6. Robbie

I don't have Vera's number anymore, because of course I don't. It's been sixteen years. I have her old number saved, but she just doesn't answer the text I send. That could be for any number of reasons. She could've changed her number after leaving this town. I almost did when I signed with the NHL after a particularly unsettling invasion of privacy, and I can only imagine she'd have had it worse than I did. It could have been when she lived abroad. Unlike Vic, I never played for a Canadian team, but I imagine she'd have needed a local number in Tokyo. And Berlin. And I wasn't stalking, I swear. She could have deleted or blocked mine, although I'm trying not to think about this one too hard, or she is in the thick of it right now and doesn't have time to respond. That last option feels like the worst of all.

I'm pretty sure I need to head this information off at the pass, give her a warning that we were spotted. Something. Right? Or I could let it die.

Vera's probably used to the paparazzi. I know she gets spotted frequently, and while posing for the camera on a coffee run isn't in her job description, she is used to being in front of a photographer. Maybe this is no big deal. I could be making something out of nothing and she doesn't even care. I'm probably bothering a random person texting from a random number and they're hitting block while she's sitting down with her parents to catch up. I know she hasn't been back to Kimmelwick since she left. I also know she gave an interview in Elle a year ago that said her parents often meet her when she's traveling. It's not them she left behind, it's this place. Me.

"Call her." Spags is vibrating next to me. "She deserves a warning."

"I tried." I shrug my shoulders and push my phone into my pocket. I don't need to stare at the picture anymore. The curl of my fingers around her waist is burned into my retinas the same way the feel of her, warm and solid under my touch, is branded into my brain. She'll respond when, or if, she responds.

"You need to try harder."

It takes painful seconds for me to realize why Spags is about to have a damn coronary on my parents' hallway floor. He may call me dad for fun, or to make my eye twitch—or both—but the guy he really looks up to, the one he'd willingly crawl naked to the blue line for, is Vic. The same Vic who dealt with a damning paparazzi photo that not only spilled the beans on his marriage, but almost ruined the guy's chance with the woman he loved.

It doesn't matter that Vera is used to the spotlight while Tristan isn't. It doesn't matter that no one is speculating on our marital status—that I've seen—or even truly speculating that we're an item. Not off of one set of photos. There are no rules here to break other than our personal unwritten ones. There's no big boss ready to hand either of us a pink slip because I lost my fucking mind and kissed the side of her face.

The worst that will happen is the internet will speculate for a couple months, and we'll go back to our everyday norm. Our parents might bring it up, or they might not. I don't know if Mr. and Mrs. Novak have a Google alert set for their daughter's name, the way mine do, but it's possible they won't see the photo at all. There's nothing to handle. Nothing to warn. Nothing to worry about.

I pull my phone out one more time just to check she hasn't texted. For science.

The little red bubble tells me I have new messages. Forget my illustrious hockey career, forget that I'm supposed to strap my gear on tomorrow and coach a bunch of standout high school players. I almost sprain a thumb with the speed I use to open the app.

Vic:

Anything you wanted to tell me about snookums?

Perhaps something red-headed and freckled?

Or should I say someone?

Me:

Glad to see the gossip train is still working well, even while you're on your honeymoon.

Shouldn't you be fucking busy? Or busy fucking?

Vic:

Tristan has an alert.

I'm supposed to ask if she's "the one," but we both already know the answer to that. She also asked if Vera knows about the picture.

And she's freaking out that you know THE Vera Novak. *Apparently*, you are nothing to write home about.

Me:

It was a coincidence. Nothing more.

Tell your wife to calm down.

Vic:

I will not be doing that. Thank you.

Me:

If you're texting, does that mean the honeymoon's over? Can I send back the kid?

No more messages come after that.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to swing by her old home, just to make sure everything's fine. It can be low key. I can come up with a convincing-enough excuse on the walk over.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask Spags, and he's no longer bouncing off the walls, but his eyes are still wide, worried. "If I leave you here with my mom, you going to survive? Or do I need to bring you with me?"

"Bring me with you?"

Life would be so much easier if people could just read my thoughts.

"Vera," I say.

Spags frowns, then smiles, then nods. His chin drops and his eyes narrow as the smiles morphs into a smirk.

"Go dude. I'm good. Mom's love me."

My mother raised one hockey boy, with two more as honorary sons. There is nothing this kid can pull that she hasn't seen. I give him my practice glare, the one meant to quiet the team and keep them in line. Vic might be the motivator, but I'm the enforcer. Spags gives me a thumbs up, just like he does on the ice.

"I wouldn't mind a shower, anyway. The lovely Vivian can show me where everything is. Go."

My glare intensifies, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"Kidding, kidding. So I shouldn't tell her about the kiss, the touching, and the copulatory gazes?" The fuck? "Cool phrase right? Definitely heard that on tv or something. Should I tell Mama Vivian how she ran from your car like her hair was on fire?"

