Page 119 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
“He hates me,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
Blake shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t.”
I let out a shaky breath. “He does.”
Blake brushes away a tear with his thumb. “We’ll get through this,” he murmurs. “Together.”
And somehow, even in the wreckage, I believe him.
Chapter twenty-four
Blake
It is one week since Keith walked in on me and Whitney. One week since we told him the truth. One week since he cut her, or rather us off completely.
Whitney’s been a wreck. She’d called him dozens of times, sent texts, even went home three days ago, only to find out he hadn’t been there in days. She cried that night. Curled into me, heartbroken, whispering over and over,He hates me. He really hates me. He won’t forgive me.
I told her to give him time. He needed space and time to process everything. The kids helped take her mind off things a bit.
This isn’t just him being mad. This is him losing it.
And I get it. I do.
If I were in his shoes, if I had a little sister, and my best friend had been secretly with her for years, I’d probably want to break his face too.
Which is why I need to fix this.
Now.
That’s why I’m here, leaning against his car in the parking lot outside his office, waiting. I’ve been here for about twenty minutes, after coming from Avalanche Hockey Center.
I check my phone, reading the message from James ranting about something and how he can’t wait to be the dominating ‘diva’ in the next game in the group chat. Rolling my eyes, I simply mute the group’s notification, because with James leading the group chat, it’s going to turn into chaos and memes, stickers, and emoticons battle.
We qualified to play in the Conference Finals, which is the third round in the playoffs for the Kelly’s Cup. It’s another best-out-of-seven series. Next week, we’ll be facing the ‘Ironbacks’ in their home city.
Anyway, back to Keith.
I know his routine like I know my own, meaning he’s about to clock out any minute now. I also know he’s been avoiding both of us like the plague, so catching him off guard is my best shot.
Sure enough, five minutes later, he’s out and walking toward his car, expression unreadable, shoulders tense, and eyes on his phone. He stops the second he sees me, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching.
I push out of the car. “Hey, man.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
He scoffs. “No, we don’t.” He walks right past me, reaching for his car door.
I grip the handle before he can open it. “Come on, man. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But just…, let me explain.”
“Please”
His fingers twitch like he’s debating whether to break my wrist or listen. For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Then, with a sigh, he lets go.
“Fine,” he mutters. Then he glances at his watch. “We’re going to Giorgio’s. You’re paying.”
I let out a small chuckle, nodding. “Fair enough.”
