25. Weston

Practice is going well. Lord knows I’ve got fuel aplenty. But for today, it’s being channeled appropriately. When I race around Orion and whip the puck into the net behind Paul Gilmore, Coach Hud cheers like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final.

He blows the whistle to end practice and we all skate to the exit. Decker walks beside me on our way to the locker room. “That’s a nice piece of shooting out there, bro.”

I nod. “Yeah, don’t jinx it.”

We strip off our gear and dump it in the bins for the equipment crew to handle. “You’re locked in,” Decker explains. “That’s all I’m getting at.”

He’s not wrong. He’s just not totally on point about why exactly I’m locked in.

Hockey is what I have right now because she’s closing doors to me. Yesterday, I sent flowers. She sent them right back, stems and petals diced up into slivers and slices.

Honestly, it made me laugh. Princess P still has some spunk.

Most of the guys are heading out, but I still have some juice left in me, so I change into work clothes and head to the weight room to lift for a while. It’s easy to zone out in here. My world boils down to “pick it up, put it down,” over and over again.

It’s quiet. The clanking of metal. Huffing breath. My own pulse throbbing in my ears.

But that zen gets shattered when I leave and see a familiar silhouette standing in the mouth of the tunnel.

When I get close, I see she’s radiating with anger. “You absolute fucking asshole.” The anger in jaw, the thrust of her hips—it’s all intoxicating. But nothing as much as the fire in her eyes. Renee charges toward me, every step deliberate, every click of her heels a statement in itself. “I thought I told you to stay the hell out of my life.”

I give her a mischievous grin. “Are you excited about your show?”

“There isn’t going to be a show.”

I shrug. “Hate to break it to you, but there’s no way to back out.” I fold my arms and lean against the wall.

“You had no right!”

“That’s never stopped me before. Bills are paid, finger food is ordered, and your name’s all over it. Show up, don’t show up, I don’t care—your work is gonna be on those walls either way. It’s what you wanted. I gave it to you.”

“On your fucking timetable! Under your control.”

I notice something: the t-shirt she’s wearing has short sleeves. Mistake.

Because it lets me see the bruises on her arm. Tiny little circles. Right about the size of a pompous asshole’s fingertips, I’d say. And she sure as fuck didn’t put them there herself.

I’m seeing red instantly. Breath coming out of my nose in furious bursts.

When she sees what I’m seeing, she balks and starts to retreat. I lunge after her. “Wait!”

“I don’t want to wait, Weston,” she calls over her shoulder.

I slice around in front of her and she grinds to a halt. She doesn’t look at me, though. “Does he hurt you?” Her non-answer is answer enough. The red in my eyes goes blood red. “I’ll kill that fucker.”

She looks down at her biceps and tugs her sleeve to cover as much as she can. When she speaks, it comes out in a heartbreaking murmur. “You’re the reason he did this.”

“Me?!”

“You bought me a car. A Cartier necklace. What did you expect? You’re rubbing our… whatever it was… in his face and you don’t care how it fucks with him and makes him, in turn, fuck with me.” Her voice climbs in pitch and volume as she talks, but then gets lower and wobbly again. “So do me a favor, Weston: stop. Just stop.”

“He isn’t going to touch you anymore.”

It isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.

“If you want to protect me, stay away from me. Leave me alone. Don’t call me. Don’t send me gifts. Don’t arrange for me to have a fucking art show, for God’s sake. You’re making things worse for me.” She raises her eyes to mine and I see that they’re filled with tears. “Just go about your life. We’re finished.” Her voice goes soft. “I have to go.” She turns and starts back up the tunnel.

“Renee.”

She keeps walking. I know that she won’t stop this time, and I don’t have it in me to put a hand on her, even if it’s for all the right reasons.

I pull out my phone and dial a number while the anger is still boiling in my gut. There isn’t much I can do just yet, but I wait for this fucker to answer my call.

It’s time we had a sit-down.