Chapter Seventeen

GRACE

Later that evening, I find myself nervously pacing my hotel room, my mind racing as I worry about Jensen and whether or not he’s really okay. It’s taken all of my willpower to wait to go find him. I need to be careful and let the rest of the team calm down for the night so I can get to him without being caught by anyone else. There’s a strange bitterness swirling inside me, though, as I watch the time and wait to slip out of my room. A part of me wishes that whatever was going on between us wasn’t a secret. That I could walk right up to his door without caring at all who might see me do so.

It’s my own fault, though. It’s just that when I think of Carson finding out my stomach twists in even worse knots. I shake my head and grit my teeth. I need to focus on one thing at a time. Make sure Jensen is okay now, worry about telling Carson the truth later.

Finally, when it’s about ten o’clock, I crack open my room’s door and listen carefully for any signs that the team is up and about at all. All seems quiet, at last. I don’t hear any of the guys chatting in the hallway or moving from room to room like they were earlier in the evening. It seems like the coast is clear, so I slip out of my room and cautiously make my way down the hallway, with the jersey Jensen gave me clutched tightly in my hands.

Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone as I near his door. Carson sent me a copy of the team’s itinerary and travel information, wanting me to know where he is at all times in case I needed him; I don’t think he even realized it included the entire team’s room assignments, but I’m glad it does, since I now know which one Jensen is staying in. Stopping in front of Jensen’s door, I raise my fist but hesitate before knocking. Taking a deep breath, I gently rap my knuckles against the smooth wood of the door and then wait, my heart in my throat.

A few moments later, the door opens and Jensen is standing in front of me, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that should be illegal for a man like him to own. I stare at him, speechless, my eyes tracing the contours of his chiseled torso.

He looks surprised, his eyes widening as he gazes down at me. When he clears his throat, I realize I’ve been ogling him and I blush as I jerk my gaze back up to his.

“Um, hi,” I stammer.

“Hey,” he replies. “Are you staying in this hotel too?”

I nod. “Yeah, I am. Carson let me know where you all would be. I, uh, wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay. I also wanted to give this back.”

I hold up the jersey and he looks down at it with a frown.

“Why?” he asks. “It was a gift.”

Sighing, I shrug. “I know, and it was really nice of you, but I just can’t…”

It’s too much. Too much of a boyfriend thing. Wearing his jersey during the game felt like I was staking a claim on him, and that thought was far too satisfying, and terrifying. However, I don’t say that aloud. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside to give me room to slip past him. “Let’s talk.”

Talk? He wants me to come into his hotel room to talk? I hesitate, but then slowly nod and make my way inside. He closes the door behind me and crosses to the room’s minibar.

“Drink?”

“Sure,” I murmur as I look around. It’s a standard hotel room, like mine, except instead of the queen-sized bed I got, his bed is king-sized—a necessity given his massive frame.

“Have a seat,” he says before turning and busying himself with the drinks. I slowly sink onto the bed, wringing his jersey nervously in my hands. He still hasn’t taken it back.

He finishes pouring our drinks, turns, and hands me a glass of amber liquid. I sniff at it and wince at the strong smell. Whiskey, I think. This isn’t my usual drink, but I’m nervous enough to make an exception this time. It’s hard to say for certain why I’m nervous, but I feel strangely shy. It’s not like we’ve never been alone before, or seen each other naked, for that matter. Still, something feels different. More… intimate. We know each other now. There are no more fake personas or promises of never seeing each other again. Everything that has happened, and everything that might happen, can’t just be chalked up to a week of fun. This is also the first time I’ve actively sought him out, as me instead of my Miami alter ego. That’s a big step. One I don’t know if I’m ready for.

Releasing a deep breath, I take a drink and savor the burn as it slides down my throat. Jensen sits on the bed next to me and reaches over to touch the jersey I’m still clutching. “I wish you’d keep it,” he says. “Seeing you wearing it during the game… well, it’s what got me out of my funk after the fight.”

Well, shit. Why’d he have to go and say a thing like that? Now I feel guilty for trying to return it. Still, I’m not sure I can keep it right now. It feels too significant. Wearing it feels too much like we’re in a real relationship, and we’re not there yet. I don’t know what we are, exactly, but we’re not in jersey-wearing territory and I don’t want to put any more pressure on us than there already is. I sigh, rubbing the smooth material between my fingers.

“It’s not because it’s yours,” I confess. “It’s just… hockey.”

Though I know that’s not really an explanation, that’s the best lie I can come up with in the moment.

“You hate hockey that much, huh?” He chuckles softly and takes a drink.

“Too many bad experiences,” I mumble.

“Like what? I mean I get some of Carson’s friends were jerks, but that was highschool.”

