Van

  The next morning, both of my parents were waiting in the kitchen for me with coffee, pastries, and looks that were both worried and determined. They were going to find out what caused their daughter to come running back home.

  So I told them everything and I didn't hold back on anything but the actual sex details. But I did make it clear that I was the pursuer. The aggressor. That it wasn't anything but casual, but then my feelings got caught up. I told them what I knew about Van's history, since it was all out in the open now, and last, I told them how he pushed me away day before yesterday.

  My mom cooed all over me, and my dad cursed in French, and since I was fluent in it, I knew that he had some nefarious plan to string Van up by the balls.

  But then it was over. They were aware of my heartbreak and that I really just wanted to hang at home for a while and figure things out. That day, I went out and started applying for jobs. Until I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had to start making some money to pay my parents back. I also needed to pay Lucas for the car he bought me, which was sitting back in Raleigh. Perhaps he could sell it, and I didn't need it here with such great public transportation.

  So here I was watching game seven by myself. Mom and Dad had gone to Raleigh to be there for their sons' victory. They tried their hardest to get me to come, but I refused. I knew Lucas and Max would understand, but I just couldn't be there...close to Van. As far as I was concerned, being in the same state with him was too close.

  Pushing up from the couch, I pick up my empty glass of water from the coffee table and take it into the kitchen. This house used to be so loud and bustling with activity, given the fact there were three boys and one girl running around. Now it's eerily quiet as I'm the only occupant, and yeah, for a sociable girl like me, I'm fucking lonely as hell right now.

  With a regretful sigh for many things--most of which would be ever getting involved with a man like Van I knew could probably break me bad--I head into my bathroom. I run a hot bath, add a lavender bath bomb, and then strip my clothes off. I pile my hair on top of my head, step in, and prepare to just relax. I'm hoping the lavender will destress me enough that I can at least get a solid night's sleep. Those have been hard to come by, not only because of Van pretty much pushing me away, but the worry I've had constantly over how he's handling things.

  I've been stalking social media and news outlets, reading every single comment people are making on the article Vernicki released, as well as some follow-up articles by other news organizations. Van has made no comment, although the Cold Fury made a statement on his behalf.

  At a press conference after game four, the day after the article was released, Brian Brannon specifically addressed it to reporters. He said, "Van Turner is an integral part of this team. He's part of our family. He's loyal, dedicated, and genuine. Any attempts to compare him to a man he barely knows can be nothing other than a sleazy attempt to boost ratings. Van has this team's full support and we are very much looking forward to watching him in action to help us win the Stanley Cup."

  God, I thought that was so sweet. Lucas and Max both confirmed to me through a few calls and texts that the team was rallying around him. Almost everyone reached out to him either with a text, a call, or simply a slap on the back with a heartfelt, "Hang in there, buddy." He was finally getting what he lacked all those years ago. Validation from peers that he's a good person and what his father did has no bearing on the man he is today.

  I also know Van is doing reasonably well because Etta has been in contact with me. I didn't say goodbye to her when I left Vancouver and that pained me a little. But honestly, if Van didn't want something with me, there was no sense in continuing a relationship with Etta. Besides, I was so pissed at Van I could only think about getting the hell out of there.

  By the time I'd landed in Raleigh that night, there was a text from Etta. Van must have given her my number.

  Checking to make sure you're okay. Van is worried. He said all your stuff is gone.

  Yeah, well what the fuck did he expect? Me to hang around like a little puppy because he generously offered me the room?

  But I wasn't mad at Etta, so my text back was nice and reassuring. I'm fine. Please tell Van not to worry.

  I thought that would be the end of it. But it wasn't. Her next text set me back on my heels. He made a mistake and he knows it. I know my boy and he's regretting his words.

  I couldn't help the swift reply. He told you that specifically?

  Her reply was not as quick, and I could read the chagrin in the tone. Well...no. But I know him. I can see it on his face.

