Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Van

"We're just asking for a few details. It's not like we're asking you to kiss and tell," Dumbo whines.

"Yeah, because there should have been no kissing of any kind," Felix adds, giving me a look.

The kind that's a little too assessing.

There's no way he knows , I tell myself. But just in case, I turn my attention to my skates.

It's been like this since I got back. I thought they'd let up. But they're like a pack of dogs with a whole skeleton's worth of bones. I was hoping something would happen to distract everyone. Is it too much to hope for a tiny scandal or an accidental pregnancy or … something? I'd take just about anything to take the spotlight off me. But heading into the playoffs, everyone has been drama free.

It was just starting to fade until today—Amelia's first day at work. Now, they're starting back up with the same questions I've already answered.

I really hope I don't crack and spill everything.

What's worse than getting the third degree is that I just came face-to-face with Amelia in Summer's office. Mills looked just as beautiful as she ever has. She also didn't look like she's been put through a blender, followed by a trash compactor, and then set on fire. Which is how I feel.

It's official: today sucks.

"Come on, guys," Alec says. "There was no kissing."

Our captain's confidence—or cockiness, if we're splitting hairs—earned him the nickname Ego. I'd love to tell him exactly how wrong his cockiness is now, to really rub his nose in it.

But I can't.

"We'd know if he kissed Amelia," Alec continues. "One, because Van can't help but run his mouth. Two, because Coach would have already killed him. He wouldn't be at practice but in a shallow grave somewhere."

That part, at least, is true.

And I bet Dominik wishes I was in a shallow grave rather than here. Our newest player, young and with the kind of over-confidence you can only possess when you haven't experienced enough failure, had been enjoying my spot as center on the first line with Eli and Logan.

But that was before Florida.

Without a word of explanation, Coach switched us back to our respective positions my first day back.

Which means Dominik didn't just lose the line but also center, his preferred position. When the Appies picked him up, Coach wanted to try him as a winger but promised at some point he might move him to center. Dominik's been biding his time since he got here, not all that patiently either.

Now that he's had a taste of what he really wants, he's more than a little bitter about losing it. Especially when he's still playing better than me. I can't even argue the point.

And only I know why Coach made the switch.

Normally, I'd feel just fine about putting the youngest and hottest-tempered player in his place. But since I got my spot back through what feels like paying blood money, I can't even gloat.

Guilt seeps through me, a slow-acting poison.

I wonder if, since technically Coach is my father-in-law even if he doesn't know it, this counts as nepotism?

"You guys are hilarious," I say, still messing with my skate to avoid making eye contact. "Nothing happened on the trip."

Lies .

The thing is—they'd never believe me even if I told them the truth. That I fell in love and got married, then got ditched by my wife. Who now seems determined to pretend like it never happened.

Summer is the only person in this state I planned to tell. And only after she promises me that lawyer confidentiality stuff. I can't risk her telling Nathan, even if he and Wyatt are the quietest, least likely to spill secret guys on the team. Or that I've ever met. Quiet grumps, saying everything they need to with a glare and a body-check.

No one can know what happened. Not even once I get this annulled or … whatever.

I tried googling annulment to see if that's a possibility. The first thing I learned was that I don't know how to spell the word. Doesn't it seem like it should have two Ls?

Anyway. I couldn't quite cut through the legalese and Amelia must have taken the certificate or whatever we signed at the hotel, so I don't even have that for reference. Summer is fluent in paperwork, so I figured between that and confidentiality, talking to her was a safe bet.

Too bad Amelia happened to be in Summer's office when I went to ask. Oh, the irony.

I haven't seen or heard a single word from Amelia since the note she left before running away. I tried texting, but my phone showed a message not delivered notification, so I guess she blocked me.

It's even more ironic that after I helped Amelia run away from her first wedding day, she then ran away from me on her second.

I hadn't planned to make the effort to speak to her unless it was absolutely required. Like to inform her that I figured out the way to annul our marriage—the one she thought was a huge mistake.

But in Summer's office, I wasn't silent. I couldn't seem to shut up.

