Page 15 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Finally, when I couldn’t take Alex’s chilly indifference toward me any longer, I confronted him. He’d just returned from a three-day road trip to the Midwest. I’d cooked his favorite dinner—steak and garlic bread.
We sat calmly at the dining table, talking about his win over Cleveland, but inside I was so nervous, I was shaking. I was terrified we’d reached the end of our relationship, and I wanted desperately to hit rewind and go all the way back to the beginning when I was sure Alex loved me.
I started off carefully, tiptoeing around the subject of where we now stood. We felt more like roommates than lovers, and while I’d once been certain we were heading toward an engagement and marriage, now those things seemed oceans away.
Looking nervous, Alex dropped his head into his hands. His refusal to meet my eyes made my stomach drop.
“Is there someone else?” I asked, blood pounding in my ears.
“No,” he croaked.
It was of little consolation, because even if it were true, I could feel the years of love between us crumbling as surely as a child’s sandcastle in the waves.
“Talk to me,” I begged, tears welling in my eyes.
He stood from the table and paced back and forth. “I just need some space, Eden.”
Space? From me?
The word seemed foreign to me. I loved Alex more than anything in the world and wanted to spend all my free time with him by my side. We had more than enough space when he traveled for games. Too much, really. I missed him terribly on the nights he was away.
But I could do nothing but sit there and listen as Alex paced and told me about his feelings of missing out—of being tied down so young and not getting to sow his wild oats. Talk of his teammates not inviting him out to a bachelor party because they thought of him as one half of an old married couple.
His words were like daggers shoved into my chest. My heart ached, and I was breathless. I latched onto words like young and single and something about us being too serious.
I remembered the reputation he had as a ladies’ man back in college, the kind of guy who didn’t want to be tied down. Why hadn’t I listened back then? Been more careful not to give him my whole heart?
Sobbing, I asked, “Did you ever love me?”
Calm as ever, Alex met my eyes. “I’m sorry.” And then he wheeled his still-packed carry-on out the front door and left.
I dumped our dinner dishes into the sink, poured myself a glass of vodka, and drank it straight. It tasted awful and burned my throat, but I welcomed the bitter sting.
Wasn’t that what I deserved? To feel awful? I’d been so foolish, and now I felt broken.
I curled up on the couch and cried for two days.
• • •
My thoughts are interrupted by shouting on the ice.
It’s Alex and Price St. James, a guy normally known for making his teammates laugh. He’s not laughing today, though. Scowling, he throws his stick on the ice in disgust.
Well, that just happened.
I take a breath. Now is not the time to reminisce about my breakup, not that I want to relive the painful memories of the weeks that followed, anyway.
“All right, that’s enough for today. Hit the showers, boys,” Wilder calls out, pulling off his kelly-green Titans cap and shoving one hand through his sweaty brown hair. When he turns toward me, the look in his eyes is one of pure desperation.
“Well, that was brutal,” he says with a rough sigh. “They’re clunky as hell.”
I’ve sat in on enough team meetings with the coaches to have developed a decent relationship with them, Wilder especially. Like me, he got his fair share of flak a year ago when he signed on as the youngest coach the team has had in decades. And while I hate to base our professional relationship on the fact that we’ve both been harassed by Boston sports fans, I have to count my allies where I can.
“They’re blowing it,” he mutters, looking out onto the ice. “We’ve got a lot of talent, but it’s being wasted right now.”
I nod, watching as the players disappear down the chute toward the dressing room and out of earshot of this conversation. “Any particular guys giving you trouble?”
“Nah, it’s the whole team,” he grumbles. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but they’re not on board with you as owner.”
My lips pull into a tight frown as I step back, folding my arms over my chest. “I see.”
I try to pretend I’m unaffected, but shit, the truth stings. I figured my own team wouldn’t be like those asshole reporters who question my every move. I love this team, but I guess it doesn’t go both ways.
