay? We can talk about what happened, but not right now. I'm too frustrated and tired." It's not my wisest moment, but for the sake of being confident in my decision and offering grace, I'll give him a chance to work through his issues and earn my forgiveness. I think I need it to move on, too. Guilt stings in my throat when I think of Andrew, the sweet pitcher who is working so hard for my heart.

Rory nods and clenches that sharp jaw again. "Yeah. That's fair. It's more than I expected." He shifts forward and wipes his palms on his knees. "I'll go and let you get back to what you were doing. And I'll get that junk out of your way."

I stand, my way of agreeing it's time for him to go. He follows and collects his gear bag. Once it's on his shoulder and he grabs his two sticks, he looks down at me again and I see him like I used to. My big, strong hockey player. The guy who relentlessly pursued me at the start of our relationship, just a fan he ran into at a charity event, but he was smitten. I miss that part of us.

Maybe that's why I do a horribly stupid thing and lean in when he bends to kiss my cheek. When I realize what I've done—fallen into an old, comfortable habit—I gasp and freeze. Immediately, I know I've just given him something to hold on to, a hope that we might work this out. His soft smile is confirmation enough that my minor slip has offered him a foothold.

"Um, I guess I'll talk to you later," he says and hurries to the front door, probably before he does something stupid like really kiss me. "Night, Lots."

"Night, Rory," I whisper and shut the door behind him, shellshocked.

My empty corner beckons to me, reminding me that there's a big part of my heart still tangled up in Rory Elsher, and maybe always will be. My house is too quiet now, too devoid of him. I blow out a frustrated breath and head to bed, hopefully to wake with a clearer mind.