Page 46 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

Luke

T he first time I wake up, I’m on the floor of my condo with a blanket over my face. I bat it away, roll onto my stomach, and lift myself up on my hands and knees.

My head is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.

My knees slide on the hardwood floor as try to climb onto Big Red.

My muscles feel weak and tight as I reach out to clutch the arm of the couch, attempting to use it to help me stand.

My elbow buckles, and I fall back onto the floor. I take a breath in, slow and deep.

That’s when I notice there’s someone on the floor next to me. It’s Bree, curled up in a tiny ball, shivering in her sleep. I grab the blanket I shoved off myself and drape it over her.

“What the fuck?” I glance at the door, wondering how she got in since I never gave her a key.

Suddenly, my stomach rolls, and a cough sticks in my throat.

Instantly, I know what’s coming. I only have a few seconds to get to my bathroom before I puke.

Somehow, I jump to my feet and stumble to the bathroom, bumping the wall in the hallway with my shoulder at least three times before I can’t keep myself upright anymore.

I fall forward onto my hands and knees in front of the toilet.

I don’t even care that I start retching on myself instead of in the bowl. At least I made it to the bathroom.

Within seconds, someone’s pulling my hair out of my face. It doesn’t take long to realize it’s Bree raking her soft, gentle fingers through my unwashed hair. She pulls it taut at the bottom, near my neck, and secures it. “I’m going to help you, Luke. We’re going to get through this together.”

My beautiful, kind caretaker is an angel. She’s too sweet. Too kind. Too much of everything amazing in the world. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude, but it’s quickly shrouded in shame.

I’m a curse to the Collins family. She needs to stay away from me.

“Get away from me, Bree. Get far, far away from me.” My voice is a slurred whisper. I’m not even certain she can hear or understand me. “Run fast.”

My head drops, my temple banging into the rim of the toilet, and I black out.

The second time I wake up, I’m still hugging the toilet. The cold porcelain rim feels refreshing against my cheek. If I weren’t such a clean freak, I’d be completely disgusted, but I scrub and wipe down my toilet every day, so using the rim as a pillow isn’t as bad as it could be.

When I lift my head, I notice Bree sitting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with her legs stretched out in front of her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Like shit.” I close my eyes and rub them with my fingertips.

“Good.” Bree pulls her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest. The rims of her eyes are red. I’m a complete fucking asshole for making this beautiful woman cry.

“Touché.”

“What the fuck, Luke?”

Sitting back on my heels, I prepare myself to get railed, wishing like hell I had vodka in my hand. I can’t handle this. The last thing I ever wanted was for Bree to be mad at me. I need her to understand.

“Why did you lie about a road trip?” Her voice is calm and concerned, like she really wants to know, not accusatory, which is a surprise to me.

“I couldn’t face your brother,” I tell her honestly. “And I couldn’t face you after you found out the truth. About how I know— knew him.”

“Lying sounded like a better idea?” Again, more confusion and concern, not the reaction I would have had—another clue that she’s a better person than I am.

“Yeah.” I laugh in disgust at myself. “I ruined his life and made yours a living hell for years.”

“I don’t blame you, Luke. I honestly don’t. It’s… That’s not even what I’m here to talk about. You and Mason can hash that out.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’ve never been as happy as I have the last few months with you. And this, whatever this was, it hurt.”

“I know.” I swallow back my pride. “And I’m sorry.

But I’m not good enough for you, Bree. I can’t give you the life your parents have given you.

” I glance at the Tiffany bracelet she always wears, the one with the heart dangling from silver links.

“I probably can’t even afford the fucking socks you buy.

” I’m exaggerating, and we both know it, but on a larger level, it’s true.

“When did I ever ask you for anything? Have I come across as a high-maintenance person?”

“No, but I grew up in a shithole with a drug-addict mother. Your parents are successful business owners. How could I ever face them? How could I ever look them in the eyes and tell them that I deserve you, that I can take care of you? How could I tell them about my mom? It’s better to just end this now. ”

As I ramble, Bree crawls over and kneels in front of me. She slides her hands over my cheeks and into my hair. Grasping just above my ears, she holds my head still and stares into my eyes.

