16. Lawson

CHAPTER 16

LAWSON

I'm just about to grab my gear bag, freshly showered and changed after another losing game, when Coach calls me into his office.

I drop my bag back on the bench and head into his office, eyebrows raised and heart rate kicking up just a little. I quickly analyze every move I made in the game and can't pinpoint any one mistake that cost us the game. It was hard fought, and in reality, they just outplayed us.

“Why don't you sit down, son,” he says, pointing to the empty chair on the other side of his desk.

I drop into it, suddenly feeling like I'm about to get scolded even though the talk he gave our team after the game hadn't been a bad one.

“What's up, Coach?” I ask, trying to temper my nerves.

“I got an interesting call earlier this morning and I didn't want to bring it up until after the game.”

I blow out a breath. “So, this isn't about anything I did wrong during the game?”

Coach waves me off, shaking his head. “No, I already spoke my piece on that. We played well, they just played, well… weller .” He laughs at his own joke, and I join in. “We'll get them next time,” he says with an air of confidence that tugs on something in the back of my mind.

“What was the call about?” I ask.

“Right,” he says losing a little bit of that laughter. “The owner of the Sharks wants to have a sit-down with you. He's been following you since we played our first preseason game, and he wants to talk to you about a possible trade.”

My blood runs cold.

The Seattle Sharks have been one of my favorite teams since I was a kid, but hearing the word trade has my entire body locking up. I shift awkwardly in my seat as if that will help me remember how to breathe.

“Wait, why do they want to sit down with me? Couldn't you and the owner just decide to trade me?”

“Of course, we could,” he says matter-of-factly. “But that's not how I do things and by some lottery-level luck and divine intervention, Crossland McClaren doesn't do things that way either. We’re both on the same page that we take our players’ desires and best interests to heart. We said as much to the Sharks’ owner, which then led to me being the messenger that they want to sit down with you.”

“Do you want to get rid of me, Coach?” I ask, and hate how my voice cracks around the question. I’ve grown attached to him, not to mention the team . The idea of which is almost laughable at this point, seeing as how I would’ve signed a trade agreement with the Sharks in a microsecond had it been my first week here. It’s almost impossible to think about how much has changed in such a short amount of time.

Blakely’s face flashes behind my eyes, my heart rebelling at any decision that would take me away from her.

Fuck me. That settles it. I'm in love with her. Even thinking the declaration has a wave of warmth crashing over me.

“No, I don't want to get rid of you,” Coach finally answers my question. “But I also don't want to hold you back. You know how good of a player you are. You know how vital you are to not only this team but how valuable you could be to another. And I'm never going to be one to get in the way of what your own definition of success is. This business may be filled with passion and heart, but it's still a business. I understand more than anybody, you have to go where the money is. I don't know what number the Sharks are going to offer you, but if it's one that you like, there’ll be no hard feelings if you make that decision. I want you to know that.”

He really means it, I can tell that much. And while I know he isn’t wrong about money and business and hockey, there is one giant factor that’s currently swaying my decision.

Because really, when I actually allowed myself to think about wearing a Sharks jersey, Blakely isn’t the only thing that’s giving me pause. She’s a giant fucking factor, for sure, but my team...the Badgers have become my team . And it’s become an honor to fight and strive with these guys as we try to bring ourselves out of the trenches.

Coach pushes something across his desk, and I pick it up. “That's the number the owner told me to have you call to set the meeting. You can pass it on to your agent or do it yourself,” he says. “Either way, he's pretty laid-back about the whole thing. It seems like he's a good owner, even though I haven't met him personally.”

I pocket the card, and nod at Coach. “I'll think about it,’ I say. “Thanks, Coach. Is there anything else?”

“You got somewhere important to be?” he asks with an oddly knowing look in his eyes.

“I have a date,” I admit.

Coach clears his throat and then starts organizing his desk as he nods and waves toward the door. “Off you go then.”

The sudden shift in his demeanor has me wondering if he's getting all choked up about this possibly being one of our last heart-to-hearts together.

I want to assure him that I have no intention of going anywhere, but I'd be lying if I said there isn’t something to think about.

The chance to play for the team I've admired my whole life is hard to pass up, even if it's just a conversation with the owner that I have no intention of truly following through with.

