I should have been happy Seb gave up and moved on. That was my intention. So why did it feel like my sternum cracked open? Not that it mattered. What I should have been asking myself was, how on earth did I ever think I could get involved with Seb and walk away in one piece?
Because I'm an idiot. An idiot who went and fell in love with the unattainable Sebastien St. Clair.
“Are you sure you don't want me to ask if there are any seats closer to the ice?”
I ground my molars and gouged my nails into my palms to keep from shouting at my overly helpful, highly irritating, tirelessly helicoptering brother.
“No. Thank you. I'm good where I am." As though he didn't know that already, considering he asked the exact same question before every single game and in turn, got the exact same response. Every. Single. Time.
Rocco shot me the stink-eye as he headed for the door. “So sue me for wanting to make you happy.”
Exasperated, I threw myself onto the couch, face first. “I’m happy,” I said, muffled by the cushion. “Now please, stop asking about the stupid seat.”
I didn't need to see him to know Rocco had a scowl plastered on his mug. Whatever. He needed to get over it. Okay, fine. Some of the blame for my current mess was on me. Over the last few weeks my moods had been all over the place—from depressed and on the verge of tears, to furious and boiling over with rage. Poor Rocco ended up on the receiving end of most of my erratic emotional swings. That didn't excuse him from being a jerk, though, and his constant nagging had finally wormed its way onto my last remaining nerve.
“You know you can talk to me, Ky.” Oh my god. I groaned and thumped my head into the cushion. He’s so damn persistent and, from the sound of it, Rocco wasn’t near the door anymore. He was standing next to the couch. “About anything.”
You say that now…
I sat up and shoved my hair out of my face. “I know that, Rocco. And I know you mean it, but there are some things you're better off not knowing. Trust me.”
Rocco scoffed and went to take another step closer. When I leveled a serious stare, he hesitated. I watched as Rocco consciously adjusted his posture, relaxing each limb, almost de-puffing his considerable bulk to appear smaller, less frightening, as if he were getting ready to approach a timid animal. A venomous one that might lash out at any second.
He wasn't that far off.
“We don't need to have any secrets between us,” he insisted.
You asked for it, bud.
I tilted my head and innocently fluttered my lashes. “Oh, because you’ve told me everything, hmm? Like about the time you hooked up with those two women from—”
Rocco jerked back like I electrocuted him, and thrust out a hand. “Stop! Just… ugh! I don't even want to know how you found out about that.”
Normally, I would have found it amusing to see my big, tattooed, bad-ass brother all flustered and flailing, cheeks red with embarrassment. But all his reaction did was hammer home my point.
“See? Sometimes we’re better off not knowing. Ignorance is bliss and all.” I waved him away. “Go. You're going to be late. This is something I have to work out on my own and you're going to have to accept that.”
Rocco might be forced to accept my decision, but that didn't mean he had to like it. His huge hands fisted at his sides and his face flushed an even deeper shade of red, if that were even possible, only from anger, not humiliation over his sister knowing details about his sex life.
“Christ, Kylie,” he spat. “You're really something, you know that? You've become this, I don’t know, like a complete stranger lately. I don't even know who you are anymore. I don't know how to act around you or what to say. This… it isn't like you. It isn’t like us.” He snatched his keys from the hook next to the door and, because I didn't feel bad enough, gave me a final, parting blow before he slammed the door behind him. “I miss my sister.”
The tears didn't fall until Rocco was gone. He was right, I was a mess. But I also knew shutting him out was the right thing to do. The ordeal with Seb wasn't something I could confide in him. Rocco couldn't be the one to pick me up from that particular fall. I needed something, no someone else, to cheer me up and help me get out of my funk.
I sat up so fast the room spun.
I knew exactly who to call.
“Just like old times, right?” Nat grinned from ear to ear. I glanced around the arena. It was early and the place was still pretty empty. The majority of the crowd trickled in as we waited for the game to start.
“Just like old times,” I agreed.