This whole thing is going to come crashing down on my head now because there's zero chance Parker and Summer didn't notice the vibe. I saw the way they both frowned, their heads bouncing between the two of us like they were watching the weirdest tennis match they'd ever seen. One where the players were armed with swords as well as rackets and the ball was on fire.

But if anyone finds out, there's no way Coach won't also find out.

And then I really will be dead.

My career, at least. I don't think Coach would literally kill me. Then again, I did miss him throwing a chair through a church window. He's definitely been in a foul mood.

So there's at least a small chance of homicide. Possibly by furniture.

What I'm not sure of is why Amelia didn't spill the second she got home. I doubt it's to protect me .

Maybe because she's embarrassed? That's the only logical thing I can think of, and it makes sense. Amelia is, in all senses of the word, a golden girl. She was probably prom queen or valedictorian or something. Pretty and perfect and rule following.

And I'm … me.

I'm the Deadpool on a team full of Captain Americas. Well, a bunch of Caps and two Wolverines, by way of Nathan and Wyatt.

In any case, I'm the very last guy Amelia should be interested in, much less marry on a whim.

Even if, for a few days, we felt like we were in sync. Like we had something real and special and?—

"Dude, how's your stomach?" Dumbo clasps a hand on my shoulder. Wyatt snorts.

"My stomach?"

"You've been off since the wedding." When I say nothing— because what is he talking about with my stomach? —Dumbo continues, lowering his voice but not enough so the whole room doesn't hear. "You know—the diarrhea?"

Now several of the guys are laughing. I shake my head and stand, dragging a hand over my face, freshly shaved this morning. I haven't been able to stand the sight of myself with a beard ever since I got back from Florida. I finally took a razor to it today.

Like the facial hair was a reminder of her.

How I looked when I was with her. How I felt. How she made me feel.

"I've got an iron stomach, man." I stand and lift my shirt, patting my abs. Because that's what Normal Van would do. Make jokes. Brag. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

"I think the phrase is supposed to be an iron lung," Tucker says.

"It can be both," Alec says. "Now, how about you stop arguing about semantics and get on the ice before Coach puts us all in shallow graves. The man has been in a mood since the wedding that wasn't."

"Can you blame the man?" Logan asks. "Someone broke his daughter's heart. I'd burn the world down."

And … on that note, I'm out the door before any of them.

I make it through practice like it's a normal day. Like I didn't run into Mills in Summer's office that morning.

Do I play horribly? You bet.

But I do it smiling and staying in character—smart-mouthed comments, horsing around, generally being the lovable pain I am.

I hang back when the other guys leave the ice, still trying to shake the restlessness I feel. It's in my limbs, but I think it's spreading outward from my heart. I skate a few quick laps, then take shot after shot. Missing them all.

It's like I'm hoping for someone to pin a participation ribbon on my jersey rather than hoping to win the Calder Cup—the AHL's version of the Stanley.

"Van—a word?" Coach calls.

My stick clatters to the ice.

If there's one thing I've succeeded at since getting home, it's avoiding Coach. I didn't want to get caught in a room with him. To have to meet the eyes of the man who is technically my father-in-law. Once, I even ducked into a shower fully clothed to avoid being seen.

Unfortunately, it was also the shower occupied by Dumbo.

Still—to avoid Coach, it was worth getting a little too up close and personal with all of Dumbo.

I retrieve my stick, miss one last shot, and skate over to the bench, where Coach now stands, gripping the wall. His expression is unreadable, but he doesn't look like he's about to rip my head from my body, so my secret is probably still safe.

For now.

"I wanted to thank you for your help with Milly," he says.

Hearing the nickname makes my gut twist. Or maybe what I'm feeling is the twist of the knife Milly stuck there.

"No problem."

Coach chuckles. "‘No problem'? Son, you gave up almost a week to help out someone you barely know."

I try not to flinch. Someone I barely know … but someone I also married .

"Though I guess it was a free vacation. For the most part." He shifts, and I realize he's pulling out his wallet. "Milly said you ended up having to pay for some things, and I wanted to make that right."

"Don't worry about it."

"I insist," he says. "But if you don't want cash, I can do Venmo. Isn't that what all the kids are doing these days?"

"No, really?—"

"Zelle?"

