Page 58 of The Wingman

I sniff and he touches my chin to angle my face his way. “Hey, you can talk to me. If you’re afraid—”

“This is the last place Brett and I went, before…”

I try to turn away again, but he unbuckles both of us and shifts until he’s close. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t press and for that I’m grateful. I just let him hold me for a minute, and all around us, voices reach our ears as excited tourists make their way to the attraction.

“He was…my everything,” I say quietly. I lean into him, absorb his comfort and warmth. His head nods against my shoulder. “I miss him.”

“Tell me about him,” he says quietly, and that brings a smile to my face, because while it’s hard to talk about Brett, I like that he wants to hear.

“He was my first, you know. First everything.”

His smile is sweet, and he brushes my hair back. “He was special to you.”

“Very. We did everything together. We thought we would one day get married and have a family, but all that changed…”

I sniff, and Rider wipes at a loose tear.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Leukemia. Senior year of high school.” I take a fueling breath and glance at the Space Needle. We came here prom night, and then he got too sick to leave the hospital. I’ve never had the courage to come back since.”

“Tell me more about him,” he says.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m sharing stories about Brett, things I’ve kept bottled up and never shared with another soul. Some make me laugh, others make me cry, but speaking them out loud somehow helps soothe my soul, mend the hole in my heart. As I continue to talk, Rider holds me, and his comfort means the world to me.

“Sounds like Brett and I would have gotten along.”

“You would have loved him. Everyone did.”

“I know I would have. I’m glad he got a chance to love you, Jules. The way you deserve to be loved.”

I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes life just isn’t fair,” he says, and rakes his hand through his hair. “We just have to play the cards we’re dealt.”

“And keep on playing the game,” I add.

He nods, and he looks through the window, but it’s easy to tell his thoughts are a million miles away.

“You did good, Rider.”

“What?” he says, my voice pulling him back.

“With the cards you were dealt. You did good.”

He grunts a non-response, and says, “Come on, I’ll take you home.” He’s about to move away, but I grasp his arm.

“No, I want to do this. Brett would want me to do this. He’s probably tired of me being a—”

“Chickenshit.”

I laugh at that, long and hard, and there is a new lightness in my shoulders when I stop. “I’m not sure I’d put it that way.” I shake my head. “You really don’t hold back anything, do you?” I say and nudge him.

“Yeah,” he says and turns from me abruptly, so abruptly, it takes me by surprise. Was it something I said? “You sure you want to do this?” he asks, as he looks out the driver’s side window.

“I do,” I say.

“Okay.” We exit the Jeep and he puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me to the attraction. An hour later—yes, after an hour—we finally make it. It’s not like we were far, or had to walk miles, but fans came out of the woodwork once they saw Rider. As he took pictures with his admirers, I stood back and watched. Is it any wonder he thinks the reason he’s loved is because of his position on the Seattle Shooters? But he’s so much more than a hockey player. He’s a brothe

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