CHAPTER FOURTEEN

E van

It takes four minutes.

Valentina’s forehead furrows, even though I know for a fact that forehead furrows is one of the things she’s given up. Valentina is in the modeling gig for the long haul, and wrinkles aren’t one of the things she intends to develop.

She glances at her phone, then at us. Then at the phone, then at...

“Something going on, Valentina?”

“You’re not in a gay relationship, are you, Evan?”

The room quiets.

“You’re in a relationship, Daddy?” Stella asks.

“What is this about?” I ask finally.

“Check your social media.”

My gaze slides to Vinnie. His phone is already out. His face is pale.

“I should go,” he says.

I scramble for my phone, but the colors are too blurry, and my hands shake too much.

Because I know. I already know.

Valentina sits beside me, and I hate it, because it should be Vinnie.

She shows me her phone. “This is your porch.”

I close my eyes.

Vinnie and I are holding hands.

Fuck.

And gazing at each other in a manner that actors might make if they were told to act besotted.

We do not look like bros. We do not look like teammates. We especially do not look like teammates who can barely stand each other.

Fuck.

“Oh, God,” Valentina says. “You never told me—”

“It’s, um, new—”

Vinnie stands up. I think he’s going to sit next to me too, but instead he heads upstairs. Well, better upstairs then out the door.

I turn to Valentina, my cheeks flaming.

“Daddy needs to speak to Mommy alone,” I say.

Stella frowns. “But—”

“Why don’t you draw me a picture?” Valentina suggests.

Stella leaves. I don’t miss that she’s going reluctantly. God, I’m even interrupting my daughter’s time with her mother. It’s not like Valentina lives nearby. These minutes are precious, and they shouldn’t be about me.

“We were just out there for a few minutes,” I say.

Valentina sighs. “Guess I was followed. I’m sorry.”

We’re silent.

“They probably were hoping for pictures of both of us... reconciling.”

“They got something better.”

“They sure did. Now are you going to tell me why you’re holding hands with your grumpy ex-best friend?”

“He’s not always grumpy.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“He didn’t used to be grumpy.”

“He really likes you, huh?”

I squirm. “I think so. I like him.”

My cheeks burn, and my gaze bounces around the room.

“You never told me you liked men, Evan.”

“I didn’t think it was important,” I mumble.

She pulls back.

“I liked you too,” I say. “I like women. I do.”

She assesses me. “It’s fine if you don’t.”

Shame floods me, and I remember all those times I tried and wasn’t good enough for her. I would slide into bed, and everything would be awkward.

“I-I know,” I stammer. “I wasn’t trying to trick you or anything.”

“We were young,” she says softly.

I nod eagerly.

A door clicks.

I swivel my head toward the window.

Vinnie marches toward his car. He’s wearing the clothes he arrived in, even though they’re dirty. I guess that’s why he went upstairs. He wasn’t waiting for me. He was leaving.

“I should go after him,” I say.

“And make the story even more interesting for the paparazzi?”

“But—”

“Are you sure he wants that?”

My shoulders slump. I’m not sure. And to be honest—I’m not sure I want that either.

“I’m sorry, hun.” Valentina squeezes my thigh, but nothing can calm my racing heart.

VINNIE

I enter the locker room warily. Evan isn’t here yet, which is...great.

Finn looks up from his phone and flashes a wide smile. “Dude. How was nursing? Looked pretty romantic.”

“That picture was taken out of context. I was just helping Evan to the bench.”

“I didn’t think it looked romantic, Vinnie,” Luke tells me. “Not a single rose anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Finn slides his gaze away, already bored.

I don’t blame him. That’s almost word for word the statement my publicist released, after conferring with Evan’s publicist. The story is already dead.

A few players dart curious glances at me, but they’re soon distracted when Owen starts to belch the national anthem.

Thankfully, they throw their clothes at him, and he stops, though I think most of the reason he stops is because belching any song, especially the national anthem, is impossible.

Evan comes in. He doesn’t sit near me. He barely looks at me.

My heart trembles, and I hate it. I hate everything.

I’m relieved when we’re called to the tunnel. But my heart still aches, just like it did all yesterday, and the day before, right after those pictures came out.

I’m bleary-eyed. I hope my reactions won’t be delayed, and I hate the swell of nervousness that hits me. The only way I got to sleep was pretending that everything was okay between Evan and me and remembering all the good things that happened.

