Page 25

Lovie

M y hands are shaking, my mind racing, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline when I push through the door to Maya’s office and just start to walk, the sound of my heels against the floor and the whoosh of my heavy breathing the only noises I can hear.

We’re in the administrative part of the complex, and my feet carry past other Blue Crabs office workers, all looking merry in their Santa hats, ready for the upcoming break over the holiday.

As I walk past them, I try to keep my face calm, but I can’t stop myself from wondering—do they all know? Have they seen the article? Are they already thinking negatively of me?

I can already hear what people are saying: that I only got this job because I was screwing the coach. How I was doing it to keep my job. That Harrison somehow took advantage of me or forced me to do it, just because he happens to be older than me.

Trying to ignore any glances thrown my way, I focus on walking through the complex and getting to my car.

I should have known better. I should have known better than to go out in public so boldly with him. I should have known better than to let this thing get out of hand, over and over again.

I should have known better than to ever start this in the first place.

This job is important to me. I need the money for my dad, for my family—and here I am, risking it over what? My own selfish wants and bad planning? It’s not my family’s fault that I was too focused on school, on my career, to fall in love and do things the way everyone else does.

It’s not their fault that I waited too long. That having a baby of my own might be out of reach without the financial means to achieve it. So why would I be risking this thing, and their livelihood, just to go after something so reckless, so senseless?

“Lovie, wait?—”

I hear Harrison right behind me, his voice low, commanding, and shaking with anger.

In Maya’s office, I could see the way he hated seeing those pictures. That he’d allowed himself to forget the truth. Not only is a hall-of-famer NHL player, but currently he’s the coach of a team predicted to head straight to the playoffs this year.

Of course people recognized him. I saw people recognizing him, and was too caught up in the bliss of the moment to think through the consequences.

“Damn it, Lovie.” Harrison catches up to me, overtakes me, cuts me off. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling quickly, something determined just under the raw panic on his face.

But I see something over his shoulder that draws me away from him. That makes my heart drop, and when I step past him, he doesn’t try to physically stop me. He’s talking, but his words fade into the background, fuzzy and distorted.

Chrys and my dad are in the center of the lobby, standing right on the face of a large Blue Crab on the ground, the blue chandelier above them casting them in twinkling blue light.

My sister and father are right in front of me in the lobby. Here, in Baltimore.

Chrys turns, and her face lights right up, a smile zipping over her lips so fast it reminds me of when we were kids, when we’d sit in the grass together and watch the fireworks every summer. I remember the reflection of the lights off her eyes, the wonder written on her face.

Her hair is longer, and she looks a little thinner than I remember, though that could just be my worry over her. She’s wearing the same large, round glasses and simple makeup, but her outfit is different.

She’s wearing a Blue Crabs jersey. And so is my dad, seated in the wheelchair next to her, looking impossibly thin and pale, and yet as present as I’ve ever seen him, the light behind his eyes shining.

When he smiles at me, one side of his face lifts a little higher than the other, and it makes my heart break, to see him here, to think about the joy it must have brought him.

I also think about the hassle of an airplane, the pain he must have gone through just to get here.

And, finally, I remember the cost. The reason we weren’t going to see each other this holiday season.

Because round trip tickets from Portland to Baltimore were just a little too steep, and that was just for my one ticket, let alone two.

“Lovie,” Harrison says again, and when his hand brushes the back of my arm, it sends electric, enlightening sparks through my body.

I spin around, my heels clicking against the polished floor, “You? You brought them here?”

Uncertainty flickers over his face, and he swallows, his eyes darting between me and my family behind me. Then he finds my eyes, and his expression softens. “Lovie, let’s just talk about this.”

When he reaches for me again, I stumble backward, heart absolutely shuddering in my chest, throwing itself against my ribcage, desperately trying to get out.

This is worse than I thought—worse than a public scandal, worse than my sister finding out about my shady pregnancy tactics, worse even than losing this job and trying to find something else to pay my father’s medical bills.

It’s worse. It’s the fact that I’ve obviously, horrifically fallen in love with Coach Harrison Clark, and he’s standing in front of me, searching my face, probably seeing that love written all over it.

I can’t do this. I can’t do being in love.

I especially can’t do being in love with someone so much older than me. Who doesn’t want a baby. And who is married to Baltimore when my family is in Maine.

Nothing about us works—and I knew that from the start. I knew that it would be a dangerous game, to keep myself from falling in love with the charismatic stranger on the plane, the man who could convince me to step outside my comfort zone. Do things I’d never done before.

Finally, Harrison says, lowering his voice, “I thought you’d like it—to see them for the holidays.”

“Come on.” I turn away from him, facing my sister and dad, watching the expression on Chrys’ face change from happiness to confusion to apprehension when she looks between me and Harrison. “Come on, we’re going.”

“Going?” my dad asks, his bushy eyebrows shooting up, his eyes darting between me and Chrys. “We just got here!”

“I’d much rather have Christmas at home, wouldn’t you, Dad?” I lean down, pat him on the hand, feel the particular stress of not having seen him in so long. And now, when I am seeing him, it’s in this complicated situation.

He looks confused, but I don’t have time to think about it, don’t have time to linger on what this might look like.

We’re on the side of the arena that’s not open to the public, closer to the offices, but there are still tour groups wandering through, their heads snapping in our direction when they realize it’s Coach Harrison standing with us.

Reaching out for me.

“Lovie, just wait a second.” His hand lands on my sleeve gently, a plea. “We can talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk through,” I hiss, half under my breath, tears already threatening in my eyes. The back of mind—the one logical part of it I have left—is already making a plan for how to move forward.

I’ll go home with my dad and sister. I’ll find the money somewhere for the flights. Then, I’ll email Maya and apologize to her for this whole thing, ask for an extended break from being on-site over the holidays.

Given the current situation, I imagine they won’t mind me being away from Baltimore for a little while.

“Lovie.” When I finally meet his eyes, they’re deep blue, darker than I’ve ever seen them before. “There is a lot to talk about. This sucks, and I know that—but we can’t just let this thing go?—”

“There is no thing, Harrison. This was only ever an agreement.”

“You don’t mean that.” He crosses his arms, staring at me like I’m a player he knows he can get on the right path. “I know you’re scared, Lovie. But you don’t have to?—”

I feel Chrys scoot a little closer to me, her eyes darting between Harrison and I, confusion in the little wrinkle between her brows. She’s putting the pieces together, and the last thing I need right now is for my sister to find out what’s been going on between me and the coach.

When I lean closer to Harrison, he keeps his arms crossed, eyes darting over my face like he can figure out what I’m going to say before I say it. And maybe he can.

Keeping my voice as low as I possibly can, I whisper, “Section 2B, Harrison.”

Maybe I’d known, all those months ago, when I was writing the contract, that I would end up needing that section. He’s confused for a moment, then recognition registers, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I’m already turning away.

I can’t stay here. I can’t keep looking at him, talking to him. Because if I talk with him about this, I’m going to let him convince me to stay, to take it back, forget about the contract altogether.

He’ll remind me that my feelings for him have been getting far, far too serious.

And I can’t afford to be in love with Harrison Clark.