And as I get into my car and head toward Blakely’s apartment for our upstanding tradition after a loss—ice cream and Netflix at her place—I realize that there is only one person I want to talk to about this, and that's her.

I park outside her unit and grab the wrapped presents I have in my car from my shopping trip the other day with the guys. This is the first time I've been over to her house since then, but she’s had her Christmas tree up since November and these will go perfectly underneath it.

Blakely opens the door before I even knock, no doubt her newly installed cameras alerting her to my presence. She throws her arms around me, her dark blonde hair damp from a shower she must’ve taken right after the game. She's dressed in a simple pair of pajama pants and T-shirt, smelling like a dream and feeling warm in my arms as I walk us into her apartment and shut the door behind us.

She shifts out of my arm, eyes widening at the two gift boxes in my hand, and I smile at her before heading over to her tree set up in the living room and slide them underneath it.

“You didn't have to do that,” she says as I turn my attention back to her.

“Yeah, but I wanted to,” I say.

“Well, I haven't wrapped yours yet, but it'll be under the tree come Christmas morning. Or the day after Christmas, whenever you’re back from seeing your mom.”

I nod at her, a million thoughts racing through my head as I round her couch and sink into it, leaning my head against the back of it as I breathe out slowly. I feel the weight shift, and Blakely is by my side giving me a sympathetic look.

“I'm sorry about the loss,” she says, planting a soft kiss on my lips before pulling back.

I smooth my hand up and down her back, drawing her just a little bit closer. “It's all right, that's not what's bothering me.”

Her eyes widen a bit, the sky blue of them churning with something I can't quite place. “What is it?” she asks softly.

“I'll tell you about it later,” I say focusing all my attention on her. “Your text earlier said you had something you wanted to talk about. I'm guessing it wasn't ice cream flavors for the night?” I tease.

She forces out a laugh, and the hesitation lining her features has me sitting up a little straighter.

“What is it?”

“It’s kind of heavy,” she says. “Maybe not the best thing after a loss?—”

“There's no way you can't tell me, not after that. What's going on?” My stomach churns, apprehension slicing down my spine.

“I saw Brian a couple of days ago?—”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I cut her off before I can think better of it, cringing slightly as I sit up and lean my elbows on my knees.

“I didn't think I had to run everything by you,” she says a little defensive.

“You don't,” I say. “But I thought we agreed that you shouldn't be reaching out to him or indulging him in his?—”

“I wasn't indulging anything,” she snaps, pushing off the couch to stand like she needs the distance to breathe.

I take a breath, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply to get myself back on solid ground.

“Hey,” I say. “I'm sorry. It just took me off guard. Please continue.”

Some of the defensiveness shakes off of her, and she nods. “I met up with him in a public place,” she adds, eyeing me. “And I laid out what would happen if he kept up with his antics. Not only threatening him with the protection order we've talked about but also with the real threat that bothered him, which was jeopardizing his chance with that reality show and his career in general.”

“Damn, that must have felt good,” I say, pride rippling through me at how damn strong she is. The woman was able to look her emotionally abusive ex in the eyes and tell him to fuck around and find out. “But wait, how were you able to threaten his career again?” I felt so out of the loop and was taken right back to my shopping trip with my friends and how they seemed to know more about her than I did. About the girl I’m totally in love with.

“I spoke with Crossland—Mr. McClaren,” she quickly corrects herself. “And told him about my situation. He has connections all over the world and happens to know the producer of the show.”

I tilt my head, relief and happiness sitting right next to confusion. “And the owner was more than happy to do that kind of favor for you? Just because you're our skate coach?”

Blakely bites her bottom lip, worrying the pink flesh between her teeth as she sits back down. Something about the way she's looking at me feels like she's about to pull the rug right out from underneath me. “That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” she says. “I haven't told you this before because I wasn't sure if one, we were serious, and two, if it would change your opinion about me?—”

“Nothing could change my opinion about you,” I cut her off, wanting to reassure her because she looks so damn worried. “I'm wild about you, you know that.”

“And I really hope you'll feel the same way after I tell you the truth.”

She takes a deep breath, the action seeming to take hours instead of seconds as the anticipation builds up.

“My middle name is Wren,” she says, wringing her hands. “My actual last name is Hardin.”

