It feels good to skate hard. Sweat has always been the best way I know to shut off my worry brain and take a breath.
“You’re on fire today,” Coach Sasha says as I guzzle water on the bench. “I want to skate you with Everly for a couple of scrimmages. If it goes well, I’ll pair you together against Philly. And maybe Boston, in the following game.”
“Boston,” I repeat. “Right.”
It’s the game that conflicts with the Drake Foundation meeting. We lost to Boston earlier in the season, and I’ve been looking forward to the rematch.
I shouldn’t feel guilty getting on that bus. It’s not my fault Neil’s family is bonkers.
I shouldn’t. But I probably will.
After the scrimmage, I take a shower and stretch my muscles.
“I’m running home to turn on the oven,” Fiona says, shouldering her gym bag with a wink.
“Good call! 375. I’ll be out in a few.”
She leaves, but then reappears a minute later. “Hey, there’s a guy out in the hallway who wants to speak to you.”
I’m instantly alarmed. “What does he look like?”
“Tall, dark hair…”
Oh shit. I know this place is pretty secure, but my mind instantly jumps to Robert.
“Nice smile,” she adds. “Cute New York accent. Brooklyn Bruisers T-shirt.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Nobody would call Robert cute. It has to be somebody else. “Tell him I’ll be there in a second.”
When I emerge from the training suite a minute later, there is indeed a hottie standing there. And I recognize him. “You’re Jimbo, right? The equipment guy for the dudes?”
“Yeah, that’s me. I heard you were looking for a place to live. And I got a buddy who’s trying to sublet his place while he’s away overseas for a year.”
“Really?” My heart leaps. “Tell me more.”
He grabs the back of his neck and looks at the floor. “Well, it’s, uh, thirteen hundred a month. Condo on Jay Street in a highrise building.”
“Wow.” Except I saw a listing over there on Apartments.com. And it cost more than three grand. “Who is this buddy, exactly?”
“Just, uh, a friend of a friend. I grew up in Brooklyn. I got a lot of friends.” He shifts his weight awkwardly.
“And what kind of work does he do that keeps him overseas for a year?”
Jimbo actually cringes. “He’s in, like, private security.”
“Private security,” I echo. “Let me guess—I’m his only customer, and his name is Cornelius Drake III.”
“Hell.” Jimbo lifts his gorgeous brown eyes. “I told him this would never fly.”
“Because I’m not an idiot? Yeah, you tell him that I read the listings, too.”
Jimbo grins. “I’m not telling him anything. You go ahead, though. Sounds like the two of you need to talk.”
I blow out a breath. “I hope he at least bought you a drink or something for this bit of stupidity.”
“Hoagie sandwich.” Jimbo shrugs. “Lying isn’t really my thing, but it seemed like he was trying to be nice.”
“Yeah,” I say on a sigh. “Men are such weirdos, Jimbo. What was he going to do if I wanted to meet the guy?”
“I got no idea.” He shrugs again. “Put on a fake mustache? You should pretend to take him up on it just to find out.”
“Fun idea.” I hold up a hand, and he high-fives it. “But I think I’ll pass. Enjoy your sandwich. I have to run.”
“Night, Charli.” He gives me a smile, which is, as Fiona said, nice. And then he leaves me alone.
“So let’s review,” Fiona says, her fork poised above the rectangular pan of cauliflower gratin. “This man baked you a dish you enjoy. And he is trying to make sure you have someplace safe to live. But he doesn’t want the credit. And you still think he doesn’t love you?”
“Yeah, wow,” Samantha says. “That’s an interesting take, Charli.” After hearing about the casserole, she invited herself to dinner. She also brought two dozen chicken wings, and Sylvie made sangria.
So now I guess it’s a party. We’re all standing around the counter that divides Sylvie and Fiona’s kitchen from their living room. Each of us has a fork, and we’re eating it right out of the pan.
Don’t let anyone tell you that hockey players aren’t classy.
We aren’t, but we will still fight you over it.
I take another bite of Neil’s cheesy masterpiece and sigh. It’s so good.
“Why don’t we trust Neil, again?” Sylvie asks, picking up a chicken wing.
“We don’t trust a lot of people,” I grumble. “Especially billionaires who make us feel special and then make us feel used, all within the same half hour.”
“If you weren’t married…” Fiona pauses to take another bite of cauliflower from her corner of the pan. “If you were dating, would it be different? Would he be easier to trust?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Of course he would. If he’d just asked me out…” I try to picture Neil casually asking me out, and I really can’t. “Maybe it would be different. I didn’t even know he had a thing for me until I woke up married to him.”
Sylvie slaps her hand on the counter. “Men! So clumsy. So terrible at showing their feelings.”
I think that over for a second. “I’m pretty bad at it too, though. I don’t let people get close to me. Hell, I called Neil an asshole the first time we met. Would you ask me out?”
There’s laughter, but then Fiona shakes her head. “Neil did it all backwards. But what if he really loves you? He keeps trying, Charli. Are you going to cut the boy some slack?”
They make it sound so easy. But every moment I spend with Neil is so charged with lust and longing that I don’t know how to take things slowly. I don’t know how to unwind the knot in my heart.
The buzzer rings, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I volunteer.
“Someone else must have heard about the cauliflower,” Sylvie jokes.
But it isn’t another dinner guest. It’s Miguel again, and he has another delivery for me. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I say as I meet him at the door.
That wins me a small smile. I definitely owe this man a tip. “Let me get my wallet,” I say.
“It’s covered, Mrs. Drake.” He hands me a manila envelope. “Good night.”
“Goodnight, Miguel! You’re a prince among men.”
He actually turns and winks, and I feel like I’ve won a prize.
My good humor only lasts for as long as it takes me to open the envelope. The documents inside are from the law offices of Moss, Baker and Moore. Summons and complaint in the matter of Higgins vs. Drake.
Gulp. These are my divorce documents. Shit just got real. With a real feeling of deja vu, I scan the cover letter of another legal document. Blah blah blah, dotted line… All they need from me is my signature.
And my soul. When I start flipping pages, looking for the clause I’m dreading—the lawyer’s grounds for divorce—I find it on page two. It’s worse than I’d guessed. Verbal abuse. Unsafe and improper to continue the marriage…