  I wanted to tell her that was probably a million other stressors she was seeing in his expression, but it was mostly because of the news article. I wasn't even a blip on Van's radar, I was sure.

  I wrote her back a longer text just telling her I appreciated her concern but that I was fine and was giving Van the exact space he needed. I also made it clear that I was moving on and not looking back. I told Van it was now or never.

  He chose never.

  I am indeed moving on.

  So here I sit, alone in my parents' house in Quebec while my family is celebrating a Stanley Cup win.

  It fucking sucks, and thus I'm going to soak away my problems in the tub.

  Just as I settle down into the steaming, fragrant water and lean my head back, my phone chimes the arrival of a text.

  I look at it across the bathroom, sitting on the vanity where I'd left it. That text could be from any number of people, and most likely from one of my parents about the Cold Fury winning the Cup. I expect right about now they are still having each team member skate it around the ice, and a sharp pang of regret robs me of my breath that I'm not there celebrating. My hurt over Van pushing me away caused me to turn my back on my brothers, and that's not cool. Sure, they were all understanding when I told them I didn't want to come, but that doesn't lessen my guilt or my sadness that I won't have that memory with Lucas. I at least shared last year's win with Max.

  The tears spring to my eyes as the true repercussions of my selfishness hit me hard. I cut myself out of sharing in a perhaps once-in-a-lifetime event for my family: my two brothers winning the Stanley Cup together.

  Tears pour down my face as I silently curse Van for driving me away, although I know this was my solid choice to stay here and be alone.

  Another chime, another text. I refuse to get out of my tub to look.

  Instead, I continue to cry because I miss my family, I'm overwhelmed with guilt I'm not there with them, and I fucking miss Van more than anything else. I let the tears pour down my face, and they come easily, as it's the first time I've allowed myself to really let go.

  Tears turn into sobs and I finally bury my hands in my face, hoping it will stop soon enough.

  Another chime, but I don't care who it is. Nothing I'll receive will make me feel any better about my situation right now.

  Eventually, my crying abates. I've never been a big crier, but I'll admit it can be cathartic. The water cools and I reluctantly step out of the tub, slipping into a warm terry robe.

  I nab my phone from the vanity and look at my texts, seeing a series of three of them from Van. My heartbeat skitters out of control, as he hasn't reached out to me once, and now it looks like he's sent me three texts within minutes of him winning the Stanley Cup.

  My hand shakes as I see more accurately that he's sent me three videos. I click on the first one, and as soon as I realize what I'm seeing, my hand goes over my mouth to stifle another tiny sob as I start crying again.

  It's of Max hoisting the Stanley Cup and skating it around the ice. Van must be taking the video with his own phone.

  Tears of happiness slide down my cheeks as Max brings the Cup down to kiss it before skating it up to Lucas. Lucas takes it from his brother, raises it above his head, and skates around the ice as well with a big cheesy grin on his face. If I looked in the mirror, I bet my grin would look just like his.

  The video ends
when Lucas hands the Cup off to another player.

  I tap on the next text, which is also a video. A small whimper of happiness and regret pops out of my mouth as I watch Van now on video taking his turn with the Cup. My eyes drink in every detail as he skates with it raised high, and I see the light shining in his eyes, the unrestrained smile of triumph and happiness, and the absolute peace in his expression.

  I know I have every right to be pissed at this man, but how can I right in this moment when he's reached the pinnacle of success? He reached it despite the shitstorm he faced this week with that news article about him and Arco.

  All of the regret and guilt seem to evaporate as I allow myself to get swept up in the joy of this moment. I let myself be happy for my brothers and Van, but I refuse to acknowledge the fact that Van is making some type of overture by sending me videos of my brothers. He knew how important that would be to me since I wasn't there, although he could have no clue I turned the TV off, so this was just extra special.