“No, it’s not better. I don’t care about any of that, Luke.

I love you. I love how you make me feel.

I love how sweet and kind you are. I love how genuine you are.

I am so proud of the man that you are. Knowing your past, and all the things you rose above, makes me even more proud of you.

You worked your ass off to create a better life for yourself and put all that behind you. ”

As she speaks, I try to shake my head out of her grasp to lower my eyes, but she holds me firm and won’t take her gaze from mine.

“You’re strong and tenacious. You’re successful and lovable. Your friends respect you. The kids and families at the hospital adore you. How does such an amazing man think he doesn’t deserve me?”

“I’m not that person, Bree. That’s just a few good qualities?—”

“Stop talking right now and listen to me. I know you are a confident—borderline cocky—man. So don’t try to pull this self-loathing shit right now.”

Her description makes me smile, which makes Bree smile, too. “I know you see the good in yourself, Luke. Don’t let my parents’ money throw a wrench in how you see me. I’m not rich. My parents are. You’re not a junkie. Your mom is. They made us, but they didn’t make us who we are. We did that.”

I can’t believe this woman loves me. I can’t believe she wants to be with me. Especially after what I pulled. I should have been honest from the start.

“Where do we go from here?” I ask. But before Bree can answer, I extend my arm and push her to the side, then lurch toward the toilet, where I proceed to puke again.

Bree jumps up and grabs a washcloth from the side of the sink. She runs it under cold water and wrings it out before pressing it against my forehead.

All I can think of is how perfect she is. And how I don’t deserve her. And how I’m willing to spend the rest of my life working my ass off to become a man who does.

The third time I wake up, I’m in my bed wearing only a pair of boxer briefs.

I have no idea how I got here or how I have underwear on since I can count the number of times I’ve worn underwear in the last six years on one hand.

My body shakes, my eyes water, and my throat is dry and scratchy as if I’ve been chasing impalas around the Serengeti for weeks.

Overwhelmed by nausea, I lean over and dry heave into a wastebasket that’s been strategically placed on the floor next to my bed.

There’s a glass of water on the nightstand.

With a shaky hand, I lift it to my mouth and take a huge sip.

Water—the fuel of our bodies—doesn’t help.

On the contrary, it makes an already horrible situation worse, teasing my sensitive stomach and sending my face straight back to hovering over the basket.

There’s a piece of paper on the table next to my bed with “This isn’t over” scrawled in Bree’s handwriting. I know she’s not talking about the hangover from hell, but I am so ready for this shit to be over. I deserve every second, but it fucking blows.

I need to thank her and let her know how much she means to me. How much she helped me.

“Bree?” I try to say, but my voice is just a squawk.

Jesus. Instead of trying to speak again, I slowly get up and shuffle into the living room.

Bree’s not there. But someone else is.

Fuck my fucking life right now.

I approach the couch slowly as if Mason Collins is some wild animal who’ll bolt if I get too close too fast. The hardwood floor creaks under my feet, and he looks up from the TV screen.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says without a smile.

“Hey,” I answer, raking hair out of my eyes and scratching my head. “Where’s Bree?”

“At work.”

“Awesome.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

“She made me babysit you to make sure you didn’t choke on your own puke.”

He has the same honesty as Bree, but she inherited the better bedside manner.

Mason’s unimpressed tone and look tell me I’m nowhere near the top of the list of people he wants to be hanging out with right now. Which makes sense since I’m the one who ruined his career—and life.

“I’m sorry about running out the other day,” I tell him. “And, uh, this.” I wave my hand around.

“We’ve all been there, Luke.”

Might as well get all the big shit off my chest while I have him here.

“That hit, the one that took you out—shit, man.” I collapse into the chair adjacent to the couch and drop my head to my hands as I contemplate what to say next.

I take a deep breath. “I’m really sorry.

You know how it is out there on the ice.

We’re in the moment, working every shift to get the W.

And you had your head down mid-ice. That’s like—” I stop because he knows how stupid it is.

“I didn’t intend to hurt you. I need you to know that. I’ve thought about it for years. I?—”

“Hold up,” Mason says, interrupting me mid-sentence.

I lift my head, ready to look at him and accept whatever he has to give after my confession.