Page 11 of Caught from Behind

I know because she battled and pushed through her own demons that had once sent her flitting around the world like a migrating Monarch butterfly, too scared to be vulnerable in one place, too scared to ask for what she wanted.

And she’s saying that she misses me.

She’s here saying it. Not hiding out in Australia or Greenland or Zimbabwe.

Damn, my girl is all grown up.

It almost brings a tear to my eye—especially because it all started when I arranged for her to get away from her asshole ex and a supremely shitty situation and to do it while she stayed in Lake’s house.

See? My matchmaking prowess is unparalleled.

She and Lake are now happily paired off and…

My friend is asking for what she needs.

Which is why I don’t flake on her, don’t flake on the game.

Instead, I finish my statement, albeit different than the one I’d first intended. “I’m actually kind of craving a soft pretzel and all the arena snacks”—her face relaxes—“so, would you mind if we eat at the game?”

A huge smile.

A tight hug.

My best friend happy.

And my torture imminent.

Because I’m about to see Riggs Ashford for the first time since he kissed me senseless…

Then so firmly turned me down.

CHAPTER FOUR

Riggs

“Did you think about what I said?” Knox asks.

I freeze just outside the door to our home arena. In a second, we’ll walk through, the blast of cool air clinging to my skin. The smell of the Zamboni, the bite of the muscle cream our trainer, Samantha, uses on us, the scent of the showers as the guys clean up after their pregame workouts—helping them stay warm and loose—the hint of arena food in the air mingling with the faint funk of hockey equipment and sweaty dudes will override my senses.

The door is one of transition—from simple man to professional athlete.

We’ll walk through and shove the outside world down, our focus on hockey and solely hockey. The rest of it—asshole fathers, subpar game play, exasperating women and brothers trying to play matchmaker…all the shit that sticks in my head and rolls through again and again on repeat in the dark hours of night—will be tucked away.

It all comes down to winning. To snagging those two points. To finding a way to triumph over each and every one of the small battles…and sometimes still losing the war in the end.

But knowing, throughout it all, that I’ve done my best—even if my dad doesn’t think so.

My dad.

Christ.

I’m done thinking about him and his text messages, his angry words and heavy criticisms.

I’m done thinking about the past.

Post-game will come soon enough, and I know I’ll get a fresh dose of this man I barely recognize as my father.

It’s enough that his sharp voice had accompanied me on the bus to the airport and on the flight home. Enough that it had stayed by my side all through my day off yesterday.

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