Page 52 of Body Check

“No?” Carmen hums her interest beside me. “What would he be doing instead?”

“Real estate.” Mr. Cain shrugs, then rakes his fingers through his hair, which is more white than blond, like his sons’. “It’s been a family business since the turn of the century.”

Weston clears his throat. “He’s talking about the twentieth century not the twenty-first . . . in case that was in question. Regardless, the business will still be there when I retire from the NHL. I’m not worried about the commercial real estate market drying up anytime soon.”

I don’t want to ask the question and throw a wrench in the easygoing conversation, but I can’t get Steven Fairfax’s comment out of my head about Weston retiring after this season. Forcing a casual note, I ask, “And when do you think that’ll be? Any concerns about the injuries you’ve suffered over the last few seasons?”

Laid-back or not, Weston’s gaze hardens as he studies me. “On the record or off?”

I kick my chin in the direction of the camera. “Technically on, but it’s whatever you feel comfortable with. None of us will ever air anything that you don’t want to be seen.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring directly at the camera like he’s determined to discover if it’ll spill his secrets or not. Swirling the beer bottle, he says, “Onthe record, then.” He sets the bottle down and clasps his hands together on the table. “The thing about hockey is that it thrives in my veins. I want my career more than I want a position in the family business”—he glances at his father with a shrug—“sorry, Dad.”

Mr. Cain shakes his head with a rueful smile. “It’s not anything I don’t already know, West.”

Weston’s answering smile is fleeting. “Like I was saying, I’ve never craved anything more than I crave being on the ice. Not a woman, not a job, not the need to keep up with friendships from outside the hockey world. I’ve got my team. The game comes first, and I’ll continue to play for as long as the Blades will have me.”

Carmen beats me to the punch, asking, “What about if the Blades won’t have you any longer? Will you go somewhere else?”

“No.”

It’s not Weston who answers but Tory, and we all look to him. Unlike his twin, who practically exudes bullish testosterone, Tory is all cool elegance. That’s not to say that he’s any less masculine, but whereas Weston is fierce and bright colors, Tory is more remote, more . . . gray, as though he’s struggled with something far deeper than being pummeled on the ice and has sunk back into his shell in response.

He’s here but not fully present.

And he reminds you ofyou.

I swallow hard and sit back as Tory plows onward. “West is loyal to a fault, and that’s the con of having him play in the NHL. He’s the Tedy Bruschi of the NHL—he signed with the Blades at the start of his career and when they decide his time is up, whenever that is, he’ll retire.” He trades a glance with his brother. “It’s been his plan from day one, and he’s not someone who changes his mind once it’s made up.”

Well, then.

IfGetting Puckedchooses to air this clip, the Blades are either going to love Weston for being so open and vulnerable or they’re going to . . . well, I don’t really knowwhatthey’d do. Coach Hall values guys like Weston.

Guys like my ex-husband, who have always put the sport first.

Weston picks up the beer bottle again. “The good news is that the Blades need a guy like me around. I’m younger than Beaumont and just as tough. While King Sin Bin ships off to the world of marriage and children and white picket fences, I’ll still be here getting the job done. We’re all replaceable at some point, but for now, I’m still dealing the cards and I’m not going anywhere.”

The Cains havea garden that could rival an English estate’s.

After dinner, Carmen and Adam sit down with Weston and his parents for a more exclusive interview. They adjourn to the blue parlor—there arethreeparlors, as you do when you’re filthy rich—with tea and sweets.

I bring Tory, Weston’s twin, out to the gardens.

He’s quiet as we walk, reminding me a little of Jackson, in that both men exude confidence without having to voice everything in their head.

My shoulders twitch at the thought of my ex-husband. Our hot-as-heck kiss. My red-eye flight out of Chicago when the panic hit me hard after receiving his heart-stopping, earth-shattering text.

The message both terrified and thrilled me all at once, eliciting a cacophony of emotions that simulated the sensation of balancing on a tightrope suspended twenty feet in the air . . . with Jackson waiting for me down below, arms opened wide, silently daring me to take a leap of faith.

Most terrifying of all? How very much I wanted to jump and let him catch me, even knowing that we could end up as we already have: divorced, single, andnotready to mingle with anyone not in possession of the surname Carter.

Incredibly specific, I know.

I’m not proud of the way I flew out of Chicago, like a thief stealing away in the night, as my grandmother’s words snuck their way back into my head while I hastily packed.

You love too hard, Holly-bear.

Do you see him banging on that door?

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