Page 43 of Best Kept Secret
I watch as Logan yells something at the ref before slamming the door to the penalty box, shaking his head to himself and falling onto the seat. I’ve never seen him look so angry. His bruises remain from the other night, eyes glaring up at what I assume is the Jumbotron in the arena as he shakes his head again, his lips moving around a very obvious “This is fucking bullshit.”
The screen flicks to an older man up in the stands. An older man who looks uncannily like Logan, the same piercing eyes, the same perfect nose, the same full lip, seated next to a beautiful blonde woman about half his age, probably not much older than Logan.
“Cullen’s father there, Geoff, who played a few seasons with New Jersey before an injury forced him into early retirement, looking none too happy with his son.” The announcer chuckles as the man—Logan’s father, apparently—mutters an expletive while shaking his head.
Grabbing the remote, I switch from ESPN to Netflix instead because, a) hockey bores me to tears and I will only ever sit through a game when beer is involved, and b) listening to the announcers talk badly about Logan, and seeing his own father shaking his head in disgust at his son, is only pissing me off far more than it probably should.
I settle in with my Nutella andFriendsrepeats, trying so hard to keep my mind off Logan, Caroline, and the taunting thoughts that I might have made a serious mistake moving out here.
CHAPTER 20
LOGAN
Three power plays I’ve given away so far tonight. Three. And not even for anything good like punching Charlie Bradman in his fucked face like I did not so long ago at a bar in Charlotte. No, my penalties tonight have been for stupid, avoidable shit like unintentionally tripping, or when North Carolina’s dumbass defenseman took a dive, face-first into my stick.
We’re winning. Three-nil with only two minutes left. But as I sit on the bench, chewing hard on my mouthguard, pretending to watch the third line out on the ice get their game time, my mind is entirely focused on the asshole sitting up in the family and friends section, the one wearing my jersey like he’s father of the fucking year, when in reality, he’s cussing me out, muttering how much of a fuck-up I am to his twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend, and thinking how I’ll never compare to his precious Levi. Shaking my head at the irony, I remove my mouthguard from between my teeth so I can spit onto the floor.
“You good, bestie?” Happy nudges me.
I offer him a dubious side eye. “Bestie?”
He grins.
“I’m fine,” I say, stretching my neck side to side as best as I can in my pads. “Just ready for this shit show to be over with.”
“Yeah, who knew winning could get… boring,” Happy muses, looking out over the ice. He turns back to me. “You heading out after the game?”
“Can’t. Dad’s here. Taking me out to dinner afterwards so I can meet the newgirlfriend,” I scoff with absolute disdain. I don’t know what the point of meeting her is. He has a new one every couple of months. Hell, I can’t even remember the name of the last one he made me meet. And they get younger every time. Dude’s midlife crisis has been going on for almost six years. And all while, my poor mother fades away in the assisted living home he schlepped her off to when she had her mental breakdown. He’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t so disgusting.
“She hot?” Happy asks, glancing over his shoulder, no doubt searching for my father andSimone.
“I don’t know. Probably.” I shrug. “If you’re into bleach blondes with fake tits.”
Happy looks at me then, his eyebrows jumping up and down, accentuating the sly grin curling his lips. “It’s like you know me too well.”
With a low laugh, I roll my eyes, elbowing him right as the siren sounds, signaling the end of the game. I follow the guys out of the bench and skate across to join the line up in front of Dallas, my gaze snagged by my father in the crowd, watching me with an unimpressed look in his eyes despite clapping with the rest of the home crowd.
Tonight is going to be fun. I can just tell. But hey, I’ll take what I can get because it sure beats the thoughts of Millie getting herself off with my name on her lips that have been plaguing my mind for the last two fucking days.
I can’t breathe.
My lungs burn.
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed to within an inch of its life.
As soon as I pull into my designated parking spot in the garage, I sit for a long moment, the tick of the engine as it cools the only sound that breaks through the silence ringing in my ears. Gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are stretched white, I stare straight ahead at the brick wall in front of my car, drawing a deep breath in through my nose.
I just drove from Downtown, through the city, to Lenox Hill, and I have no recollection of how I got here. I don’t know how long it took me, don’t know what streets I drove, don’t even know if I stopped at any red lights. I could’ve hit someone for all I know. The last thing I remember is being at the restaurant with my father and his girlfriend. I remember with every scotch my father consumed he would berate me just that little bit more. I’m not fast enough; I’m not agile enough; I’m not strategic enough; and, no matter what, I will never be as good as Levi.
Now, here I am, in my car, on the precipice of no return, barely holding on as an all too familiar and overwhelming darkness starts to creep in around me.
I rip off my seatbelt and tear at my tie, loosening it enough to suck in a breath, but it’s no use; it’s like I can’t get enough air. I rub at my chest, my sternum, feeling just how hard and fast my heart is thumping.
Through bleary eyes, I look out my car window, at the elevator right there. If I can just get my legs to move, I can get to the elevator and make it up to the apartment, where I can fall apart in the safety of my space. But it’s too much. I can’t move. My entire body feels too heavy.
Blindly, I reach for my phone, grabbing it and pressing the side button. I barely manage to croak out the words, “Siri, call Red.”
Within seconds, the dial tone rings through the car, and I drop my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, trying sohard to focus on the breathing bullshit our team shrink tried to teach me. But every time I hold the breath for seven seconds, all I can hear is the ring tone, and my heart races harder because she’s not going to pick up. I’m going to die here. In my car. Just. Like. Levi.
