Page 90 of Rematch
Dean rubbed his jaw. “As your coach, I feel compelled to convince you to stick around, to continue playing, but as your friend…”
“As my friend?” Preston prodded.
“I always put hockey first, Preston. Always. And it cost me. When I was younger, all I ever wanted was to be on the ice or living the life of a big-shot athlete—complete with puck bunnies and bad financial decisions. I made all the wrong choices. You love this sport as much as I do…so trust me when I say, you should leave before this resentment you’re feeling right now turns into something much worse.”
“What’s worse than resentment?” Preston asked.
“Regret.”
There was no question Dean was speaking from personal experience, but Preston knew his old friend well enough to know that was as much as he was going to say on the subject. Hell, that was more than Preston had ever gotten from him. Dean was tight-lipped when it came to talking about his personal life.
“I need to reiterate that this is just me thinking out loud,” Preston reasserted. “I really haven’t made any solid decisions.”
“I understand. I won’t say anything to anyone else. I appreciate you giving me a heads-up, and I hope you’ll let me know once you do decide.”
“I will,” Preston vowed.
“Got any idea what you’ll do after you retire?”
Preston shook his head, even though that was a lie.
As far as he was concerned, stay-at-home dad sounded like a pretty sweet gig.
“Well, if you find yourself missing the sport too much, let me know. I’m sure I could find a place for you on the coaching staff.”
Preston was touched by the offer—but not tempted.
“Alright, then,” Dean said, pushing off the wall. “I’m fucking exhausted. Going to bed. Hope Lennon feels better soon.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Preston said, with a shit-eating grin as Dean flipped him off.
“Good night.”
Preston returned to the room, sighing heavily. Sleep was going to elude him, and not just because of Victor’s snoring.
Nope. Tonight, he was fighting with himself.
Stay-at-home dad in one corner.
Hockey in the other.
And he didn’t have a clue which one was going to win.
Chelsea sat on the couch, staring at the TV, even though it wasn’t turned on. She was exhausted—from the sleepless night and from walking a tightrope she didn’t want to walk anymore.
Her love for Preston grew more and more with each passing day, making it impossible to maintain this roommate façade.
She was letting fear hold her back.
If Aunt Agnes was still alive, she would read Chelsea the riot act for being such an idiot about this relationship with Preston. Then she thought about what Agnes had said in her will, suddenly seeing the words in a different light. Chelsea had only considered Agnes’s advice from the perspective of opening the bakery, but she could see it applied to much more than that.
Because Agnes was right. The most important decisions were made with the heart.
Chelsea was letting her stupid head run the show, feeding her a bunch of preconceived notions about professional athletes—none of which were true about Preston—and some ridiculous idea that love required years, not minutes. That, combined with her fear of having her heart broken again—thanks to douchebag Rick—was guiding what she thought were smart, well-thought-out choices.
“You have my permission to haunt me,” Chelsea directed toward heaven and Aunt Agnes. “I deserve it.”
She jumped, her heart spiking, when she heard a knock. For a split second, she thought it was Aunt Agnes’s ghost responding to her invitation. She rolled her eyes at herself when she realized someone was at the door.
