Page 71 of Love You Always

Skinner, the Otters’ enforcer, checks me hard and I wince,feeling like my shoulder may have popped out of its socket. The guys give me a second to pull myself together before they start in again.

No one else is taking a beating like I am. All the other guys are having a normal scrimmage, batting the puck around to improve skills, stay fit, and avoid injury. I’m the group punching bag, and at the end of the next period, as I nurse a bleeding lip, I punch Ren in the arm.

“What the hell? Why are you all trying to kill me?”

“It’s called knocking sense into a person.” Ren flashes his team-captain-winning smile, and I almost fall for the persuasiveness of it. Then I remember he’s been pummeling me.

“Do I seem particularly devoid of sense?”

“Yes, if you think walking away from the first woman who makes you happy is the right thing to do,” Colin pipes up as he slides into the spot next to me on the bench. Turning to look at him, I almost laugh. He’s never played hockey before, much less put on a pair of skates. He’s been clinging to the siderails of the rink the whole time we’ve been out there, and now his helmet is askew and he’s blinking sweaty hair from his eyes.

If he came out here willingly, it has to be about something more than dude bonding time. “You’re on Team Ren too?” I grumble, feeling grateful for this bunch despite the pain in my shoulder, my shins, and my jaw. And we still have another period to play.

“I’m on Team Archer. We all are.” The other guys skate over and crowd around us.

“What are we chatting about, ladies?” Jax asks, giving me a jab in the gut with his stick. I jump to my feet and wrap him in a headlock, and he throws a few punches. In typical hockey fashion, the other guys let us go at it for a couple minutes before they pull us apart.

“Jesus,” I huff, gasping for breath. “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

“You,” several guys say at once. “Guy who doesn’t respond to reason needs a more obvious lesson.”

“I’m not some dumb caveman. If you’ve got something to say to me, use your fucking words!” I’m this close to skating back to the locker room and throwing my skates against a wall. “I don’t need another period on the ice with you assholes,” I say, standing up. But the guys crowd around me and don’t let me move.

I’m so goddamn frustrated, I feel the hot sting of tears threaten to spring free. It takes everything I have to push them back, and I swallow hard, unwilling to let these guys see weakness, even if they’ve just spent the past hour turning me into human pulp.

The worst part is they’re telling me something I already know—my life is far worse without Ella in it, and I’m the only one with the power to do anything about my sorry situation now.

I figure that I have a choice. I can start throwing punches, take a beating in the process, and fight my way to the locker room so I can lick my wounds in peace. And sure, I used to be the guy who threw punches first and asked questions later, but that was before I met Ella. Now I want to ask the right questions the first time around. Like why did a pro hockey team take the time to beat the living shit out of me? Because I need to clear my mind, feel the fear, and play the game anyway.

Because I need man up and at least consider what my heart has to say. If I fuck things up after that, it’s my own damn fault.

CHAPTER 35

Ella

I haven’t beenable to stop crying for seven days.

It feels like I have a giant hole ripped in my gut and my heart aches more than I ever thought possible. “I shouldn’t feel like this,” I tell my mom, who drove to Santa Monica after I couldn’t take a long enough break from my tears to have a conversation with her. “I’ve had relationships end and it’s always been fine. We walked away and went on with our lives, and I didn’t look back. I don’t know what’s happening.”

My mom puts a teakettle on the stove to boil water and signals for me to sit in the banquette under my kitchen window. I used to like having a cup of coffee there and looking out at the view of the Pacific Ocean, but after Archer showed me a completely new way to make use of a window seat at his house, sitting here feels hollow. Everything does.

I gaze at the view, which drew me to buy this house two yearsearlier. Now I long to stare at the miles of grapevines laden with fruit ripening in the Napa sun.

My mom bustles in my kitchen, pulling mugs from my cupboards and opening my fridge to look for creamer. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she shuffles around in workout pants, a long sweater, and Ugg boots. It’s clear where I get my fashion sense.

By the time the kettle whistles, she’s fished a box of Girl Scout cookies from the freezer and assembled the Thin Mints on a plate. She brings this to my round marble table, along with two mugs of tea. I can smell the lavender mingling with the decaffeinated black tea, and it makes me long for Buttercup Hill. Everywhere I turn there are memories of Archer, and each one makes the tears spring forth anew.

“Oh, honey, come here,” my mom says when she sees that I’m crying again. She pushes the mugs and cookies aside and comes to sit next to me on the bench. She puts her arms around me and pulls me close. I let her smooth my hair and rub my back, all things I believed I’d outgrown when I became an adult. A part of me is relieved to know I’ll probably never outgrow these mom moments.

I didn’t think I had any tears left but they keep coming. We sit there for so long that the tea goes cold. When my sobs subside, I sip the lukewarm beverage.

My mom pushes the plate of cookies to me, but I shake my head. “I have no appetite.”

“You’re in love. And heartbroken. I can see it on your face. So whatever is going wrong with Callum, you’ll work it out. I know you will, and the wedding date isn’t for months,” she says, popping a cookie into her mouth.

It’s then that I realize how much I’ve withheld from her. I shake my head. “No. Mom, I’m not going to marry Callum. And that’s not who I’m crying over.”

She gives me a bewildered look and tucks a strand of hairbehind her ear, ready to listen to whatever I plan to say. “Oh, my girl is never far from drama.” I know she means it to sound sweet, like she’s on my side no matter how scandalous my behavior is, but for once, I push back at the perception people have of me—including my own mother.

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