Page 4 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Four

EVA

Eva

I’m so sorry about the game!

I stare at my text that Luke hasn’t responded to as we exit the narrow highway that winds up Boston’s North Shore to our small coastal town.

Winters can be bleak up here, but tourists flood the area in the summer, thanks to our beautiful beaches, local farms, and the abundance of coastal restaurants.

No matter what you’re looking for, summer in Newbury Falls will most likely have it.

“You look tired,” Mom says, and when I glance over at her, she turns her head forward and lets off the brake, moving us through the intersection mobbed with people out enjoying this warm summer night.

Another wave of nausea rolls through me, and I focus on the road ahead. I get car sick easily, and pregnancy only makes it worse.

“Shocker, given that I was just hospitalized for exhaustion.”

Of course I’m fucking tired , I want to scream. I just survived fifteen hours on three different flights, with a short ER visit before the last leg of travel, only to arrive back in Boston and have to hunt down my luggage at baggage claim, since it had arrived on my original flight.

In addition, I’ve been working overtime to keep my body in shape while ensuring I could hide this pregnancy from the world until the season ended, and yeah...the deep circles under my eyes don’t lie.

“Don’t be a smartass,” she says.

I glance back down at my phone, wishing Luke would reply. I know the game ended an hour ago. They announced the loss on the radio, saying, “Hartmann choked so bad, someone should have given him the Heimlich.” I immediately searched online to see what the hell they were talking about.

Luke is an amazing goalie. He’s still fairly early in his career, but he’s good, and one day, he’s going to be great. Tonight, though? According to the brief clips I watched on my phone as Mom drove, tonight he was awful.

I don’t know what the hell happened, but he looked like an amateur—like someone who’d only played goalie in juniors had somehow found himself between the pipes in the NHL.

His reaction time was sluggish and his ability to anticipate where a shot would go—which has always been a sixth sense for him—completely failed him tonight.

In short, he was as terrible as the radio announcer had made him out to be .

Luke’s always prepared. He goes into every game utterly focused, knowing exactly what he needs to do. I know he wasn’t the starting goalie tonight, but he’s a professional, and I can’t understand why he wasn’t ready when he was sent in.

That goalie I just saw clips of...that wasn’t my best friend—there has to be something else going on.

As I sit here, trying to tune out my mother while she lectures me about taking better care of myself, I’m imagining what’s going through Luke’s mind. He exhibits the happy-go-lucky personality of a golden retriever, but he feels things deeply. Maybe too deeply, sometimes.

Getting traded to Boston, playing for the team his family owns and my dad coaches...this is the most genuinely happy I’ve ever seen him. I don’t want him to feel like that’s in jeopardy—but after the way he played tonight, it could be. And that has me terrified for him.

“So, are you ?” The sharpness of my mother’s tone snaps me out of my own head.

“Sorry, am I what?”

Her sigh fills the entire car. “I asked if you’re getting enough protein.”

“I think you’ll have to ask the nutritionist and personal chef you hired, since they keep track of that.” I try to make my reply sound less irritated than I feel, but Mom’s low hmmm indicates that I’ve failed.

My personal chef works with my nutritionist to plan all my meals and snacks. Whether I’m home in Los Angeles, or competing somewhere else, the meals are always delivered perfectly proportioned, ready to heat and eat.

Mom claims it’s because I hate to cook, but how would I know?

I’ve never been given the opportunity. Since I was a teenager, my food has been selected for me, without regard to what I feel like eating.

For the first few years after I moved out on my own, I didn’t mind it—not having to think about what to eat or make something for myself gave me more time to focus on skating.

But eight years later, I’m tired of this life. Tired of every decision being made for me. I’m about to become a mom, and I don’t even have any agency over my own life.

I know Mom making things easy for me wherever she can is her way of showing that she cares. And I’d never want her to think I don’t appreciate everything she and Dad are doing to help me achieve this dream.

“I’ll do that,” she says, flicking her blinker on with a bit more force than necessary as she slows to turn into our driveway. And like it always does when I arrive home after being away for so long, the scene in front of me takes my breath away.

The moon shines brightly, illuminating the white cottage where it sits on the cliff with nothing beyond it but the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a cloudless night and the stars are just starting to appear, but the moonlight is already making the waves sparkle.

My parents’ small house is in an idyllic setting, far enough from the winding road that we seldom hear the cars headed to the beach, and with an expansive and unencumbered ocean view.

The cliffs behind the house are too steep to access the private neighborhood beach below, but they protect us from storms, and we can follow a winding path down the hillside at the end of the street to get to the water.

“Will Dad be home in the morning?” I ask, wishing I was walking into his comforting hug .

“No, the team’s not leaving St. Louis until tomorrow,” Mom says as she pulls into the garage. “I’m sure they’d hoped to be celebrating tonight. He’ll be home sometime in the afternoon.”

“What do you have going on tomorrow?” I ask her.

