"He seems to be enjoying himself now," I comment, trying to sound positive. Yet something cold and uncomfortable settles in my stomach.
Lena looks at me, and our eyes meet in silent understanding. I feel as though we are both thinking the same thing—that our partners seem more animated with each other than they've been with us all day.
CHAPTER 3
ALDER
You're still going to come, right?
I stareat my unanswered text much longer than is healthy, well past the time I should power it off and get dressed for the morning skate. I mean, shit. I'm a pro hockey player preparing for game seven in a playoff series. I have zero time for my love life to be fucking with my head.
It's been three weeks since the barbecue disaster, and Adam's responses have been increasingly cold and distant. The few texts I've gotten make it clear he's still dealing with the fallout from my loose lips. According to social media, the merger announcement had been rushed out a full day ahead of schedule, with stock prices taking a hit due to the "unplanned disclosure."
I fucked up. Royally. But I've apologized a dozen times, and I'm unsure what else I can do to make it right.
Finally, mercifully, Adam texts me back.
I said I'd be there.
The curt response makes me wince. No emoji, no elaboration—just the bare minimum acknowledgment. I purse my lips. I know this isn't working. I know. But I can't seem to quit this guy. Another text comes through before I can respond:
Unlike some people, I understand the importance of professional commitments.
The dig is unmistakable. I type and delete three different responses before settling on:
I really am sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?
The response is immediate:
You've done enough.
I stare at those three words, feeling the chill through the screen. Part of me wonders if I should just end things now, cutting my losses before game seven. However, the thought of facing both a playoff elimination game and a breakup on the same day is too much.
Besides, maybe watching me play will remind Adam why he was with me in the first place. Perhaps I can still salvage this.
This is what I get for chasing a PR professional, right? From the moment I saw Adam at a post-game team event in a crowded bar, I've been following after him like my dog, Gordie, going for a butterfly.
Gordie is a lot to love, as my mother puts it, but I am, too.
I decide I need to see that ball of smelly fluff before I suit up, so I call my dog sitter, LeMarcus. Dude lives with his mom in my townhouse community and loves crashing in my guest room when I’m on the road. He’s well worth every penny I give him.
“Yo, Aldy!” LeMarcus answers with the screen facing Gordie, and I break into a massive smile at my little scrappy Pughasa. The shelter believed he was probably a pug mixed with Pekingese and Lhasa Apso. But now he’s all mine. Man, I love this dog.
“Hey, big guy! You being good?” Gordie wags his tail and woofs at the sound of my voice. “LeMarcus, do you have my face aimed at Gordie? Can he see me back?” My dog starts pawing at the screen.
I hear my teenage neighbor mumbling something about me being a boomer. “Yeah, man. Chill. He sees your ugly mug.”
I wave, and Gordie woofs again. “I miss you, bud.”
LeMarcus adopts a lower, goofy voice. “Dad, it’s been like three hours since you left. I’ve barely been awake. I don’t miss you at all.”
“Tough crowd,” I mutter. “Hey, thanks for showing me my good boy. Did he go out this morning?”
“Alder, I’m not discussing your dog’s toilet time with you while you’re in the locker room. Go bring us a win, man. Me and Gordie will be watching on your big-ass TV.”
He flips the camera back, so I’m looking into his deep brown eyes. He sticks out his tongue, and I laugh. “Thanks for watching him. You find out about that culinary program yet?”
LeMarcus rolls his eyes. “Do you have any focus at all? Don’t you have hockey shit to worry about right now? You can hear all about my life when you and my ma are out sittin’ on your lawn chairs.”
