Page 62 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Forty-Six

EVA

Y ou can do this, I tell myself as the driver takes the turn up Newbury Street toward the restaurant where the event is being held. One hour of making nice with the sponsors, and then you can go home, crawl into bed, and wait for Luke to get back.

I glance at my phone again, looking at the last messages we exchanged.

Luke

Looks like we’re going to arrive almost an hour earlier than planned. Can’t wait to see you tonight!

Eva

I will make sure I’m home and naked before you get there.

Luke

That winky face better not mean you’re joking. I just spent three nights without you and I miss you like crazy. Don’t plan on leaving that bed all weekend.

Eva

It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do.

Luke

Don’t be a brat.

Eva

Why? What happens to brats?

Luke

Fuck around and find out, Peaches.

Crossing my legs and squeezing my thighs together, I attempt to quell the ache that’s building there.

After I’d finally come clean to Luke about having to throw out my whole toy collection in LA, he’d left me a care package with a wide array of toys before he headed to the airport a few days ago.

We’ve had fun on video calls at night as I tested them out—but nothing beats him being here with me.

The toys will never be a satisfactory replacement for Luke.

Still, perhaps him being away has been good practice for when the season starts up. I don’t know how I’m going to handle the week-long road trips where he’s in different cities every couple of days. Maybe after the Olympics, if we even get there, the baby and I can travel with him?

I slide my phone into my purse, hoping that I can control my longing for him for the next hour or so .

After the driver pulls up in front of the restaurant, I walk across the wide sidewalk to the doors, determined to get home even more quickly than I’d originally planned.

An hour and a half later, I’m ready to poke my eyeballs out. I’ve been caught up in non-stop small talk since walking in the door, answering the same questions over and over.

I feel like an entitled jerk for being so frustrated by people who are genuinely interested in me and my career, but my feet are throbbing in my strappy wedges, and my lower back is aching.

I don’t know why I thought I should wear anything with a heel while pregnant, and now all I want is for Luke to give me a massage.

His sports medicine degree has really paid off during my pregnancy, as he’s been exceptionally good when I’ve needed my back or feet rubbed.

At this point, I’m about ready to turn mid-conversation and run out of here, especially because Luke texted me twenty minutes ago saying they were about to land.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the older gentleman I’m talking to. “I need to run to the restroom.”

“Of course, dear,” he says. “I’m looking forward to your return to competition later this year. Take care of yourself.”

You’re being so self-absorbed, the voice in my head says. It’s the same one I heard from my mom when I was growing up—the one that makes me feel selfish if I put what I want before what others want from me.

I turn toward the bathrooms, hoping I can duck in for a moment and then make a beeline for the front door.

But then I catch sight of an extremely familiar head of perfectly tousled light brown hair and a pair of broad, muscular shoulders.

Excitement and relief flow through me as I realize that Luke must have come here to rescue me instead of going straight home when his plane landed.

I move toward him, not caring that I just told someone I was going to the bathroom.

He’s talking to a woman I saw earlier from across the room.

She’s striking, standing nearly as tall as him in killer stilettos, with black hair and bright blue eyes.

She’s got full lips and a huge smile as she throws her head back with a throaty laugh.

The old me would have been jealous as hell that Luke had made someone else laugh like that, especially someone so gorgeous, but the new me is secure in his feelings and our relationship.

She reaches out and squeezes his forearm, saying, “I’ll be right back.” And after she turns away, I tap him on the shoulder. He spins on his heel, and as soon as I see his face, I feel like someone punched me in the gut.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” I stumble over the words as I stare into the face of a man who would be a perfect stranger if we hadn’t spent one drunken night together in his hotel room in Italy eight months earlier.

His chin tilts as he looks at me, and I can tell he’s trying to place me. It’s then that I notice he really does look like Luke, and not just from the back. His face is incredibly similar. His hair is the same. He’s just as tall.

And that’s when I realize that, in my moment of drunken despair, I tried to find solace with someone who looked like the one and only person I’d ever loved.

I don’t know if that makes it more understandable, or makes me an asshole. Maybe both.

He furrows his eyebrows as his gaze travels from my face to my belly and back up again. And that’s when I see the recognition gradually dawning, before he says, “Italy? ”

I press my lips between my teeth and give him a quick nod of confirmation.

And then my brain, which has been lagging since the moment he turned around, finally kicks into gear, and I realize I should have fled before he could figure out who I was.

Goddamn it. I just missed the perfect opportunity to say, “How embarrassing...I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else,” before turning and walking away.

Now he knows . His gaze flicks down to my belly again, and I wish I wasn’t wearing the form-fitting maternity dress that I bought the other day.

I can no longer hide the bump beneath empire waists—they just make me look like a pear.

But when I sent Luke a picture of me wearing this dress in the fitting room, he video called me in response, insisting that I buy it, and whatever else I wanted, on his card.

“Here you are, darling,” says the gorgeous woman he’d been talking to previously as she reaches out to hand him a drink. She looks over at me expectantly, before reaching her hand out to say, “Hi, I’m Adele Becker. Hans’s wife.” Her German accent is faint, but present.

Hans . His name doesn’t even ring a bell, and I wonder if I ever knew it, or if I was too busy wishing he was Luke to even care.

“Hi,” I say, taking her hand. “I’m Eva Hartmann.”

“So nice to meet you,” she says. “I’m sure Hans mentioned we’re sponsors for this organization. What about you?”

Sponsors. So he must have been in Italy that night for the same reason I was—the international skating competition.