“As in Coach Hardin?” I ask, my brain slowly putting the pieces together.

“Yes,” she says. “As in Dad .”

Holy fucking shit.

Now I'm the one pushing off the couch and pacing in front of it. Everything clicks together, the secret Nash and Pax knew and didn't want to tell me, the first night we met and Kiplin somehow knowing to stop me from asking her to come home with me that night, right up until Coach was telling me about a trade not one hour ago.

“Lawson?” Blakely asks.

I'm having a hard time focusing on any one emotion—anger, confusion, and feeling like an idiot are currently in the first three places.

“I am really sorry?—”

“You're sorry?” I cut her, off shaking my head. “You're sorry for what, Blakely? Not trusting me enough to tell me that your dad is my coach? Or you're sorry that it took you this long to realize you might actually want to be with me enough to tell me the truth?”

I know I’m being irrational, but that doesn’t stop the hurt crashing through my chest. “But your dad knew, right?” I ask before she has the chance to answer my previous questions. “Your dad has to know about me. About us.”

“Well, yes, but?—”

“Wow, this is just fucking great.”

Blakely gets off the couch, looking up at me with utter confusion. “Look, I get I messed up by not telling you, but I have to be honest with you, I'm not really understanding the anger here. I didn't mean to hurt you, but can we talk this out rationally?”

“Talk what out, Blakely? I've put all my cards on the table. I’ve shown you time and time again how committed I am to you. I've given you the space that you've needed to heal from your past relationship. I'm not trying to force you into anything or rush you into anything, but I’m crazy about you and you couldn't even find the little bit of respect you needed for me to let me know the truth? To let me know something that could affect my entire career.”

Tears line her eyes as she gapes at me, and my already breaking heart is tearing into shreds seeing her that way. The last thing I want to do is make her cry, but I’m shocked it’s come to this.

“Your career, that's what you're worried about? That's what you're angry about? I told you I've already come clean with my father and with Crossland. They're fine with it. We just have to file something with HR?—”

“No, you don't get it,” I cut her off. “Blakely, your dad is trying to trade me to the Sharks.”

“What?”

“Do you think for one second that offer came in on its own? What, for the playmaker on one of the worst teams in the NHL? Fat fucking chance. Your dad found out about us, and now I'm on the chopping block.”

She actually looks like she didn’t know, which gives me the tiniest bit of relief that this wasn't some elaborate attempt to put space between us.

“Yeah,” I say. I reach in my pocket and show her the number that her father gave me. “He literally told me about this an hour ago, and now you're dropping this bomb on me. It all makes sense. If you would have trusted me in the beginning, we could’ve gone to him together and he would’ve realized I’m in love with you and have no intention of hurting you or disrupting your career. But now we'll never know.”

“That's not true,” she fires back, but I'm already shaking my head and heading toward her front door. “Lawson, he didn't do this on purpose. I know he wouldn't. I told him how much I care about you. I told him I loved you?—”

“I've got to go,” I say, unable to stay there a second longer. I'm so afraid I'm going to say something I’ll regret more than I already have. But right now, I'm just too messed up, too hurt over the fact that she didn't trust me enough with such a simple secret. Too angry over the fact that I thought maybe I’d earned that interest from the Sharks on my own, but come to find out it’s because of something else entirely.

“Lawson, please . Don't go.”

Her words are tear-soaked, and I pause in her opened doorway, turning to her and wrapping her in an embrace that feels too much like a goodbye. I kiss her because I can't not kiss her, wiping away her tears with my thumbs.

“I just need to think,” I say, the words a breath between us. “Okay? I'm sorry. I promise I'm not trying to be a dick. And I'm not trying to put all of this on you. I just...I just need to get my head on straight.”

I want her to know that I'm not leaving her . That I'm not trying to be an asshole. I'm just not in a good headspace right now, and I don’t want to ruin things by staying here in that space.

She nods, but more tears roll down her cheeks, and it takes everything in my willpower to let her go instead of ignoring everything that just happened and kissing her tears away.

But I do let her go, and I close the door behind me.

It's not until I make it back home, replaying the conversation in my head over and over again that I realize she said she loved me back.

And as good as that might feel, as hopeful as that might feel, I’m terrified I may have ruined it.