Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

Amelia

Groveling at my estranged— can I call him estranged??? —husband's door was not in my plans for the day. Or the week. Or the year.

But after the conversation with my dad in his office, there's no way I can stay at home. I only hope Van says yes.

Otherwise … my next stop is a hotel.

He leans in the doorway, looking practically edible. If not aloof. I fidget with the handle of my rolling bag, waiting for a response.

"So, you came to me because you're desperate," Van says. "Was I your last option?"

I hesitate. "The second," I admit.

"Ah."

The truth, which I can't quite get myself to confess to Van, is that I wanted to come here first. He was the very first person I thought of running to when I left the Summit in tears. Not only because I need someone, but because I want that person to be him .

Plus, I couldn't stop worrying about how he was after everything that happened. I wanted to make sure he's okay.

I convinced myself that Van wouldn't want me to come—which so far, seems accurate—and that I was being ridiculous. Morgan, my very best friend in the world, might have been the first person I asked, but she was the second person I thought of.

Going to Morgan meant finally coming clean, and I didn't know how she'd feel after learning what I kept from her.

As it turns out, Morgan's reaction was amusement—which I never would have predicted. She laughed for a solid minute. I actually watched the seconds tick by on the phone while she cackled.

"You married him. Married . On a beach. On a whim! A hockey player even I know your dad hates. This is too good," she said, and it sounded like she was wiping tears from her eyes. " So good that there's no way you can do anything other than run into your husband's arms. Also, I need some time to process you not telling me, your very best friend, that you got married ."

So now I'm here. Feeling more alone than I ever have. More unsure. And for a conflict-averse person, there is pretty much no one in my life I don't have issues with right now.

Or, I think, looking at Van, who doesn't have issues with me.

Van has still not moved. Not smiled. There is zero sign of his trademark smirk.

I take the tiniest step backward, already running through a list of hotels in my mind. My bank account will hate me, but so be it. I care less about the money and more about being alone.

"Honestly, don't worry about it," I say, dropping my gaze as I reach for my bags. "I shouldn't have come."

In one big step, Van is beside me, taking my bags. "Get inside, Mills. Of course you should have come."

My throat grows tight, and my chest feels warm. I can't manage words, but I nod.

"If you can't crash at your husband's place when your life falls apart, where can you go?"

His tone is teasing—which is the perfect response right now. I want to wrap him up in a hug, but I don't know if he'd want that. He did call himself my husband, even if teasing. Feels like a tiny olive branch. Maybe a puny one with no leaves and no olives.

The moment has passed, though, and he's already walking inside, carrying all my bags.

"Come on, slowpoke."

I scurry after him, blinking back tears of gratitude. Well—a mix of gratitude and a whole lot of other things too.

"How did you find out where I live, you little stalker?" he calls as I close and lock the door.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not stalking you," I say, trying to match his playful tone. If my voice is a little wobbly, he doesn't comment on it. "Parker told me."

The entryway isn't open to the rest of the house, and as I step through the doorway to the living area, I immediately halt.

I did not anticipate Van's sisters being here.

We have not gotten off to a good start, and I can see that we aren't off to a good middle either. At least, based on Callie's narrowed eyes.

Grey steps forward and hugs me, though, and I'm so surprised I don't react, which means my arms are trapped against my body. "I promise they'll love you just as much as I do," she says. "As long as you don't break Robbie's heart. Then … all bets are off."

"Thanks?" Even with the mild threat in her words, I appreciate the physical comfort of the hug.

Earlier today Parker walked out of the press room with no idea what she dropped me in the middle of. As soon as the door closed behind her, Callie smiled—the kind of smile I imagine serial killers offer their victims before getting down to business.

"Hello, Amelia," she said, steepling her fingers on the table, Godfather style. "We've been looking forward to meeting you."

Meeting is a loose word for what happened next, which was more of a verbal annihilation. Grey kept trying to cut in and, from the sound of it, soften things, but she didn't get a chance to speak.

She and I had that in common. I didn't even try to talk. What does etiquette say about talking to the sisters of a guy you married, then ditched? I'm not sure even the expanded edition of Emily Post addresses this.

