“Tell me about it,” I say softly. “About your brother.”
He shakes his head.
I rub his back. I don’t know what else to say.
He dresses in a suit and tie for his hearing with the Department of Player Safety. He looks so handsome and professional and yet raw and broken. I see how hard he’s working to keep his emotions in check.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his jaw tight. “No. It’s fine. Mr. Julian will be there.” I see the faint wince. Is he worried about letting down Brad Julian, too? “Also a couple of guys from the union and Harlan.” His agent.
“Will Vince be there?”
“No.”
“Okay, good.” I still don’t totally trust Vince. What is he thinking about what’s happened? This sure isn’t going to endear Owen to him.
Owen takes the subway to the league headquarters on Sixth Avenue, and I wait at home. I sit with my guitar trying to calm my nerves, but nothing helps. I feel like he’s on trial, and I guess he is. He’ll get to tell his side of the story, but there are a bunch of other things they’ll take into consideration—the injury, what kind of behavior caused the incident, and Owen’s past record. Which is spotless. He’s never been suspended before, or even fined. He barely gets penalties! This was the first time he ever got a misconduct.
That night we find out they’re suspending him for eight games.
“Fuck.” He blows out a breath, standing in the living room. “That’s fucking bullshit.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, too.
It could have been worse. His history probably helped. But it feels bad because other players have been involved in incidents that seem worse but had lesser penalties. Owen could appeal it, but he won’t.
“I deserve it,” he says quietly.
I admire him so much for taking responsibility for what happened. He’s never tried to blame someone else or criticized the league. He feels like shit about it, but he owns it.
“Eight games…wow.”
“There are only five games left in the regular season,” he adds heavily. “So I’ll miss the first three game of the playoffs.”
“Shit.”
That’s a huge disadvantage for the Bears. He’s just behind team captain Daniel Bergen in goals and assists. Look at me, with all my new hockey knowledge. I’d laugh except nothing seems funny right now.
“Emerie.”
I look up at him. “Yeah?”
“You need to leave.”
I frown. “What?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I can’t do this.”
I still don’t get it. “You can’t quit hockey.”
“I mean, I can’t do this.” He gestures back and forth between us. “You and me.”
My stomach cramps up so sharply I nearly double over. I stare at him. “What are you saying?” I croak.
“We need to end things.”
26
Owen
My life is so fucked up right now, I might as well fuck it the rest of the way up.
“Why?” Emerie stares at me, her blue eyes wide and hurt.
“Hockey has to come first.”
She flinches. Her face tightens, color draining from it.
I look away. I can’t look at her. I can’t stand what I know I’ll see in her face. More disappointment.
She walks over to the window and stares out at the sparkling city lights across the river. The air in the room is thick and heavy. “I know,” she finally says quietly. “I know I have to go.”
That’s not what I expected from her. In a way I’m relieved, but mostly just…hurting. Inside, I’m hollow and frozen.
She disappears into the bedroom. I sink down onto the sectional and bury my face in my hands. Fuck!
This is ripping a hole in my gut. I clench my fists and try to breathe.
I know I have to do this. I’m so messed up. I’ve tried so hard. I’ve tried so hard to be the best. And now I’ve let everyone down. Everyone. In the worst way.
I’ve let down the fans, who are trying to defend me to other fans who now hate my guts. I’ve let down the team. Mr. Julian had my back today, but fuck, I never wanted to put him in a position like this. I’ve let down my teammates. Now I can’t help them win.
I’ve let down my parents.
I’ve tried so hard.
And I’ve failed. More than just failed. I’ve imploded spectacularly.
Everything seems impossible right now.
I can’t let someone else into my life. I knew I shouldn’t get involved in a relationship. I said what I said—hockey has to come first. Always.
My eyes burn, and I rub the heels of my palms into them.
A while later, Emerie emerges from the bedroom with her suitcase and guitar case. Fuck. She’s leaving.
“You don’t have to leave right his minute,” I choke out. “Where are you going?”
“I found a roommate.” Her smile is bogus, but she’s trying so hard. “Lilly’s letting me move in with her. We already talked about it. I knew I had to get my own place.”
“Do you need a ride?” Lilly’s place is just around the corner, but I feel I have to offer something.
“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “I’m good. I can’t take everything right now, but I’ll get the rest of my things at some point.”
“Any time. I can help.”
Her smile is killing me. I want to stab myself in the chest for making her look like that—wounded but brave. “Thanks. Do you want this back?” She holds up the key to my apartment.
I blink. “Uh.” I’m stumped by this.
She sets it on the coffee table.
I watch her walk to the door. It’s like having one of those bad dreams where I’m so terrified, I’m frozen in place, unable to move. I just want to wake up.
“Thanks for letting me stay here.” She opens the door. “And for being so supportive about Cat. And Vince. I know I caused problems for you, and I regret that so, so much.”
I want to protest. But yeah, there were problems. I manage to stand, my muscles stiff, shoulders bunched.
And then she destroys me.
Facing me, she says, “I love you, Owen. I believe in you. No matter what. I love you for everything you are.”
I stare. My heart literally stops beating. I can’t breathe.
She loves me.
Then my heart explodes into hypersonic rhythm. I can barely hear over the rush of blood in my ears.
“I only want the best for you. Please…you never talk about your brother. I think you should do that. And talk to your parents.” She holds my gaze for an excruciating eternity that has my guts twisting, then turns and walks out, the door closing behind her.
There are two things I have to do. I’d rather take a slapshot in the nuts, but I man up.
I call Brent Schneider. This is probably the toughest phone call I’ve ever made in my life. But I genuinely want to make sure he’s okay and to apologize to him.
“How are you doing?” I ask him.