Calling my best friend and asking, no begging, her to visit was the least dumb thing I’d done in a while. Having Nat around reminded me of all the fun we used to have back in DC. Pre-Seb.
Going to a Comets game, on the other hand? Probably the dumbest thing I’d done in a while.
Because I had a guest, and because Rocco can't keep his big fat nose out of my business, he snuck behind my back and asked Nat if she preferred to sit right on the ice. Since I didn’t explain my new seating arrangement, Nat accepted Rocco's generous offer. The result was two seats front and center, smack dab in the first row next to the Comets bench. After Rocco told someone in management his sister’s best friend was visiting from out of town, prime seats were arranged for their defensive star.
Rocco’s meddling meant there was approximately zero chance of me going unnoticed by Seb. What, with us fifteen feet away from where he’ll be sitting and all. Nat kept telling me to relax. That Seb would be too busy playing hockey to have time to search though every face in the crowd. If that’s what she thought, Nat didn't know Seb. There wasn’t much the man failed to notice. I mean, he spotted me in a sold-out crowd the night of Rocco’s very first game as a Comet. He actually remembered me from the one time he saw me in DC, where he only got a brief glimpse at my face, and that was in between exchanging blows with Rocco.
I would say Seb qualified as not only being very astute, but that he possessed some sort of supernatural GPS ability or something.
I got lost in my thoughts as I hid under my Comets ball cap. So much so, I didn't notice Nat flagging down a beer vendor until she thrust a foamy cup under my nose. The strong scent of yeast and hops assaulted my nostrils.
“Here. This should help you unclench.” Nat laughed at my subsequent scowl, but that didn’t stop me from tossing back half the beer in one go. I smacked my lips loudly and made and exaggerated “ahhh” sound.
“Happy?” I asked, grinning around a thick, foamy mustache.
“No, no I'm not, actually. I don't like seeing you like this, Ky.” Nat leaned in. “He's not worth it.” She handed me a napkin and I wiped my lip. “Honestly, he's not. You're a mess, and over what? A hot guy you slept with a couple times?” I appreciated her concern, even if it didn’t help.
“You're right.” I relaxed some and pulled out of my slouch to sit up straight. “You're totally right.” With a dramatic flourish, I finished my beer and crumpled the empty cup, one-handed. “Screw him. He's no one to me.” A sharp, hot blade pierced me between two ribs, but I pushed past the pain in the hope I could will it to be true.
Nat lit up. “That's the spirit.” She threw an arm around me and hugged me to her side, while I held up a twenty and searched for the nearest beer vendor. It was going to be a long night.
Because I’m a little bit sneaky and a lot spineless, I made sure I happened to be in the bathroom the exact moment the Comets took the ice for their warm up. A little while later, during player announcements and the national anthem, I was conveniently waiting in line for a snack, even though the tight ball in my stomach rejected the idea of food.
Unfortunately, after three trips to the ladies’ room and two for snacks I didn’t want, I ran out of excuses to leave my seat. Plus, the evil eye Nat perfected—complete with single arched brow—over the years kind of scared me.
She was lucky I’m not an “I told you so” kind of friend, because two minutes into the second period, during
a line change, it happened. Seb flew toward the bench so his replacement could take his place. He curled the fingers of his bulky gloves around the edge of the low wall in order to propel his body over it, and his piercing blue gaze landed directly on me. It was as if Seb somehow knew I was there. Was drawn to me. He couldn’t have known, obviously, and the way his eyes widened with surprise, he didn’t expect to see me.
Mid-leap, Seb tripped and almost fell flat on his face, or he would have if his teammate hadn't been there to break his fall. Seb landed on top of the guy. His forward momentum sent them both crashing to the ground in a jumbled heap of equipment and skates.
After untangling their limbs and sticks, Seb took a seat on the bench, but he never stopped staring at me. Not once. I watched as his face quickly went through a dozen different emotions. They changed so fast it made it difficult to pick them out. The ones I did recognize? Confusion, anger, and astonishingly, a deep sense of sadness. The first two were for obvious reasons. I didn’t know what to make of the third. I knew Sebastien didn't want me to leave the other night. In fact, he protested vehemently. I figured his objection was due to interest in having another round of sex. But maybe I was wrong.