So, of course I'm nervous when Grey finally releases me and steps back in line with her sisters.

Where is Van?

"Mills?" he calls from somewhere deeper in the house. Somewhere behind his sisters. He emerges and stops, huffing out a breath. "Oh, right. Your welcoming committee is here. Ladies—would you mind stepping aside so I can show Amelia to her room?"

"Do you mean your room?" Grey says hopefully. "In your bed?"

I think even my eyeballs are blushing.

Van sighs and shoulders his way between his sisters until he reaches me. Then, with hands on hips and eyes on mine, he says, "Yes. Mills will be in my bed. I will be on the couch."

"Boo," Grey says.

I feel the same way. Even if I shouldn't.

"Do you even fit on the couch?" Callie asks. "That can't be comfortable. Or a good idea with playoffs tomorrow. What if you get a crick in your neck?"

I'm not sure if she's trying to make me feel bad for taking Van's bed or trying to get us into bed together. From the way she's been looking at me since I walked inside the house, probably the latter.

"I should take the couch. I don't want to kick you out of your room."

"You two are married," Grey points out. Like we didn't know. "Married people share beds. It's a whole thing."

Van closes his eyes like he's searching his eyelids for some extra patience. He must find it because when he opens them, he meets my gaze again and gives me a little smile. It may be small, but I feel that grin all the way down to my pinky toes.

"We are also adults," he says. "Stop trying to meddle."

Then he reaches out and takes my hand, guiding me through the gauntlet of sisters and into a back hallway leading to the bedrooms. I fist his shirt in my other hand and lean close to his back.

"Thank you," I whisper, not wanting his sisters to see any sign of weakness. They're like jackals. And despite Grey's kindness, I don't for a second think they wouldn't turn on me.

He doesn't answer, but his thumb strokes over my knuckles one time. The tiny gesture has me grinning, burying my face in his back. He smells divine.

And then we're alone.

In his bedroom.

Van swings me out and releases me like some kind of ballroom dance move and I careen forward, ending up half sitting on his enormous bed as he closes the door behind us.

Gulp .

The last time we were in a bedroom together, it was right after we recited vows and danced in the moonlight. By the way his eyes darken, I can tell he's thinking about the same thing.

He clears his throat and his expression, shifting from a heated gaze to cool and detached.

Van also looks handsome, but that's irrelevant. Van never doesn't look good. Even with the slightly swollen cheek, which reminds me of how he also looked good the last time he had a bruised face.

Crossing his arms, Van leans back against the closed door like he's waiting for me to speak. It makes sense, considering I basically invited myself into his place.

Which, for the record, is really nice.

I didn't notice much on the way in, too nervous and excited—before I saw his sisters. Then I was slightly fearful for my life. Maybe once they all leave I can snoop around—respectable snooping—and see what the rest of his house is like.

His bedroom is neat almost to a frustrating level. I want to crack open one of his dresser drawers just to see if he'd immediately walk over and close it. I bet he has one of those feather duster things for the blades of his ceiling fan.

"You make your bed?" I feel stupid the second those words leave my mouth. But my palms are flat on his comforter, which is a charcoal gray. It's a great fabric: soft, but it feels like it wouldn't be too hot at night.

I'm stalling. I'm fully aware.

Van raises one dark brow. "Is that really what you want to talk about right now—my comforter?"

I don't want to talk about anything, honestly. I'd like to curl into a tiny ball—maybe in the corner of his closet—and hide for the next ten years until I've matured into the kind of person who can face up to her mistakes or even recognize a mistake from a miscalculation or a misconceived notion. Maybe in ten years, I'll be better at knowing what I want, unabashedly reaching for it, and being able to handle conflict like a mature person.

"I'm just a little surprised. By your room," I say stupidly.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Van says. A challenge. "And clearly, a lot I don't know about you."

"What should we do about that?" I ask, and it comes out way huskier than I intend.

Van's detached expression immediately gives away to surprise and then a wolfishness that makes my insides quiver. He doesn't say the words but I swear his eyes are saying something like, I could present a list of ideas. Some suggestions. Perhaps a syllabus.

I am all ears.

But slowly, the look fades into something more somber.

"You can stay as long as you need to," he says. "Is everything okay with you and your dad?"