I wonder for a moment if she would’ve recognized me as a skater if I’d said I was Eva Wilcott? Probably not. I doubt sponsors for the large international organization that hosts these skating events really get to know the hundreds of skaters, from dozens of countries, who compete.

“Uhh...” I trail off, trying to figure out whether there’s some lie that can get me out of this situation.

If I wasn’t still competing, that might be possible, but if I attend the qualifier or compete in the Olympics, they’ll likely see me again.

Plus, they could pick up Society magazine at the airport on the way home, and I’d be right there on the front of it, next to Luke.

“I’m a pairs skater for the US, actually. ”

“Oh, that’s delightful. I love pairs skating,” she says, her smile broad as she loops her hand in the crook of her husband’s elbow.

Husband . I’ve been so stunned by all of this, it’s just now sinking in that this guy—Hans—is married. Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I ask, “So how long have you two been married?”

Maybe, like me, it’s a more recent development and he wasn’t actually cheating on her.

“Oh,” Adele says with a smile as she looks over at Hans, apparently not noticing that my question has come out of left field. “What’s it been, about seven years now?”

Oh fuck.

He most definitely was not wearing a ring that night. That part I do remember because I checked when he first sat down next to me at the bar—three drinks before I went up to his room with him.

Hans gives a stiff nod, and I watch Adele’s expression grow concerned. I remember her husband being extremely personable, not the rigid statue standing in front of me, and I suspect she’s wondering why his whole personality has changed.

“And you?” he asks, nodding his chin toward my left hand, which currently rests on my belly.

I should tell him I’ve been married for years, too, so he doesn’t wonder if this child is his.

But I can’t. That fucking article is out there on every newsstand in the country, and according to Morgan, our story has been trending on various social media platforms since it released less than two weeks ago.

I’ll just have to hope that because I don’t look as pregnant as I am, he’ll assume I got pregnant after our night in Italy.

“Almost two months, actually,” I say.

“That’s so exciting! And that ring is gorgeous, just like you,” Adele says with a huge, genuine smile. If she wasn’t married to the biological father of my baby, I’d adore this woman.

“Thank you,” I say, knowing that I need to make my escape before any more questions are asked.

“It was so nice meeting you two, but my husband just got home from a trip, and I can feel my phone buzzing in my purse. He’s probably wondering why I’m not back yet, so I’m going to run. Enjoy the rest of the night.”

Then I spin on my heel and hightail it toward the door as fast as I can, not even caring about the lies I just told. I’m stepping outside when a strong hand grasps my forearm and I’m pulled to a stop.

“What the fuck are you up to, showing up and introducing yourself to my wife like this?” I recognize the anger in Hans’s voice, and it pisses me off. He has no right to be angry here. He is the one who cheated on his wife. And besides, she’s the one who introduced herself to me.

My heart is pounding in my throat as I turn to confront him, and the movement has his hand falling to his side where it belongs. “ You don’t get to be angry in this situation. I had no idea who you were or that you’d be here.” I practically spit the words at him.

His gaze travels to my belly yet again, and I slide my hand over it protectively. I don’t even want his eyes on my baby bump. “Like hell you didn’t. I don’t know what kind of games you’re playing here?—”

“I’m not playing any games. I didn’t know who you were or that you’d be here,” I reiterate. “Trust me, I did not come here looking for you.”

He scoffs, and the sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable when he says, “I’m sure you didn’t.”

“You are the last person on the planet I’d want to see.”

“And yet, here you are. What do you want? Hush money to keep this a secret?”

I’d laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation—of him thinking that I somehow want him involved or want something from him—if only I could breathe. But my head aches and my heart is racing so fast I feel almost lightheaded. “I need to go...”

His hand clasps around my forearm again, squeezing harder this time. “We need to talk about this.”

I press my free hand to my forehead, hoping to quell the ache. “I can’t right now.”

He nods toward a coffee shop two doors down. “Meet me there tomorrow morning at eight.”

Before I can agree or turn him down, he’s gone—back into the restaurant, back to his wife.

I have half a mind to follow him and tell him to fuck right off.

To tell his wife what he did and show her the proof.

But that would ruin everything . And besides, I have a killer headache.

I turn toward the street, desperate to get home as quickly as possible, but a wave of dizziness hits me and sends me staggering forward, where I grip the back of a wooden bench that sits in front of the restaurant.

Passersby on the sidewalk give me ample room, probably thinking I just stumbled out of there drunk and am about to throw up. Though come to think of it, I do feel nauseous.

I collapse onto the bench, and that’s when I start connecting the signs: the band of pressure tightening around my head, the dizziness, the nausea. What did Dr. Lowery say? Was I supposed to call 911 in this case, or just go to the hospital?

My thoughts are jumbled and confused, so I dig my phone out of my purse to call Luke and ask him.

But it never even rings, it just goes straight to voicemail.

His phone is probably still in airplane mode.

I dial Morgan. She was packing up her stuff at my place, where she’d stayed with me the past two nights, when I headed out for this event.

If she’s home now, she’s only a block away.

“What’s up, babe? I thought you’d be home getting freaky with your husband by now?” she says with a laugh when she answers her phone, but I’m having a hard time forming words in response. “Eva?”

“Are you home? I need you.” My words are panicked and barely audible. I can’t tell if they sound as jumbled as they feel, but now I’m truly freaking out. I press my free hand to my forehead, trying to suppress the ache, but it doesn’t help at all.

“Yes, where are you?”

“Restaurant,” I tell her, hoping she remembers which one I was going to. “Please, hurry.” There are spots clouding the edges of my vision and making me dizzy, so I lie down on the bench. And that’s when my phone clatters to the ground.