Had Seb been serious about trying to get to know me, or was he faking interest because I was an easy lay? I assumed it was the latter. Could I have been wrong?
The bright lights of the arena stung my eyes and I everything blurred as a sudden and intense surge of doubt made my head hurt. I clutched the armrest until the pain passed.
“Are you okay?” Nat asked as she stuck her face in front of me until her nose almost touched mine. Worry creased her brow.
Only then did I realize I was rubbing my head. I dropped my hand. “He saw me, Nat. You didn’t see the look on his face… It was… I-I don’t know what to think… I thought he didn’t…” I stumbled as I tried to explain Seb’s distraught expression only to discover I couldn’t. Nothing I said would accurately capture the complex workings of Seb’s mind or what he may or may not feel.
While I worried my lip, Nat contemplated what I said, or tried to say, anyway. Being a woman of action, when she reached a conclusion, she stood and tugged on my hand. “Come on. Let's go.”
Thank god. Now that he'd spotted me, there was no way Seb would let me leave without attempting to reach out and arrange a meet up. Either so he could wheedle an explanation out of me for taking off or, at the very least, to talk. Both would result in a sweaty usher bringing his request to my seat or, god forbid, Seb leaping over the boards and stomping into the stands in full hockey gear to deliver the message himself.
I shuddered in horror. Seb might very well be frustrated enough to do just that.
Maybe sneaking out was cowardly, but then, I never claimed to be brave. If I had to look into Seb’s devastated eyes, I would crumple like a used napkin and give him whatever he wanted and then some. I’d give him everything. I’d give him me.
Unfamiliar with Atlanta and its weird one-way streets, Nat used the map on her phone to get us home safely. She correctly surmised I was too distracted to be behind the wheel.
Neither of us said a word. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not as we walked down the hall to the door. Inside, I didn’t bother to take off my coat and shoes. Instead, I went for the sofa and dropped like a stone.
Nat took her time, hanging her coat and putting her shoes by the door. She passed my pathetic self and headed to the kitchen. Dishes clanged and the fridge opened and closed several times. When Nat finally joined me, she had a bowl of chips and a container of salsa in her hands, and two cans of soda tucked under one arm. She put everything on the coffee table and immediately dug in. I ignored the food. The brick of guilt I swallowed still occupied most of the room in my stomach. Nat had no such issues and demolished more than half the bowl in mere minutes.
“So,” Nat said as she used her jeans to brush the salt off her hands. “Are you thinking this guy might have genuine feelings for you after all?”
Straight to the point. How very Nat. With my gray matter flapping in the wind and complex thinking impossible at the moment, I appreciated the direct approach.
I stared at my hands, finding my fingernails fascinating all of a sudden. “I don't know. Maybe?” Frustrated and twitchy, I pushed the hat off my head and ran my hands through my hair. When that did nothing to lessen the anxiety, I heaved my feet up onto the couch and sprawled out on my back. “From what I know about Seb, it's not really his style. He’s like, the perpetual party boy bachelor. Never one to settle down or form attachments.”
“Everyone grows up eventually, Kylie.”
What? I sat back up and goggled, unable to believe those words came out of the mouth of Natasha Westwood, a woman who warned me time and again that I needed to be cautious around men. A woman who went off on long rants about men and their inability to commit at least once every four to six months since the day we met.
And she had the gall to sit there and look offended by my reaction. “What? It's true,” she said.
“I know. You’re right, it is true.” I nodded in agreement. “Just… coming from, you know… you.” I gestured toward her.
The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Nat’s mouth and, oh my god, she started to blush! I didn’t know my unflappable, hard as nails friend could blush. I always figured the embarrassment gene passed her by.
“Yeah, I know. Totally out of character. And I still think men are immature, emotionally stunted toddlers,” she added. I rolled my eyes at that. “But, I don’t want to stop you from going after something you want. Something that, despite my personal beliefs, could end up being real.”