My eyes start to burn. I shake my head slowly. "No."

"I'm sorry," Van says, and even though he's talking about me and my dad, not the two of us in this room, hearing his words releases something in me.

I've been practicing an apology for days. All kinds of versions. Now … it just kind of drops out of me.

"I'm sorry too. About leaving you in Florida with just a note. I should have stayed. I should have asked you about it."

"You could have yelled at me about it," Van says. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd thrown my phone over the balcony." He laughs at my expression—a kind laugh. "Somehow, I can't picture that."

"Did you watch The Office ?"

"Do bears beat Battlestar Galactica ?" he asks with a smirk.

I throw my head back and laugh. "I think the line was ‘bears, beets, Battlestar Galactica .'"

"I like mine better. Yes. I watched The Office , Mills. Why?"

"Do you remember the season where things get really ugly between Jim and Pam? They have the horrible counselor who makes them speak their truths and it's super cringey?"

"Are you going to suggest we try that?" Van makes a face.

"No! Definitely not. I'd rather eat beets. Or even bears. I was thinking today of the episode when Jim gets frustrated by all that and is going back to Philly. But Pam tells him to stay so they can fight."

"I remember," he says.

I slide my hands over the fabric of his comforter again, then curl my hands into fists and drop them in my lap. "I don't think I know how to do that."

"Do what?"

"Fight," I admit. "I'm realizing I don't know how to deal with conflict at all. I think I'm allergic. Or just … chicken."

"Most people don't deal with conflict head on. Not well, anyway," Van says. "Then there are the people who dive straight into it head first when they should have worn a helmet."

"You seem very much like you belong in the second category."

His smile is wry. "I can when it's with someone like your dad. Or my teammates."

He pauses, and I catch him tapping his index fingers on his arms, which are still crossed over his chest. A tell, maybe?

"But this is the first real relationship I've had. This is uncharted water for me, and I did some avoiding of my own. Not telling you the second your dad offered me his deal." Van shakes his head. "I was already walking to the airport. Before his call. Your dad had absolutely nothing to do with me getting on that plane."

This shouldn't matter to me as much as it does. "Really?"

"Promise. I just … didn't tell him that. And then I didn't tell you what he said. Stupid," Van says, shaking his head. "I made multiple stupid decisions, and I'm sorry."

"Like marrying me." I mean it as a joke, but Van's face closes down. He straightens, dropping his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets. I scramble to fix it somehow but come up empty.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," Van says finally. "Make yourself at home."

I want to take back my words, but it's like all the talking I've done has leached all the bravery from my bones. So, I just follow his lead, stepping back into the shallows.

"Really—I don't need to take your bed, Van. Just put me on the couch. It's fine."

A smile curves one side of his mouth. "You're safer in here. With a lock." He must read the look of alarm on my face, because he chuckles darkly. "I don't mean safe from me . You don't need to worry about that ."

"Oh." Worry isn't the word for how I was feeling about that. But I guess after my failed joke about our marriage, I shouldn't be surprised.

"My sisters," he explains as color rises in my cheeks. "I wouldn't leave you out there unattended." Van glances toward the door. "They're as protective of me as I am of them. But"—he raises his voice, again glancing behind him—"I'm sure they'll be on their best behavior now, won't they? "

There's a thump outside the door. Then a giggle.

"They're listening to us?" I whisper, horrified.

Van rolls his eyes, but I can see the barely restrained amusement. "I'm sure my sisters would never stand outside my bedroom door, eavesdropping. But if they were, they'd bring me a bottle of water from the fridge."

"Yes, sir!" a faintly muffled voice calls from outside the door. More giggling. Footsteps move away along with whispered voices.

"What's that look?"

"I just … I thought I'd meet your sisters under different circumstances."

I still vividly remember the phone call with Grey and Lex in Florida. Hearing them bicker back and forth, arguing about their tradition of trading cheese points for information.

I'd felt a sense of longing, an ache to be part of a close-knit group like this. A family.

Or to be part of their close-knit group. Their family.

Van clears his throat. "So did I," he says, and we exchange a weighted glance.

