Page 5 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)
Chapter Five
LUKE
T he sun’s still high in the sky as I drive up the winding coastal road in Newbury Falls, my small hometown on the North Shore of Massachusetts. An hour outside of Boston, it’s a land of beaches, horses, and quaint New England farms—an idyllic place to have grown up.
And if your last name is Hartmann, the expectation is that you’ll return and raise a family here, as generations of our family have done.
My dad has wanted grandchildren for a decade, and with brothers who are all significantly older than me, I was pretty sure I’d be an uncle by now.
Turns out, my brothers have all excelled at dodging this particular expectation in the same way that Hartmanns typically excel at whatever they put their minds to.
With my hockey career, I’ve always assumed that I’d be the last one to get married and have kids, but at this point, I could very well be the first—and I’ve never even had a serious girlfriend.
That’s how allergic to commitment my brothers are, especially after seeing Tucker’s engagement blow up so spectacularly.
I speed past the huge brick pillars and the iron gates that mark the entrance to Wellington Manor, feeling no guilt about steering clear of my parents, since they both witnessed my unforgettably terrible Game 7 in St. Louis yesterday.
The text message I received this afternoon from my general manager, AJ, asking me to meet her at her office in the Rebels’ practice facility early next week, is weighing heavily on my mind.
I can’t help but wonder if my dad knows I’m being called in like this, and if so, what his thoughts are.
Playing for a team my family owns has been complicated.
I take the curve in the road and head toward Eva’s childhood home, thinking maybe I should have offered to bring dinner and we could have eaten on the beach while watching the sunset instead.
The beach at golden hour is our favorite, and I’m having second thoughts about seeing my brother at his restaurant tonight.
I’ve been fielding calls and texts from my parents and brothers for the last twenty-four hours. They all want to make sure I’m okay, and I just want to pretend like yesterday never happened—like I’m not singularly responsible for robbing my team of the championship they’d worked toward all season.
The Rebels had been well on their way to making the playoffs even before I was traded to them. This was their chance, and I showed up as the new guy on the team and lost it for them .
Even worse? Since my family owns the team, I’ve not only let the fans and my teammates down, but my parents and brothers as well.
My stomach roils as I replay the last ten minutes of the game in my mind.
The only thing that prevents me from turning around, driving back to Boston, hiding out in my luxury condo, and shutting the whole world out is Eva.
She needs a friend who knows what she’s going through and can be there to support her.
I park in her driveway, amazed as always by the spectacular view beyond the small house.
The property I grew up on, just down the road, is the former summer estate of a New York steel tycoon. Despite its acres of rolling hills, fenced-in pastures, world-class riding facility, and classically inspired pool area, it doesn’t hold a candle to this view.
The ocean was my first love until I found hockey...and Eva.
I’m out of my car and heading toward the front door when I hear voices from the back of the house.
So I follow the stone path along the blue hydrangeas that line the side of the house and take the stairs up to the deck, where I see Charlie and Eva.
Her arms are spread on the deck railing, her back to me as she looks out at the ocean.
She has her head thrown back, laughing at something her father has said, and her dark hair sways across her bare shoulders in the breeze.
She’s so serious by nature—so focused and driven—that it’s a relief to see her relaxed, even for a moment.
I’m about to announce myself when she glances over her shoulder and her eyes widen in surprise before a huge grin splits her face.
“ Luke!” And then she’s sprinting across the deck in her flip-flops.
She wraps me in a hug, and I want to close my eyes and breathe in the peach scent of her hair as I curl my arms around her lower back and dig my fingertip into her sides until she screams with laughter because she’s so ticklish.
But I don’t. I keep my eyes open as I return her hug, nodding toward Charlie where he watches us.
“How are you doing?” Charlie asks once Eva steps back. The concern is evident in his tone, and I appreciate that his caring and thoughtful nature always outweighs the shrewd wisdom he displays as a coach.
“I’ve been better, honestly.”
He nods, an acknowledgement that neither conveys disappointment nor indicates that he thinks this will be okay.
“Hopefully, dinner tonight will be what you both need after a rough day yesterday,” he says, smiling fondly at his daughter.
“I suspect it will be,” I say, relieved that everything seems normal between Charlie and me. “You ready, Evie?”
She laughs the same way she always does when I use that nickname—the one she proclaimed she hated once she hit middle school, and will allow no one but me to use.
“Sure am. Bye, Dad, have a good dinner with Mom,” she says as she grabs her purse and jean jacket off a deck chair.
“I have some peach rings for you in my car,” I tell her, chuckling when she bounds down the path. It’s hard to tell if she’s in a rush to leave or excited about her favorite candy.
“Take care of her,” Charlie says to me quietly as we watch her take the path toward the driveway. “I’m not sure she’s as okay as she’s pretending she is.”
I wait, hoping he’ll say more. When he doesn’t, I give him a nod. “I will.”
Then I turn and follow his daughter down the driveway—letting her lead, like I always do.
“ C an I interest you in some wine or a cocktail?” the waitress asks Eva after taking our appetizer order.
“Water’s fine,” she says, her brow furrowing as she sets the drink menu on the table.
The waitress turns her head toward me. “And for you?”
“Uh...” I was going to get a beer, but given Eva’s pregnancy, I would feel bad drinking in front of her.
“He’d like whatever IPA you have on draft,” Eva chimes in. “Preferably something hoppy.”
The waitress runs through a few options, and I choose one. “You didn’t need to order for me,” I say once the waitress has left.
“Seemed like you weren’t sure if you should order a drink since I can’t drink, and I was shutting down that nonsense.”
My head tilts as I look at her curiously. “Why is that nonsense ?”