I consider how much to tell him. There’s something in me that wants to tell him the truth. To unburden myself at long last. Releasing a long breath, I say, “I had a friend who was really hurt by one of Carson’s teammates. He ruined her life.”

Jensen furrows his brow. “Ruined her life? How’d he do that?”

“He got her pregnant,” I whisper. “Convinced her he loved her and would be there for her, but then abandoned her for a fancy school in Canada just so he could play more competitive hockey.”

Jensen is quiet for several moments and I glance up at him, a little worried how he’ll respond. Will he shrug it off like it’s not a big deal? Tell me I’m overreacting?

Instead, he gives me a sympathetic look and nods. “That really sucks. I’m sorry for your friend. Is she okay now?”

I shrug. “I don’t actually know. She transferred schools herself after he left. The other kids made life unbearable for her. We lost contact after she moved. She said she was going to keep the baby, but I’m not sure if she did. She was gone before anyone else even knew she was pregnant.”

The memories of Stacey and how painful those last couple of months were before she left come flooding back to me. Jensen's face is filled with genuine sympathy. "That's tough. And, unfortunately, I can't say it surprises me."

His words hang in the air between us for a moment. I take another sip of my drink, hoping the liquor will chase away the bitterness that follows Stacey's story.

"What do you mean?" I ask, setting my glass down on the small bedside table and turning to look at him.

He shrugs and looks down at his drink. "I've seen some teammates who messed up relationships and careers over hockey. The sport tends to attract a lot of arrogant assholes who think they're above everyone else."

"So you’re not one of them?" I try to keep my voice neutral but there’s an edge in my tone, one that echoes years of pain and disappointment.

A wry smile appears on Jensen's face as he meets my gaze. "I'd like to think I’m not."

There's sincerity in his eyes that gives me pause. For a moment, I let myself believe him, allow myself to sink a little bit deeper into this unpredictable world. But then, I remember Stacey — a bright, bubbly girl full of dreams and laughter — and how she had been reduced to nothing more than a shell of her former self.

I don’t want to end up like that. I don’t want to lose myself, whether it’s in my brother’s shadow or in an ill-fated romance with a man I can’t be certain won’t hurt me.

Jensen reaches out a hand and gently cups the side of my face.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not that kind of guy. I swear. I wouldn’t ever hurt you like that.”

His words are soft, reassuring, but they echo against the walls of my heart, fighting to find a way in. I look into his eyes and a part of me wants to believe him and to trust him. But another part of me — the side that's seen too much hurt, too much pain — can't let go of my fear.

“Words are easy to say,” I whisper back. “Actions matter more.”

He lets go of my face but doesn’t pull his hand away completely. Instead, he moves it down to hold mine. His thumb moves back and forth over the back of my hand in a soothing motion.

“I know,” he says earnestly. “And I promise you, I’ll show you through my actions. I’m nothing like those guys.”

I take a deep breath and extract my hand from his gentle grip.

"You have to understand Jensen," I say, looking directly into his eyes. "I’ve always been so careful, and I never wanted what happened to Stacey to happen to me. Trust isn't something easily given… in my case, at least."

Jensen takes a moment before responding; his gaze is intense as if he's trying to read me, understand the depth of my fears.

“Grace,” he says in a gentle voice. “You can’t live your life in fear like that. What your friend Stacey went through was awful, but that wasn’t you. It doesn’t have to be you.”

Releasing a breath, I murmur, “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” he insists. “More than you know.”

Frowning, I ask, “What do you mean?”

He sighs and explains, “I’ve always had to fight to live the life I want. My father has expectations of me that I don’t want to fulfill. He’s never understood my desire to pursue hockey as a career. He keeps insisting I come work for him when I’m done playing, but I don’t want to leave hockey. I want to coach and he just can’t accept that. It’d be easy for me to do what he tells me to do. Just give up hockey and fall into line. There’d be a lot less tension between my dad and me, and honestly, I’d have a certain and steady future. That’s not what I want, though. I want to take the risk and fight for the life I’ve always dreamed of.”

I blink at him, stunned by his words. “I…I didn’t realize your dad was putting that kind of pressure on you. Isn’t he happy that you’re so successful?”

Jensen lets out a derisive snort. “No, I don’t think he is, because it’s not success as he defines it.”

As I gaze at his face, I can see the hurt in his eyes. I guess we have more in common than I thought, but he’s at least brave enough to push past his anxiety and stress to fight for what he wants and not what anyone else wants for him.

“It’s…it’s hard for me,” I whisper at length. “It’s hard for me to get past my fear enough to trust…”

"Then let me earn it," he says, "just give me a chance."