It's weird because it's like we're staring at each other across an ocean or some deep gorge, not across his bedroom. We're sharing a look and the same sentiment. Regret is etched into his face, same as mine.

The thing is … I'm not sure if it's a shared regret or an opposite one.

What I know is that I'm no longer certain of what the path forward should be. I had started to think maybe we should undo what we did—starting with talking to Summer about an annulment—and then consider dating. Like normal people do. Getting to know each other. Taking it step by step with all the normal milestones in their proper order.

Then, if there is still this tug and pull between us, the sense of rightness when we're together, then we get married. The right way—with our family and friends and the whole thing.

But I'm not so sure that's what I want, and it makes me feel like the bottom is dropping out of my life. It's the first step off the zip line platform, only right now, I'm not entirely sure I have a harness. One step might be the most exhilarating ride.

Or it might be a messy death.

"Van," I say, digging deep to find the words. "Do you want to get an annulment? If … it's even possible at this point."

The word annulment seems to bounce around the room between us like a slow-moving screen saver.

His jaw flexes, and he glances away, then back at me as he says, "No."

Relief practically makes my bones shiver. Or is that fear? Maybe a little bit of both.

Van takes one step forward. Then another, until he's standing right in front of where I'm still perched on the edge of his bed. He towers over me.

"I don't want an annulment or a dissolution or a divorce," he says, and I have to crane my neck to stare into his inky dark eyes. "I want more than the one night I had with you. I want all your days too. I want to come home knowing you'll be here. I want to look up from the ice and see you there, wearing my jersey, shouting my name."

Van lifts his hand and slowly, tenderly cups my face, his thumb lightly brushing over my cheek. "I want to watch you find out what a life without following the rules looks like. Or, maybe—to find out which rules are worth following and which ones are worth breaking. On your terms. I want to be the one cheering for you and your dreams, wearing your jersey. Figuratively speaking."

He smirks, then his expression slides into serious again. I think my heart is lodged permanently somewhere in my throat as he bends. His other hand flattens on the bed, fingers splayed next to my hip. He presses his forehead to mine.

"I want it all, Mills," he says. "I want you . But only if this is what you want too. Only if I'm what you want. I have no idea what I'm doing," he confesses, and the vulnerability in his voice makes me curl my fingers into my palms.

I want to wrap my arms around his waist, to press my ear to his chest and hear the sound of his heart. But I stay still like the little coward I am, breathing him in, focusing on the featherlight brush of his thumb on my cheek.

"And if this isn't what you want—" He pauses, and I close my eyes. "If I'm not what you want, then yeah. Let's talk to Summer."

There is a deep, thrumming ache in my chest. My thoughts whir, stopping and starting like a printer with a paper jam.

I want you gets caught in my throat, swallowed up by a yawning panic.

I could kiss him instead, leaning forward barely an inch to press my lips to his. The instinct is a thousand acre forest fire, urging me to kiss him. To show him what I can't seem to say.

The thing is … I don't know which instincts of mine to trust anymore. I'm beginning to think my wiring is faulty. Do I need to be reset? Or maybe reprogrammed all together?

I open my mouth—to say what, exactly, I'm not sure—but there's a bang on the door. And with the smallest kiss ghosted over my cheek, Van steps away.

"Your water as requested, sir," a voice says in a terrible British accent.

Van opens the door a crack and a hand thrusts a water bottle through. As soon as he takes it, the hand disappears, yanking the door closed.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Grey singsongs.

Van pinches the bridge of his nose, clutching the water bottle in his other hand so hard I can hear its plastic groan. " Greyson Kimberly ."

Her laughter echoes in the hallway, moving away from us. After a moment, Van sighs heavily, opens his eyes, and holds out the water bottle. "Here."

I stare at it a little too long, feeling a sad sort of desperation. When our fingers brush, I almost burst into flames.

"Thanks." I wish my voice were more than a rough whisper, but the day has been long and my emotional cup overfloweth.

Van steps closer to the door, glancing at me, then away. "If you need anything …" He blinks a few times, like his eyelids are hitting a reset button. "Just let me know," he finishes, then leaves the room.

And as I fall asleep hours later when my brain finally shuts off, it's with Van's warm, masculine scent wrapping around me.