  When the video of Van ends, I look to his last text, and it's just a few words. I really wish you were here with us. I regret the words I said, or otherwise you would be here with us to celebrate tonight. That's all on me.

  My tears suddenly dry up as I read his message over and over again. It can't be any more vague as to what he really wants. He wishes I was there, but is that just because they won the Cup or because he misses me? He regrets what he said. But is that because he truly didn't mean to push me away? Or because he kept me from celebrating with my family?

  I keep waiting for more, but nothing is forthcoming. I imagine the celebration on the ice, followed by pictures and interviews, will be taking up Van's time for a while.

  I walk into my bedroom and lie down on my bed, watching the videos a few more times so I can draw on the good feelings they evoke.

  I then send separate texts to Lucas and Max congratulating them, as well as one to my mom.

  The entire time, I debate about what to say to Van, but eventually, I choose not to respond.

  It's either now--when you need me the most in your life--or not fucking ever.

  Then it's not fucking ever.

  Van's the one who told me to move on, so I moved on.

  Chapter 27

  Van

  When I pull the rental vehicle to the curb outside Dr. and Mrs. Fournier's house, I'm relieved to see another rental car already there. I pull right up behind it, and a man I've never met before but whom I've spoken to on a few occasions over the last week gets out of his car.

  Xander Cline walks up to my car door to wait as I exit the vehicle. I slide a glance toward the front porch, having no clue if Simone is even in there or not. Ideally, I'd have hopped a plane last night after the game, but when one wins a Stanley Cup, there are multitudes of photo ops and interviews that have to be done following. I wasn't able to get out of the arena until long after the last flight had left the airport.

  Sticking a hand out, Xander says, "Nice to finally meet you. Congrats on the Cup. Helluva series."

  "Thanks, man," I say as I shake his hand and then close the door on the rental car. I lean back against it and cross my arms over my chest. I'm dying to see Simone, but I've got to get a few things straight with him first.

  "She has no clue I'm here and she sure as shit might blow a gasket when I introduce you to her," I tell Xander.

  "No worries," he says with a smile. "I get what you're doing and why you're doing it this way. Honestly, it was this angle on the story that induced me to fly out here from LA on such short notice."

  "I'd prefer you not ask Simone personal questions about our relationship, but I'm fair game on anything," I tell him. He nods, because we'd been through this on the phone. "But Simone can handle herself, so I shouldn't really be worried about it."

  "Then let's do this," Xander says, and I push off the car. My nerves are firing hard, but I'm ready to get back on track.

  Xander and I walk up the sloped driveway from the road and then cut across to the front porch via a sidewalk. My hands are itching to grab her to me when she opens the door, but I know I have to maintain some measure of decorum since I'm doing this with Xander watching.

  But fuck am I ready.

  I knew when I came back to the hotel room later that day when the article came out I had made a terrible mistake. I knew this because Simone was gone. She had given me an ultimatum, I refused, and she left.

  For as stubborn and determined as Simone is when she wants something, I knew without a doubt that when she drew a line in the sand, she wouldn't cross it either.

  This left me reeling. I'd been outed as the kid of a serial killer, I drove my girlfriend away in a selfish moment of stupidity, and I was playing in the Stanley Cup finals. What I really wanted was to hop a plane and go after Simone, but Etta was there to talk sense into me.

  "Take things in order, Van," she said calmly. "Stanley Cup game tomorrow. Worry about reporters after that. Simone will be in Raleigh when you get there day after tomorrow."

  So I took Etta's advice, and it was good advice, except for the fact Simone was not in Raleigh when the team returned. No, I came home to the house completely empty of all of her belongings. A quick, somewhat frantic, call to Lucas had confirmed my worst fears.

  Simone had moved back to Quebec quickly. Her message was clear. When I said "not fucking ever," she took me at face value and moved on.

  Etta was the recipient of many phone calls over the next few days. She'd had some minor contact with Simone but wasn't divulging. Her advice to me was still the same. Get through the play-offs and then go after Simone. Etta assured me, "You'd be surprised at how far a simple apology can go."