"I will bury you." After I run him over with the Zamboni. And drop him down a few flights of stairs. And send his mother a condolences card and bouquet of white lilies with the words:

SORRY FOR THE LOSS OF YOUR SON.

HE NEVER KNEW WHEN TO STOP TALKING

"I'll be good." Spags holds three fingers in the air like the boy scout he never was.

"Ma." I look over my shoulder at the kitchen. "I'm running out for a sec. Be right back." I'm already moving toward the front door, checking my phone for a response one last time, when Mom calls back.

"If you're looking for Vera, her parents are over at Shady Brook now. Just on the other side of the creek."

My gut instinct is to deny everything and tell her I don't appreciate her presumptuousness, but of course, that is who I'm looking for. I grab my dad's car keys and say nothing as the door slams shut behind me.

It's not a long drive to Shady Brook. The AC doesn't fully engage before I'm pulling into the circular drive and parking in one of the visitor spots. I think I spend the same time driving here as I used to spend walking across the neighbor's lawn to go knock on Vera's door. We're so close that if I could see past the dense copse of trees behind the Novak's building, I could see the creek that backs up onto our—well, my—neighborhood.

My palms are sweating as I enter the code the front desk gave me when I signed the guest book. My name is only two below Vera's. She still loops her Es into her Rs the same way she's done since high school. I could probably draw her signature from memory. She used to take a purple sharpie and draw her name down the inside of my right forearm for luck before every game. I drew her name on myself for the year I played in the juniors.

I almost had it inked there, permanent, bold, branding, but it didn't feel right. Not after everything. She was no longer mine. Not getting her name etched into the fabric of my skin was one way I had to let her go.

I rap my knuckles against the apartment door, avoiding the knocker, and shove my fingers into my pockets as I wait. It's a good thing I do, because Vera wrenches the door open like a woman possessed, the whites of her eyes visible around the green of her irises. The color reminds me of that band of trees. The ones blocking my view of her and hers of me. She slaps her hand across my mouth before I can say hi, darting a glance back over her shoulder.

"Be right back, Mom," she calls, her eyes shifting over my face.

Clearly, she wasn't expecting me. This is a far cry from the haze we both got lost in the last time we came face to face.

"Out." The word falls between us, a hiss of a warning and I take an automatic step back. "What are you doing here? Jeez, don't let her see you."

Her neck cranes around again, searching the interior of the small space as her hands come up to push at my chest until I step back again.

"We should talk," I say, wincing at how that sounds, but Vera doesn't seem to notice as the door slams shut behind her. The hallway isn't very wide, and we're almost pressed chest to chest.

"Not here." She's hissing again, but I can barely hear her over the whooshing in my ears. Everything is muffled and too loud all at the same time. I catch myself as my body sways toward her.

"I really think—"

"Fine." She rolls her eyes. "Outside."

I follow her out to the parking lot and she leads me around the side of the brick building. There's a small patch of grass and I can see someone marked a dirt path down into the trees. I know it leads to the creek even before Vera takes off for it, not even checking to see if I'm right behind her. Of course I'm right behind her.

The creek is higher than I expected, and I lose myself in the rush of water as I try to gather my thoughts. We were seen together. It's that simple. Blurt it out and ask what she wants to do next. If I learned anything from watching Vic and Tristan, it's the value of communication. I just need a minute to pull some fresh air into my lungs, anything to weaken the scent of lemon and roses and her that is dragging me under.

"I'm sorry," she says, dragging my gaze away from the tiny whitecaps. "I didn't want my mom to get the wrong idea about us."

"That's okay." I say, as if her words don't chafe like a too-tight jock. I don't have any leg to stand on here. My mom got the wrong idea too, but knowing she doesn't want anyone to think we're us again? I won't lie. It stings.

"You wanted to talk?" She crosses her arms over her chest and squeezes the sides of her body like she's shoring herself up. "It's been a long day and I don't have a ton of time."

This time it's my turn to apologize. "It sounds like you might already know."

"You're going to tell me we were spotted at the airport." Vera sighs and moves her hands to her hips. She drops her chin to her chest and her cherry coke hair swings forward, just scraping the tops of her shoulders. I fist my hands to stop from tucking the strands behind her ears. I nod.

"I thought so." This time she tips her head back and sighs up at the tree canopy. Her hair shifts again, sending the scent of lemon and roses to engulf me in flames like sparked kindling. "I don't know how your team typically handles these things. We typically stick with no comment unless we want to confirm a relationship, but I'll call Portia later today."

"You aren't mad?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"Nope. Just took me a minute to make the connection."