The finality with which Nat spoke caused my stomach to detach, heavy weight still tucked inside, and sent the whole thing into a free fall.
“I… we… I can’t be with him, Nat. You know this.”
She got up and sat next to me on the sofa, close enough our shoulders brushed. Her expression was as serious as I’d ever seen it. Nat looked me in the eye and said, “You can.”
I snorted. “Yeah, if I want to risk death by Rocco.”
Nat took my hands in hers. The grounding touch soothed the bouncy nerves that pinged around my stomach—which currently lay splattered at my feet—and a warm, calming sensation spread through my body.
“Don’t be silly. Rocco would never kill you. He’d just kill Seb.” She said it with a straight face, but couldn’t keep the mischief out of her eyes.
We both burst out laughing.
Thank god for Nat.
Regardless, I had no idea if I could a) trust Seb to reciprocate my desire to take things further, b) trust my hot-headed brother to not murder Seb, or c) trust my own feelings.
It took Nat’s levelheaded approach to allow me to think about it rationally. Without her, I’d have been in my bedroom with the lights out, curled up in a ball in the corner, drool running down my chin as I rocked back and forth and muttered a bunch of nonsense.
Even with Nat’s guiding presence, and despite the fact I wasn’t curled in said ball, I couldn’t be positive there wouldn’t be a straight-jacket, a padded room, and a huge orderly named Lars, at some point in my future.
It was so unfair. Cupid and his stupid, defective arrow. I wanted to throttle the conniving, diaper-clad, pudgy-cheeked baby. Screw him and his sick sense of humor, using his power to strike the heart of the most inconvenient man to walk the earth and make me fall for him.
Cupid. What a brat.
Five days later, three since Nat flew back to DC—but hey, who's counting?—my phone blew up. Of course, because all things unfortunate tend to find me like a heat-seeking missile, I was at work when it happened. In a meeting. With the entire department. And two corporate bigwigs.
I entered the conference room, took my seat, and set notifications to vibrate. Generally, vibrate did the trick. When you get a single random text or call. When it buzzes eight times in a row and keeps going and going, again, and again, and again, well, that’s anoth
er story.
Unfortunately, vibrate didn’t stop everyone seated in a five-foot radius from turning their heads in sync to stare at me. It gave me the creeps, like my coworkers were a bunch of cyborgs with identical programming. I bit the inside of my cheek to squelch my nervous laugh.
My cheeks burned as I fumbled to silence the phone, and, because on a scale of one to ten, my luck is negative six, when I finally pulled it from my messenger bag, it began to vibrate again. Surprised, I squealed and the phone bounced off the table and onto my lap.
Kill. Me. Now.
My embarrassment was short-lived. I looked down and saw the screen and the oxygen got sucked out of the room. Heat scurried up my spine, and turned into a hot, prickling awareness that began at my scalp and trickled all the way down to my toes.
Aware that I wasn’t alone, and everyone was probably looking at me, I pretended nothing was wrong. Then I glanced at the flurry of text and missed call notifications covering the locked screen, every last one sent by the same person, and grew concerned. They were all from Seb.
Despite the subarctic climate of the conference room and the gale force winds that blew from the vent directly above my head, sweat beaded along my upper lip and my blouse stuck to my lower back. When I bent down to slide the phone back into my bag, my hands visibly trembled.
“Kylie?” I jerked upright and nearly knocked myself unconscious on the edge of the table.
“Whoa.” Headrush.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to three, then opened them up slowly. The room continued to list to one side, then the other. Faces were indistinct blobs of color and the lights in the ceiling shone brighter than usual.
“Kylie? You don’t look so good. Are… are you okay?”
Piper.
“I think…” Nausea burned my throat and I panicked as it crawled toward my mouth. Terrified I might get sick all over the conference table—or worse, one of the executives (don’t forget, bad luck magnet)—I pushed up from my chair and rose onto shaky legs. “Excuse me,” I muttered, already halfway to the door.