I hated myself for it in the morning. I shouldn’t be remembering him. Not like that.

I glower in case any of the guys want to ask me about the paparazzi photos. Isaiah has gone right back to ignoring me, and I hate the feeling that I’m somehow in the wrong.

This is for the best.

Evan and I can’t be anything together.

Not after I kissed him. Not after I slept with him. Not after it took less than twenty-four hours for speculation about the two of us to inundate hockey gossip.

I didn’t protect him, and my job is literally to protect him.

Finally, it’s time for us to skate onto my ice, and my body takes over. The whoosh of skates might not mask the thunder of my heart, but it’s all I have. At least I’m supposed to be keeping track of him when we skate together. At least any glances at him will be seen as professional and not overtly personal.

And so I allow myself to peek.

I regret it at once.

He doesn’t look good.

I mean, obviously, he looks amazing. He’s still the handsomest person I’ve ever seen. But his pallor lacks his normal flush, and his skin isn’t supposed to be slick with sweat so early in the game.

It’s not like this arena is hot.

It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.

The puck roars toward Evan, and one of the players from the opposing team heads toward him. I’m there in an instant. I’m not going to let Evan get hurt again. For some reason, Evan doesn’t look happy to see me, and that shame fills me again, coating my stomach like nausea.

The opposing player takes hold of the player and skates away.

“Hold it together,” Evan says.

I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or him.

A roar sounds. Our players aren’t celebrating.

“You’re in my way,” Evan says.

Okay, it’s possible I’m crowding him.

He pushes himself against me, knocking my shoulder, then he’s off.

Shit.

I was crowding him.

I’m the reason the other player got the puck.

“You going gay, DeLuca?” Finn jokes, swooshing past me.

My fingers tense, and I tighten my grip on my stick.

I’m relieved when our line is called off the ice, but I then realize that cameras might be on me. I wonder if the sports announcers are discussing the rumors about Evan and me. I wonder if they’re laughing.

I don’t look at Evan.

I can’t look at Evan.

My heart beats more from our time on the stands than our time on the ice.

This is for the best, I remind myself.

But guilt still swirls through me.

We don’t win, and for the first time, I wonder whether I should retire. I could tell my agent that I want to be traded. He’ll think I’m crazy, but he won’t like a string of losses from me either.

The mood is still in the locker room. We’re not used to losing. Well, not against this team at least.

Coach makes a speech, and I pretend I don’t feel his gaze on me. I’m sure it’s on Evan too. He’s not the only person looking at me.

I’m still, as if I can disappear into the furniture, but of course, the notion is ridiculous.

We shower and dress in our suits, then head for the bus. We play in Hartford tomorrow, and we’re going straight there.

“Daddy!” Stella’s high-pitched squeal interrupts my thoughts.

Pounding sounds, the light, seven-year-old version kind, then Evan swoops Stella into his arms.

She gives him kisses, and I turn away.

“It’s Vinnie,” she says.

I wonder if I can get away with pretending not to hear her, but I’m not that much of an asshole. Well, not all the time, at least. Not to little girls.

I turn to her, pasting a smile on my face.

“Hi Stella,” I say.

But Stella is not smiling. Stella, who is sunniness itself, is frowning. “You left without saying goodbye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Her eyes remain narrowed. “That was rude.”

“I know.”

I glance at Evan, and he raises his eyebrows in an I’m-not-going-to-defend-you manner. Then he gives Stella a soft I’m-proud-of-you smile.

I stifle a snort.

“Daddy was sad,” Stella says.

Evan’s face drains. “That’s enough, Stella. Otherwise, I’ll really torture you when you get to junior high.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means I’ll be your chaperone at every school dance.”

“Uh-oh,” I say. “Better watch out.”

I wait for Stella to giggle, but instead, she frowns.

“I should go,” I say, aiming for lightness. “Bye, Stella.”

I’m not going to make the mistake of not saying goodbye to her again.

She wriggles in Evan’s arms though, then crosses her arms. “You need to apologize.”

“Vinnie doesn’t need to apologize,” Evan says.

“He made you sad,” Stella says. “If I make my friend sad, you make me apologize.”

Evan’s cheeks grow a ruddy color.

“I wasn’t that sad, Stella.”

“You were crying, Daddy!”