  Yeah...it was going to take more than that. I'd fucked up big time by devaluing Simone. I pushed her away when she could have been my biggest supporter, and that was a slap in the face she was not likely to let go of.

  I just missed her.

  So fucking much, and going through the remainder of the play-offs without her in the crowd cheering for me sucked hairy balls. I tried to imagine she was watching on TV, and even though I'd been a douche, I imagined that she was still supporting me. It made me feel slightly better, but not much.

  Throughout the following week while the series continued, I thought about Simone constantly. I also thought about hockey, knowing that my goal of a Cup win was within close reach.

  What I did not do was think about Arco or the article that Vernicki released. I ignored all requests for interviews. I had my publicist deliver a standing "no comment" to anyone who reached out. I ignored reporters who waited for me outside the arena, and in game press conferences I ignored questions lobbed at me about Arco. My teammates stood strong and tall behind me, and the management issued an amazingly supportive statement on my behalf. It was all the validation I needed and never got when I was a kid. Not one fucking person in the organization thought badly of me or judged me based on my secret.

  But with all that said, I knew I couldn't just keep quiet. I knew that I would need to tell my side of the story and why I had become a different person. My fans deserved it. Those people who aren't my fans but were titillated by the story deserved the truth as well. And hell...if Arco ever got access to a newspaper or magazine, he deserved to know how I felt about him too.

  That's where Xander comes into play. He's the senior hockey reporter for Sports World magazine. He's not a freelance hack like this Vernicki, who just capitalized on my tragedy. He agreed to sit down with me for an interview.

  Well, with Simone and me for an interview.

  She just doesn't know that yet.

  When I reach the porch, I trot up first, Xander coming to a stop just behind me. I give a sharp rap on the door and listen intently. I'm relieved when I hear soft footsteps coming through the house, and then the door is opening.

  Simone stands there without a hint of surprise on her face. I'm guessing she looked through the peephole before opening the door, because no one knew I was coming here exce
pt me, Xander, Etta, and Lucas, and they all promised to keep it secret.

  "What are you doing here?" she asks in what is actually a polite tone filled with a little awe over my appearance.

  "You didn't respond to my text yesterday," I tell her.

  And there it is...an eye roll. I fucking missed that.

  "You're not here because of that," she says, not budging to open the door any further. Her eyes then slide to Xander. "And who is this?"

  "Xander Cline," he says as he pushes past me to put his hand out. She takes it tentatively as he explains, "I'm from Sports World magazine."

  Simone's eyes come back to me, filled with complete bewilderment as she continues to shake Xander's hand.

  "He's going to interview us." I tell her. Her eyebrows rise. "About how we fell in love."

  Simone drops Xander's hand like a hot potato so she can put her hands on her hips. She narrows her eyes and asks, "Are you fucking high, Van Turner?"

  Xander snickers and I nudge him in the shoulder, giving him an apologetic smile. "She's got a potty mouth. But feel free to put that in the article. I think it's indicative of the intensity of our relationship."

  "Seriously, Van," Simone snarls, and I look back to her innocently. "What the hell is going on?"

  "Simone," I say calmly. "I'm ready to give an interview to the press. I want to do it now. I want to do it here with you by my side. I don't only want to talk about Arco. I want to talk about the woman who helped me realize that Arco has no power over me. I don't want this story to be about how Arco fucked up my life; I want it to be about the way you unfucked it up, okay?"

  "I don't understand," she murmurs almost dumbly, and I have a moment of pity for her. I've said some deep shit to her, standing on her porch in front of a perfect stranger, who is probably going to print every bit of this exchange.

  "Simone," I say softly, and I take her hand. "Let us in the house. Put some tea or coffee on. Let's get comfortable and talk to Xander here about our side of the story."

  "Our side?" she repeats, and I can tell she's in overload.