Page 45

CHAPTER 45

NONE OF THESE PEOPLE DESERVE HIM

EMORY

As soon as I hang up, I open the browser on my phone. My thumbs are shaking so much I can barely type, and by the time I finally make it to The Post's website and see the top headline, my heart has turned into a beating swarm of locusts.

"Sting Star Loves to Puck Around, On Ice and Off."

Even though I know better, I tap the link.

When you're at The Hive for a Sting game, it's not uncommon to overhear fans talk about their favorite player's "stick handling" or imploring him to "put it in." Most likely the player they're talking about is offensive standout and eight-time all-star Kayden Bouchard. At 26, the Sting center has already solidified his place as one of the league's greatest players — in more ways than one. It is an open secret in the local sports scene that Bouchard loves to, shall we say, play in the crease, even when he's off the ice.

However, this is the last year of Bouchard's current contract, and sources indicate that new team owners may be less than pleased with the star center's knack for scoring. There's no doubt that Bouchard is a master on the ice, but it's his off-ice behavior that may put a chill on his future here in the City of Saints. The Salt Lake City Post contacted over a dozen women who have been seen publicly with Bouchard. Most, understandably, refused comment, but those who did speak with us painted a very different picture than the one Bouchard wants you to see.

"What. The. Fuck?" My nervous trembling has turned into rage-fueled quaking by the time I get to the end of the second paragraph, and I can't read any further. But I scroll. And scroll. The article seems to go forever. There are several sections, each one demarcated by a picture of a woman. All young, all beautiful. Skinny. Perfect. But each one of them agreed to participate in this obvious hit piece, so not a single one of them deserved even a second of time with a man like Kayden Bouchard.

I doubt any of them even know the kind of man he is. I know the writer of this article—this fucking Dave Williams—doesn't know a single thing about Kayden Bouchard. But I click on the comment section, hoping that the people who've watched Kayden every day for years know better.

That hope evaporates when I see the top comment. "The Sting just lost a season-ticket holder. Not a 'man' I want representing my team or my city. If you can even call him a man. More like a disgrace!!!"

It's only 10:30, but that comment already has two hundred and thirty-two likes and forty-three replies. All but one of them agree with the original poster.

The second highest comment? "Mighty not b able to get it up after that blow at that all-star game. Shore couldn't get up last night without doc helping him. Maybe we get lucky and he brain-damaged so now so he'll focus on getting us the pucking cup instead of chasing those pucking counts. "

My vision goes black and I can't read any more of what these people are saying about him. These people that Kayden puts his body on the line for during every game. At every practice. These people who are the reason the man I love is lying in a dark room with a fucking brain injury. This is the love they give to a man who is absolutely devoted to this team and their city?

None of these people deserve him.

I close the tab, swipe away the browser, and even restart my phone. I want no trace of this article left on there. I never want anything to do with this paper or this journalist or these small, small people who will jump on any sign of weakness just to make themselves feel momentarily better. I want nothing to do with this fucking town, period. Lily was right to have left here. She was right to hate it. And I should have never helped convince her to stay.

I force my breaths through pursed lips, but they just get more and more shallow until I might as well not be breathing at all. Shit, shit, shit. Not now. Not when Kayden needs me.

Every instinct is telling me to clamp my eyelids closed, but I force myself to hold them open. I go through the five-four-three-two-one method. Each of the five things I can see reminds me of Kayden. So do the four things I can touch and the three things I can hear.

And I can only smell one thing. Kayden's pervasive vanilla—now mixed with the strawberry scent of the conditioner I've used since college. I inhale, trying to distinguish between the two, and I realize I can't.

It's just us.

I need to get back to that bedroom, back to him. Somehow, I need to find a way to make this alright.

Just as I set my phone down, the screen lights with a call.

Dad.

Of course he saw the article. Of course he has to call and lecture me right now. You can't have shit without the stink. He can't resist an opportunity to make me feel small, can he ?

I think about ignoring it, but he'll just keep calling. I might as well get it over with. I answer and hold the phone up to my ear. "Dad."

"Emory, you need to see this. I understand that you think you know this man, but you obviously don't."

"No offense, Dad, but I'd rather be skewered by a hundred popsicle sticks than have this conversation with you right now. Actually, you know what? I do hope that offends you."

"So you've seen it." He pauses, waiting for a response, not caring that I don't want to talk about it. "He had you fooled. Hell, he had me fooled, but not now. You can't seriously stay with him now. You're a notch on a bedpost to this man. This is just like Seth all those years ago."

Fuck him. "You don't know a damn thing, Dad." I squeeze the phone so tight the case creaks. "So unless there's something else, I'm going to go."

The line goes silent so long I wonder if he's still there. Then I hear a breath. And another. "I know what it was like last time." His voice is shaky, like he might actually be experiencing a human emotion. "I remember like it was yesterday, Emory. Watching you crash through the back door that day and run straight to your room. You wouldn't come out, so I sat against your door for hours, listening to you cry while I begged you to talk to me." He sniffs and clears his throat before drawing in a long breath. "I know how it felt to see that my child was broken and realize I didn't know how to fix her."

My mind floods with images of him threatening to tear apart the school and dismantle the entire South Boulder High School baseball program because of what Seth had done. Because of what the school turned a blind eye to. And I remember that moment I came out of my room. He was waiting right there to hug me while I sobbed. Mom was in the kitchen making a cheesecake—my comfort food, even then—while Dad just held me.

"Sweetie, please. Your mother and I don't want to see you go through that again. Please. "

I have to lean against the wall. "Daddy…" Suddenly I'm sixteen again as tears choke me and block everything I want to tell him. The only sound I make is a single broken sob that slips out of me as I let myself slide to the floor.

"I don't know when the next flight is, but I'll be on it. Emily?" I can tell he's holding the phone away from his ear as he calls out to Mom. "Find me the first flight to Salt Lake City. I don't care if it's a fucking two-seater."

"Daddy, no." I finally manage to break through my swollen throat. "I do know this man, and what they said in that article isn't him. It's not him at all."

"Sweetie, I know you think you love him?—"

"No." My voice is finally stronger. "I know I love him. More important, I know that he loves me. And I know he's hurting right now and that he needs me, so I need to get back to him. Did you see what happened last night?"

"I did." Dad is quiet, almost like he's whispering for Kayden's sake too. "I assume he has a concussion? You're performing regular assessments to be sure there's no other damage?"

I nod, as if he can see me. "I am. He's only been out of bed to go to the bathroom. Other than that, he's been asleep since he got home, so he doesn't know anything about these lies. I'll keep it that way as long as I can. But he'll find out eventually, and he'll need me then too. Maybe more than he needs me now. I'm not the one who's going to be shattered this time, Daddy. It's him, and I'm going to do whatever I have to do for him."

He blows out a breath, and I can picture him taking the glasses from his face and pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does. "You're sure about him, sweetie?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

"Then what can I do?"

"Nothing. But thank you for…"

I let my mouth close on the rest of what I planned to say. Maybe there is something he can do for me, but he would only be one part. It would take so much more. Is it even possible?

"I'll let you know. Bye Dad."