“Because it’s not like you have any responsibility for my condition?—”
“And if I had? Would you have wanted me to stop drinking through your pregnancy?” I’m relieved that we have a table in the corner of the overwater deck, so no one can overhear us.
The ocean is calmer on this side of the peninsula than on the other side, where Eva’s house is, so instead of crashing waves, we have water lapping at the rocks below the deck to muffle our conversation.
Eva rolls her eyes, and I’m not sure if it’s at the ridiculous notion that I could be responsible for her pregnancy—which, given our circumstances, is quite impossible—or at the idea that I wouldn’t drink during those nine months.
“Not drinking while his significant other is pregnant seems like the least a guy could do,” she says with a slight shrug.
Yes, it’s the absolute least. And more than anything, I hate that she’s conditioned to expect the least from guys.
“Yeah, well, since that guy’s not here?—”
Eva’s snort stops me. “Please”—she rolls her eyes—“let’s not do this.
I’m not going to try to find him. I don’t have anything to go on except that he’s German.
I don’t even remember his name. Just because that was a mistake, doesn’t mean this is.
” She glances down meaningfully at her belly, which is hidden under the table. Not that there’s anything to see.
She still has the toned body of a competitive athlete, and the singular sign that she’s pregnant—which you’d only notice if you were paying close attention—is that her breasts are bigger.
I mean, not that I look at them enough to know what size they were before pregnancy, or now.
No, I definitely don’t have that information burned into my brain.
“I was not implying that your baby is a mistake, Evie.”
She sits back, crossing her arms, and suddenly her body language is borderline hostile. “You don’t have to. Everyone else will.”
I fold my arms on the table in front of me and lean toward her, wanting to make sure she understands my words. “Fuck everyone else. Their opinions don’t matter.”
“Do you honestly believe that?” she asks, and I hate the way everyone else’s opinions matter so much to her.
“Of course I do.”
“Even about yourself? Even about last night’s game?”
“That’s different.” I glance out at the water as the setting sun casts orange and purple rays over the rippling waves.
“You going to tell me what happened?”
I look back at her, noting the way her dark hair contrasts with her porcelain skin, the way her dark eyes, framed in long lashes, focus on me, searching for any sign that I’m not actually okay.
As I consider how in the world I can explain what happened without making her feel responsible, a light flush creeps across her cheeks, making me wonder if she interprets my pause as annoyance over the question.
“Yeah. I choked. I wasn’t expecting to play, and I guess I wasn’t in the right headspace.”
“You didn’t look like yourself out there,” she says. “At all.”
“Didn’t feel like myself.”
“Luke,” she says with a sigh. “Was it because you were worried about me?”
“Pfft. You flatter yourself.” I roll my eyes as I use the phrase we both constantly employ to remind each other that this is a friendship, and no one is catching feelings. It started as a joke before our senior prom, and it’s stuck with us all these years.
“Do I? I’d hate to think I was the cause of you losing that game.”
“Then don’t. Because you weren’t.” The only thing more horrifying than her thinking that I lost the game because I wasn’t prepared to play would be her knowing the truth: I was so busy worrying about her that I didn’t take care of my team.
It’s not a fact I’m proud of and it’s not something I can share with her or anyone else, especially not my family or teammates.
From how her shoulders tense, I can tell she’s frustrated that I won’t say more. I’m wondering if I should give in and at least tell her how worried I was when the waitress returns with my beer and Eva’s water. “Do you, by any chance, have any decent mocktails?” I ask.
“Not on the menu,” she says, “but I can ask the bartender if he can make something. What were you thinking?”
I glance at Eva and raise an eyebrow. “What sounds good?”
She shakes her head, but her lips part in a small smile. “Something fruity? I don’t know, surprise me.”
“See,” I say as the waitress heads inside to the bar, “that wasn’t so hard.”
“That’s what she said,” Eva says with a little smirk. I roll my eyes, refusing to dignify the barb with a response—because talking about how hard my dick gets is not something I do with my best friend.
“I meant that asking for what you want isn’t hard.”
Eva licks her lower lip, pulling it between her teeth. I witness her face changing as multiple thoughts travel through her head. “I’m working on it, okay?”
I’ve always given Eva shit for not being demanding enough.
While the world may take one look at her cool exterior and assume she’s a diva, that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Eva knows her job is to perform at an elite level, and she’s been so busy doing that since high school that I frequently worry she’s forgotten how to actually live.
“Hey!” Tucker’s booming voice comes from behind our table. “If it isn’t Baby Hartmann and his sidekick.” I groan at the nickname I’ll never grow out of.
“Hey, boss,” I say as I stand to give my brother a one-armed hug—the kind that says Hey, I like you, but we’re not that close. It’s the same greeting my brothers and I have always given each other, but out of all of them, I like Tucker the most.
For nine years before I came along, he played the part of the amiable middle-child who knew how to placate our rigid and demanding oldest brother, Preston, and keep his little brother, Tristan, in line.
By the time I was born, my brothers were already the Hartmann legacy triumvirate, and I became Baby Hartmann.
“Don’t be a dick to Eva,” I mutter to Tucker. He pulls back and gives me that lazy smile, as if to say I’m never a dick. It’s amazing the conversations we can have without uttering a word.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, turning toward Eva and bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek.
I have to remind myself that, of course, he’s going to kiss her hello—she’s practically family. He’s not doing it to piss me off. Or at least, I don’t think he is.
“So,” Tucker says, reaching behind him to pull up an empty chair to our table. “What are you kids up to?” And when he plops down in that seat, leaning back and crossing an ankle over his opposite knee, I know that our private dinner—our chance to catch up—just ended.
Next time, I’m insisting we get out of our hometown.