“Some riding lessons in the morning, and then I need to go see about a horse in the afternoon,” she says.

Mom is forever going “to see about a horse.” Buying and training show horses is a huge part of how she’s helped Luke’s mom, Elise Hartmann, build a world-class equestrian center and show park at their home here in Newbury Falls.

Elise owns the center, but my mom is the lead trainer.

“Want to grab lunch somewhere? You can come see the horse with me afterward if you want?”

“I’m not sure I’ll feel up to it,” I say, and a look of disappointment crosses my mom’s face.

Horses are her first love—even ahead of her family—but I never developed the same passion she did.

She loves the outdoors and the wind on her face as she rides.

I love the crisp air of the rink and the sound of my skates carving across the ice. “Lunch sounds good, though.”

Does it ? I used to do this thing growing up where I’d keep track of how many times a day I did or said something in pursuit of keeping my mom happy.

As a kid, I thought the higher the daily tally, the better a daughter I was.

It wasn’t until I grew up and moved away that I realized monitoring my behavior like that actually made me feel worse, not better.

My mom isn’t negative, per se; it’s just her nature to search for ways to improve.

She wants to motivate me, but sometimes I just feel like I can never live up to her increasingly rising expectations.

Honestly, at this point, I’m not even sure an Olympic medal would result in a “Good job, I’m so proud of you,” without an additional comment on how my performance could have been better.

She helps me unload my bags from the back of the car, and as we carry them through the breezeway into the mudroom, I glance toward the oval window on the far wall.

It’s too small and high up to showcase the entire view from the house, but as a kid, I loved to stand on the bench beneath it and look out at the water, pretending it was the window in a castle tower I was trapped in.

It’s amazing how returning home every summer dredges up memories I haven’t thought about in forever—both the good and the bad.

Mom hangs her purse on a wall hook and kicks her flats beneath the window bench.

“Let me help you get these to your room,” she says, picking up a suitcase in one hand and swinging a large duffle bag over the other shoulder. She’s used to maneuvering fifteen-hundred-pound horses, so her strength never surprises me.

I am surprised, however, when she sets my bags in my room and tells me she’ll give me some space to unpack and get some sleep, before leaving me standing there alone.

It’s late, and she probably just wants to head to bed after her unplanned trip to New York.

And living by myself in LA, I’m used to having my own space. So why do I suddenly feel so lonely?

As if the universe knows I need a lifeline to quell my erratic emotions, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see that my best friend has finally responded.

Luke

Yeah, not a game to be proud of, for sure.

I’m relieved you’re okay. Are you around tomorrow night?

Eva

Yeah, want to do something?

Luke

With you? No thanks.

Eva

You’re an ass.

Luke

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a fucking saint.

Good, at least his sarcasm is firmly intact. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

Eva

Hold, please. I’m busy building my shrine to St. Luke.

He sends back a GIF of a kid rolling his eyes so hard he falls over backward in his chair.

Eva

Dinner tomorrow? I haven’t had sushi in forever and I’m craving it.

Three dots appear, then disappear and, as usual, I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Eva

Yes, I’m allowed to have raw fish. The worst that can happen is food poisoning, and it doesn’t cross the placenta. So it’s no more dangerous than having sushi when you’re not pregnant.

Luke

I didn’t want to ask . . .

Eva

Am I really *that* sensitive now?

Luke

I plead the fifth.

Eva

The asshole genes are working just fine tonight, I see.

I smile as I type and send the message, because Luke is the furthest thing from an actual asshole.

His kindness sets him apart from his older brothers, who all share that trait.

Fortunately, Luke got the lovable teddy bear side of his dad’s personality, while his three brothers inherited the shrewd business sense, which grew the family business into a billion-dollar company.

Luke

Am I picking you up tomorrow night? Or are you driving into the city?

Eva

You mind coming up here? We could go to that seafood place with the deck over the ocean? It shouldn’t be a problem to get a reservation on a weeknight .

Mostly, I don’t want to go into the city, because my car sickness hasn’t fully dissipated, and the thought of making the same drive there and back again tomorrow just isn’t appealing.

Luke

Pretty sure reservations won’t be a problem. You know Tucker bought that place, right?

Eva

Your brother bought a restaurant??? Isn’t he busy enough with his fancy new job with your team?

I can’t remember his exact title, but earlier this year, Tucker started working some high-level position with the Boston Rebels, so he’ll be poised to take over the organization once Luke’s dad, Frank, is ready to step back.

Everyone thinks of Frank Hartmann as the sole owner, but technically the entire Hartmann Family owns the team.

Luke

He likes to stay busy.

The story is probably way more complicated, given that Tucker went through a nasty breakup of his engagement earlier this year. I don’t know many details, but as curious as I am, I try not to pry. Despite being the focus of constant media attention, the Hartmanns are very private.

Eva

So what you’re saying is you’ll take care of getting a table?

Luke

Sure. Pick you up at seven.