Page 62 of Famous Last Words
Dragging a hand over my face, I rub my tired eyes, my mind flashing back to the last view of Robbie from tonight’s game as he was being escorted from the rink with blood streaming from his nose, another rivulet of crimson pouring from a split in his lip. Sure he was grinning, but there was no hint of humor in his gaze. His eyes were dark, empty and hollow, and that smirk he wore was pure malevolence.
Jersey led the whole game. They were going to win. With only three minutes left in the final period, they were ahead 4-1. After their fourth goal, the puck was taken back to the center and everyone was lined up waiting for the drop, which is when the camera panned in on Robbie and his opponent clearly goading one another. But then, the second the puck dropped, the game was all but forgotten.
Robbie threw his stick, shucked his gloves and, with fists up, he and his opponent circled each other like apex predators, ready for battle.
The crowd was going wild, chanting at the two to fight, and all the while I just sat there on the sofa, chewing on my nail, staring at the man wearing the number nine New York jersey. He looked like Robbie Mason. Buthe was a far cry from the Robbie I’d gotten to know over the last few weeks. It seemed the sweet man who had groceries delivered to my door was all but gone.
I forced myself to turn away after the first blow, and I didn’t look back until the fight was over and Robbie was being dragged off the ice by two officials. Face covered in blood, he waved at the other team as he skated past their bench, all of them standing, yelling at him, ready for round two.
Tonight’s game was too much. If I’m being honest, it hurt my heart.
With a nervous breath, I unlock my phone and scroll to my messages, trying one last time.
Me: Robbie, I’m genuinely worried about you. I need to know that you’re okay. Please.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark, and every last ounce of my hope goes dark with it. But then suddenly I’m startled as my phone shudders against my chest. I swear, I’m not even breathing as I check the screen, relief flooding through me when I see a new message notification from Robbie. I’m almost frantic as I open it, but I’m quickly snapped back to reality when, instead of a reply, I see nothing more than another goddamn thumbs up.
Robbie: ??
I glare at the otherwise innocuous emoji as it mocks me from the screen.
I tell him I’m genuinely worried about him, and he sends me a thumbs-up?
My eyes narrow to slits, teeth gritted, my body seething, and it takes all I have not to call the bastard and give him a piece of my mind. But I won’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I switch my phone off entirely, shove it into the drawer in my nightstand, and scowl up at the ceiling.
“Fucking asshole.”
CHAPTER 26
ROBBIE
My new place feels a hell of a lot bigger now that it’s empty—cold, vast, and really fucking white. White floors, white walls, white cabinetry in the kitchen. How did I not realize it was so damn white? It’s giving me a headache. Or maybe the headache is a result of last night’s shitty decision to end a loss with a fight. Sure, it felt good to beat the shit of Jake Danowski—the guy who has the biggest fucking mouth in the league—but I’m paying for it this morning, that’s for sure.
The team doctor said my nose isn’t broken, but man, does it hurt like a motherfucker. Everything hurts. I look down at my busted knuckles, flexing my fingers, shaking out my right hand that’s still throbbing.
It’s been a long time between games like the one last night. I knew New York had a long-standing beef with New Jersey, I just hadn’t realized it was that serious. Even Rusty got into the action, and that guy’s avoided on-ice conflict his entire career.
It didn’t help that I’ve been so fucking keyed up the last week over a certain blue-eyed girl. Lastnight I’d been out for blood, and man, did I get it.
I blame the kiss. In fact, no. I blame my stupid decision to go to Fran’s house the night she was sick. It was one thing to stop by and check in—make sure she wasn’t dead—but staying to take care of her? That was the beginning of my demise. I mean, yeah, I tried to kiss her that night in my hotel room. And the thoughts I’ve had of her since then have been borderline obsessive, but I really felt something change between us after that night in her bed. It even flowed through in the conversations we shared after. I told Fran things I’ve never told anyone. Because for the first time in my life, it actually felt as if I was connecting with someone on a level deeper than just physically.
But then we kissed. And everything changed.
I didn’t know kissing could feel like that; I didn’t know it was possible to feel connected to someone on an existential level through the sheer act of mouths touching. And I was so sure she felt it too. But clearly, I was wrong. And every time I’ve closed my eyes since that moment, all I keep seeing is that look on her face before she quickly turned away from me—blatantly indifferent—because she felt nothing. It had been all part of the plan to fool everyone into thinking we’re together. But we’re not together. And that was the proverbial slap to the face I needed. A wake-up call. Reminding me exactly what it is we’re doing. I’m nothing to Fran. Nothing more than her old high school enemy who reappeared in the right place, at the right time, to save her ass from losing her job.
Man, I’m such a fucking idiot.
The security panel dings, indicating a call from downstairs, and I jog across to answer it, muttering under my breath, “It’s about fucking time.”
The furniture delivery is more than an hour late. Andy organized it all, and I don’t even know what they’re bringing. Only that I’m sixty grand out of pocket, but whatever. It’s not like I can sleep on the floor.
“Yeah,” I answer the call gruffly.
“Mr. Mason, there’s a delivery for you,” the guy on the front desk says.
“Yeah, that’s fine. You can let ‘em up.”
“Yes, sir.”
