Page 7 of Center Ice
Outside, Lauren and I set the platters down on the table nearest the fire pit, and then she gives me Audrey’s number. I consider leaving right then, just driving back to my place and calling Audrey to figure out what the hell is going on. But then I notice Jameson and Colt watching us, and I figure I better go finish my conversation with them.
No matter what is going on in my personal life, I have to start off on the right foot with this team. Everything depends on it. And since Colt is the longest playing and most highly respected member of the Rebels, I can’t just ditch. So I head back acrossthe yard toward them, forcing myself to put what just happened aside for a bit. Getting the Boston Rebels to sign me to a new contract after this still year has to be my single greatest priority.
Chapter Four
AUDREY
As soon as our clients, the Livingstons, leave our office, I carry my coffee cup over to the row of glossy-front white cabinets hanging along the wall of exposed brick. With the long wooden shelves held in place by brass brackets that hang above, and the wood floors with shiny white tables pushed together in the center of the room, our office is a study in contrasts. But it works perfectly and is a great example of how we blend traditional and modern design for our clients.
I pop a coffee pod into the machine and set my cup below it, realizing I’ve already lost count of the number of cups I’ve had this morning.
“You doing okay?” Jules asks from behind me. Because she’s normally saucy and sarcastic, the concern in her tone hits me hard.
I stare straight ahead at the brick wall, afraid that if I look at her and see the worry in her eyes, I’ll crumble. “I’ve been better.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a little.”
Drew called right after I’d gotten Graham to bed last night, but I let it go to voicemail. I meant what I said when I told him I’d answer if I could—and emotionally, I just couldn’t.
Six years. It’s been just over six years since I discovered that our one-night stand resulted in a pregnancy. I’m still not sure how it happened. We were so careful, but that condom must have leaked without us realizing.
Drew wasn’t even my first call when I found out. Jameson was. And then Jules. And finally, a week later, I worked up the nerve to call Drew, and he didn’t call me back. Not then, and not the next twenty times. Twenty voicemails, and never even got a call or a text in return. So no, I’m not feeling any sense of obligation to call him back until I’m damn good and ready.
Last night, I’d lain awake most of the night, rehashing everything I’d gone through when I found out I was pregnant and realized I’d be doing this parenting thing without his support. I was up until the early hours of the morning, debating the pros and the cons of him coming back into our lives, trying to figure out what it means, and imagining what he might want.
“You knew this was a possibility when you heard about the trade,” Jules reminds me. She’s the only person on the planet who knows Drew is Graham’s father.
I couldn’t tell Jameson—he was too much of a hot-head back then, too protective of his baby sisters, who he’d practically raised. The first thing he’d said to me when I’d told him I was pregnant but didn’t think the guy would be interested in being involved was, “I’m going to kill him.”
Jameson was already Drew’s agent at that point. If I’d told him the truth, Jameson could have—and probably would have—ruined Drew’s career. And even though Drew didn’t deserve my protection like that, he deserved his chance in the NHL.
“I was afraid I’d run into him at a restaurant or something. I didn’t expect to find him standing in my brother’s backyard. I thought at least family spaces would be safe.”
“Knowing Jameson, he was just trying to smooth Drew’s transition to the team.”
“I’m sure.”
Colt was there, like always. And I know Patrick Walsh, one of the alternate captains on the team, was supposed to stop by with his kids at some point. Having Drew get to know them before training camp starts is probably Jameson’s way of helping, especially because everyone knows Drew’s performance in Colorado suffered, and I’m sure he needs to get off on the right foot with this team. If the rumors are true, this year will be a turning point in Drew’s career. Either he’ll end on a high note and Boston will re-sign him, or Boston won’t want him for another contract, and he’ll end up as an unsigned free agent.
Even while I’ve had to pretend I have no idea who Drew is, I’ve followed his career closely. It’s been tumultuous the past few years, and I’m trying not to be pissed off at him about it. It was one thing when he was playing for Vancouver and I felt like protecting his career for him the way I did was worth it, because he was doing so well. But then he went to Colorado and his career went to shit, and I was left feeling like I’d made huge sacrifices on his behalf—which, of course, he didn’t even know about—and he wasn’t holding up his end of the non-existent bargain by kicking ass out there in the NHL.
I have no right and every right to hold it against him, and I’m a mess as a result of this dichotomy.
“Did he call again, after that first time last night?” Jules asks. She’d headed to her room after our quick chat about how I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, and this morning I’d shown up in our design studio—in the basement of our brownstone in Boston’s South End—after taking Graham to school, only seconds before our clients arrived. So until now, we haven’t had a chance to talk about this.
I pull the now-full coffee cup out from the machine and glance over at her. “Yeah, he called two more times.”
“Did he leave more messages?”
“Yeah. I haven’t listened to them, though.” I take a sip of my coffee, hoping against logic that it’ll calm me down.
“Are you going to?”
“Eventually.”
“What are you waiting for, exactly?” she asks.