I'm not sure why I rushed over, other than to appease Spags' nerves. It should have been common sense to me that this wouldn't be a big deal. I knew that. I did. And I dropped everything and sprinted here like my ass was on fire. It's not like I haven't followed her press releases, campaigns, and any gossip rag mention of her. I know she hasn't been photographed alone with a man since Gibson Hawke, lead singer of the up-and-coming rock band Cast & Prey.

Vic caught me staring at that blurry, far-away shot of the two of them cozied up in a dark booth at some club. The rocker had his shirt open to the waist, pale skin on display, and his arm stretched out behind her on the bench. One of her hands had been on his thigh as she leaned into his personal space, laughing. I couldn't look away, not from the spray of freckles across her bare shoulders and back. Not from the angle of her chin or the pink of her lipstick. She'd been wearing a tiny purple dress covered with feathers. They looked like they were sprouting from her cleavage, and I had committed each pixel of that photo to memory even as Vic took the phone from my hands and closed the website.

So yeah, Vera isn't a stranger to having her photo taken. I should have just stayed home. My overreaction will not help. It's just going to make things weird. At least my old memories of her were happy ones. Now I'm going to remember her telling me the equivalent of "my people will call yours." The brush off to end all brush offs.

Why did I drive over here? It would probably be less awkward to throw myself in the creek and climb out on the other side. I think we're even with the Albertson's yard. I can send Spags back for the car.

Probably, the voice in my brain reminds me, because you would have taken any excuse to see her again. Vera Novak. In Kimmelwick.

"My mom was a little weird about it though," she admits, "But I think it was just a lot at once. I didn't tell them I was coming. I wanted to surprise Dad for his birthday."

"Weird?" That's probably not the part of the conversation I was supposed to grab on to, but here we are. "Weird how?"

Vera shrugs, "Like it wasn't quite getting through when I told her we weren't together. I think the photo just threw her for a loop. She asked if you'd dropped me off."

"My mom asked if I'd brought you home," I say, and her brows smooth out as she smiles at me. It's a real one, not like earlier at the airport. A smile mixed with a healthy dose of disbelief and confusion. This is my girl smiling at me the way she used to. My stomach flips. "She thought the photo meant we were back together, too."

"What is with these moms? They need a book club or something as an outlet." She looks suitably outraged. It's adorable. Even after all these years, the sight of her cheeks pinking up with emotion, her eyes flashing as she gets fired up, they all heat my blood. She's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. "Mine was almost upset with me. Like chill lady, aren't you glad to see me? Your child? Don't you think I'd have texted if I was getting back together with my ex?"

"Getting back together." My brain glitches out. Seriously. There is nothing between my ears but white noise and crickets. She's not saying we should get back together.

She's not saying we shouldn't. My mind supplies.

"Mad at you?" I sound like a damn parrot repeating everything she says.

"Frustrated," Vera corrects. "I almost said we were just so she'd move onto something else."

"Almost said we were dating." There I go again with the damn repeating, but my neurons aren't firing right. Everything is just out of reach, like after a nasty hit. Even with a helmet, the ears still buzz after going down hard.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad?" Vera's trying to kill me. She might not know it, but she is. "I'm sorry," she says, "that's a horrible idea, right?"

I shake my head. I've gone mute. Where the fuck are my words? Tell her it's a good idea. The best idea.

Except she's going to leave at the end of the week. She'll get on her plane and go back to the land of the sun, and I'll head back to Quarry Creek for preseason. Sixteen years ago, I knew that staying together meant she'd follow me. I'd have put a ring on her finger and had her at the altar before anyone could have talked us out of it. She'd have followed me into the draft and down to Atlanta. She'd have put my dream ahead of her. And I'd have never forgiven myself.

Now, she's followed her heart. She's one of the most recognizable models of our generation. And it means that her life is now thousands of miles away from mine. That is not a gap I know how to bridge without breaking both of us. If I always hoped that one day we'd come back together, I can hold out a little longer. This isn't our time yet. It can't be.

"What if we just let them think it? That we're back together? Just while I'm home?" She looks out over the water, the same place we used to come race sticks and stick our feet in the cold current. Where we used to catch salamanders and pick the catkins off of pussywillows. "I just don't have it in me to argue again. She seemed so happy when she thought we were reconnecting."

She bends down to pick up a flat stone from the creek bed, and I'm a dog, but I look at the heart-shaped curve of her ass and the long line of her legs. I close my eyes to avoid the reaction in my shorts. She's not proposing we actually get back together, she's asking to pretend. That kind of relationship does not require a stiffy.

"Sorry," she says, tossing the rock into the creek. It hits the water with a satisfying thud, before it sinks below the dark surface to the silty bottom. "That's so inappropriate of me. I shouldn't have asked that. Not after our history. I just… I don't know."

"Yes." I say, holding my hand out to her…to shake? To hold? I'm not entirely sure. "You're in town for a week?"

She nods.

"Let them think what they want to think."

Vera slides her hand in mine.