"I don't?—"

"Paypal? I don't like the fees, but I can do that as well."

"I don't need your money." The words come out a whole lot sharper than I intended. "It was nothing."

My time with Mills was the furthest thing from nothing. It's the something equivalent of Mount Everest.

Coach eyes me warily, but he does slip his wallet back in his pocket. "We're good, then?"

I know what he's asking without asking—if I'm fine having my spot back in exchange for going to Florida with Amelia. An ugly ache moves through me. I especially don't want my spot, not when I don't deserve it. Not when Coach thinks I did him a favor.

Nothing I did with Amelia was to earn back my spot. Not a single thing.

But when I try to tell him that, I find my throat having some kind of spasm.

The whole situation is made more difficult by the fact that this weird deal he struck makes me respect him less. And I've always held him in high regard—even if my way of showing it is by being the token troublemaker. The man with the mouth.

But what he asked of me and what he was willing to trade—it makes me uncomfortable. I guess we all have weaknesses and blind spots. And Coach's weakness is clearly Amelia.

Apparently, it's a weakness we share.

"You spent four days with my daughter. Making sure she was okay, keeping her safe. And after a particularly difficult time."

His jaw clenches, and I wonder if he's thinking about his brother and his niece. Or Douche the Groom. All extra reasons for his problematic choices of late.

I want to argue. To tell Coach to give my spot back to Dominik. To confess that I didn't go to Florida because of some deal, but only because of Amelia.

I want to say I wish I'd never answered his call at the airport and simply gotten on the plane with Amelia as I already planned to do all on my own.

I'm afraid if I open my mouth, the secrets will start spilling like an oil leak, leaving everything polluted and toxic. Starting with my career.

Or—depending on how mad Coach is—my face.

And I happen to like both my career and my face.

Or—I did .

Now, things feel off. I'm off. Ever since Florida, it feels like I've been shrink-wrapped inside my life. I can't move my arms or breathe, but there's a bright yellow sticker slapped on the outside of the package saying, Doing just fine, Thank you!

"How do you think she's doing?" Coach asks, his voice quieter now.

I wouldn't have the first clue. Because today is the first time I've seen her in almost two weeks, and it's not like I really got to know her in the time we spent together. I thought I did.

But I was wrong.

I scratch my cheek, where I either cut myself shaving or have an ingrown hair. Either one would be par for the course. "I mean, she seemed ... good while we were on the trip. We haven't talked much since we got back."

Much seems like a nice, vague qualifier. If I say we haven't spoken at all, he might ask why.

"Really?" He cocks his head. "Did you not get along?"

I'm starting to sweat again. "We had a good time. She's a pretty, um, incredible woman."

See? That's not so hard. I can say lots of true things without telling him everything.

Amelia is incredible.

Coach Davis just stares. Like he's waiting.

"Um, she's really fun?"

A real barrel of laughs.

"And nice."

A good kisser.

"We had a good time."

Oh, and we got married.

Don't worry, sir—it's in name only, and if I figure out the annulment stuff, not even that.

Soon, she'll be nothing but a paperwork memory.

Coach was saying something else and I missed it.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"I was just asking if you've seen her. She started work here today. I figured she might track you down."

"I did see her. Yep."

He waits for more, and I'm sweating profusely now, like I've caught a sudden fever or am standing in a humid jungle and not beside an ice rink.

"Good. I hope she had a great first day and everyone is nice. But not too nice." He laughs.

I fake a laugh, all the while wondering if I should try to secure witness protection for myself. Because I'm pretty sure Amelia and I were too nice on our last night.

"Look—just don't ever tell her I asked you to go with her," Coach says. "I'm pretty sure she'd hate us both."

She already hates one of us.

But I have no plans of telling her that or anything else. Other than what I need to get this marriage annulled once Summer can help me out with that.

If Summer can help me out with that.

No, WHEN Summer can help me out with that.

I'm going to choose optimism.

Because I can't stay married to a woman who ran away after waking with morning-after regrets. Even if divorce is the dirtiest of dirty words to me, so ... here we are.

"I promise, sir."

"Good," Coach says. "Now, let's talk about why it looks like you forgot how to play hockey."