Page 5 of Penalties and Proposals

His eyes snap back to mine, a new look behind them that wasn’t there before.

Recognition.

CHAPTER 3

NOAH

I’mthe first person to admit that I don’t pay attention to the obvious. My mom used to say that a parade could go past me and I’d realize it the next day. It’s not that I didn’t want to pay attention, it’s just that my mind is always movingthatfast. Or, well, it used to be.

When I get hit with a memory, something that takes me back, I’m usually jolted to a place that’s almost dream-like. Scents do this to me all the time—a candle, perfume, shampoo. Subtle smells that remind me of a time that was. But, memory can be jarred by the visual as well.

Looking at the tattoo on Willa’s wrist, there’s a stab of memory. A very painful stab that I can’t fully put my finger on right away. But as I look at her tattoo and then drag my eyes back up to meet hers, there’s a sadness that swirls behind her big deep-green eyes that hits home.

I know her. I know who she is. I’ve been expecting to run into her again, but not here. Not in Maple Falls. Wait, did I say expecting? Wrong word. Hoping? Better. Much better.

Willa’s still as beautiful as she was that day. That absolutely horrific day. I was so awful to her,but how do I say something now? I’m not him any longer, not that version of Noah that was the worst one of myself. I’m different now.

She’s different, too. Same same, just different … her hair is much longer and I think it’s a different color. For some reason, I remember her wearing glasses, though I’m sure she’s probably graduated to contacts.

Amazing how after the years of drinking, I still have these memories from a long-ago photoshoot. It’s not like it was even that long of one. I was there for approximately forty-five minutes before she booted me off her set.

My mind screams “Say you’re sorry!” while my mouth starts to form shapes for words that make no sense. Shaking my head, I quickly scribble my number on the pad of paper and hand the pen back over to her.

“So. Pictures. Tattoos.” Way to go, Noah, you’re a wordsmith all right. Obvious reason why I’m a man of the ice.

“Yes,” she says, taking the pen back from my outstretched hand with eyes narrowed as she glances around us, probably looking for a way out of this conversation. Don’t think I miss the move where she tucks her arm back up her sleeve to hide the tattoo from me. “I take pictures and I have a tattoo.”

“How many do you have?” WHY AM I SAYING THIS?

Willa crosses her arms. “Three. And no, I’m not going to tell you where the other two are.”

“Are you saying I should find out?” Honestly, I could slap myself right now. I say this with complete silly casualness, not thinking about the fact I should have a filter. The look on her face tells me that my remark is far from welcome. Considering our history, I’m definitely not in a position to be saying things like that to her.

“No, I’m not.” She folds her hand across her chest and looks at me like she’d like to put me in a headlock, honestly. She nods toward the reception area. “I need to go. I should get checked in.”

She holds her hand out, waiting, leaving me to stare at it inconfusion. I’m really not sure what to do so I slap it and act normal.

“Gimme five,” I say, winking. Apparently, my version of normal is dork.

“Okay?” She winces, cocking her to one side. “I’m not trying to high-five you, I need your phone number.”

“Oh. Duh.” I shove the pad of paper into her hand. “Of course.”

She looks at me like I’ve sprouted snakes for hair. “So, I’ll touch base with you in the next day or so and we’ll line up times for photos.”

“Did I hear photos?”

Saved by a teammate. I could hug Dawson Hayes right now. He may be our goalie on the ice, but today he’s the man who is saving me from myself.

“Willa, this is Dawson Hayes. Dawson, Willa is from …”

“Athletic Edge,” he interjects, grinning as he goes in for a hug. “You shot the feature on me a few months back. Nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” Willa says, genuinely happy to see him. “My gosh, you were such a trooper that day.”

Dawson nods. “Having a photoshoot in the height of summer and losing electricity for a few hours,” he says, turning to me to explain. “Not ideal.”

“You rolled with it, though, as only a true professional could. I wish all days working a gig could be like that,” she says, her eyes slicing their way through the air to meet mine.

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