Page 16 of Never Dance with the Devils (Never Say Never #6)
MADDOX
I f I thought the last two months sucked balls, the last two days have sucked sweaty, hairy ones.
Since the disastrous meeting, Riggs and I have been in pissy moods, and though I’d like to think I’m handling Kayla’s rejection with some degree of mature acceptance, the truth is I’ve been unable to pull myself out of this funk.
And I’ve tried—watching my highlight reel, playing music too loudly, swimming laps, and going on runs around the neighborhood where I counted cute dogs.
And yes, all dogs are cute and I was lucky enough to see nine of them.
But none of it has helped. Okay, the fluffy dachshund helped a little since he wanted a belly rub, and I have a soft spot for the breed, but the smile was fleeting at best.
What’s worse, if I’m cranky, Riggs has gone full-blown curmudgeonly, stomping around the house and slamming weights during his twice a day workouts.
Thankfully, the floor in the gym is twelve inches of solid concrete and two inches of rubber matting, or else we’d have a divot by now.
It’s not a tantrum. It’s pure, unfiltered disappointment, and also, a fair amount of self-punishment because of course, Riggs blames himself for Kayla turning us down.
I thought something magical happened in that hotel room.
I’ve played it out in my head over and over since then—the sparkle in Kayla’s eyes, the way she fit between us so perfectly, and how she somehow made always-serious Riggs feel lighter and too-often-unserious me feel heavier, in a good way.
It’d seemed right, like the thing I wasn’t even searching for had simply shown up right in front of me with a smile and a smart mouth.
I foolishly thought if we could find her, it would happen again.
Easy-peasy, boom-boom-boom, with one boom for each of the three of us.
Instead, it’s all gone majorly awry. Kayla said no even though I could see she wanted to say yes, Riggs is hurt deeply where he doesn’t want to talk about, and I’m stuck in the middle, unable to do anything about either side.
But I haven’t given up nor admitted defeat. Not yet.
Things haven’t always come easily to Riggs or me.
Growing up with hopes and dreams of playing professionally, you learn quickly that it’s not only a long-shot, but also nearly impossible.
In fact, it’s more likely you’ll get struck by lightning in your lifetime than make it to the pros.
But if you want it, you try anyway. You go to those six AM practices when you’re tired, injured, and beat down by losses, coaches, and shitty teammates.
You drag yourself through school, catching up on sleep in twenty- and thirty-minute naps while trying to stay on top of the books, only to go back to the rink after school where you stay for hours, long after everyone else has gone home for the night.
You dedicate yourself to learning and relearning skills and drills, running them over and over until they’re not only textbook, but they’re also second nature.
You hype yourself up, win or lose, not letting your belief in yourself waver for a second.
You force your way to the front of the line to be seen by the right people, whether that’s coaches, scouts, or agents.
And if you make one of the big youth teams, or a college team? You start the whole process all over again, once again on the bottom of the pile and needing to work your way up.
In short, you work your ass off for it. And the same way I refused to let go of my goal to be a pro in the big leagues, I’m holding on to this idea that I can recreate the magic we had with Kayla. I just have to figure out how.
Catching Riggs in the kitchen as he heats up a pre-made steak bowl—thank God for food delivery services—I decide to make the most of the three minutes on the microwave.
“Are we seriously just gonna drop it? Like that?” I ask him for the dozenth time. He’s still no more receptive to my insistence that we need to do something. And yeah, I don’t know what, but there’s got to be something… more.
Sighing heavily, he turns to me with a dark, bitter look. Shit, I haven’t seen him this far gone in ages, like the venomous voice in his head is winning.
Even so, his argument is sound as he tells me (again), “You heard her say the same things I did, but did you actually listen? She didn’t just say no.
She told us loud and clear that whatever this is…
or was … isn’t something she can do. Not that she didn’t want to, not that she didn’t enjoy the hell out of it, or that she won’t, but th at she can’t .
You’ve gotta respect that she has this whole life where she’s this big, powerful, important person, and neither of us is the type of guy she’s gonna walk into some fancy-schmancy gala with.
And she’s certainly not gonna do that with both of us. ”
Okay, he has a point there. Of the two of us, I’m more likely to do the tuxedo thing for a charity ball, but even so, I’ve never actually worn a tuxedo in my life.
Even when I got drafted by the Devils, I wore the black suit I’d previously worn to my grandpa’s funeral and a pink tie because Mom had just had a breast cancer scare.
But seeing Kayla’s life online, I think she probably attends formal functions on the regular.
But if having her in our lives comes down to my getting comfortable in a suit, I’ll figure out how to tie a bowtie myself and strap one on every day. She’d be worth it.
“Maybe we came on too hard?” I suggest. “She did say that we should’ve called her.” I’m reaching and I know it, but I’m not a giver-upper. It’s not in my nature.
Riggs thinks I brush everything off easily, but that’s not true.
Sure, something minor like traffic, no big deal, or missing a shot, it sucks but it happens.
But big things not going my way wears on me.
Of course it does. I’d have to be inhuman for it not to.
I just don’t dwell on shit like he does, which is to say outwardly, where everyone knows you’re in a mood.
I push that shit down, underneath smiles and jokes, and carry on, dealing with it later.
Or never. Still, I can’t let Kayla go that easily.
This thing with her feels more like hockey, like something I need to keep banging away at until it happens. Until I make it happen.
“Called as opposed to showing up unannounced at her office,” Riggs clarifies.
“That doesn’t mean she wants us to call her.
” He can see that while I’m listening, I’m not hearing him, and goes for a blunt reminder.
“You don’t even know her number, so you can’t call her anyway. Let it go, man. Let her go. ”
I wish I could.
No, that’s not true. I wouldn’t wish away the sense of rightness I felt with her and Riggs that night. And it’s not like he’s doing any better at letting Kayla go. This has been tearing him up all weekend, so he’s talking to himself as much as he is to me.
“I did take Kayla’s business card from Angeline, so I have her office number, which is as good as it probably gets,” I tell him. “It’s not like you can get a direct line to a woman like Kayla Harrington.”
He rolls his eyes, turning to the beeping microwave. “Remember the part where she thought we were stalking her? You’re dangerously close to standing ten toes down in felony territory.”
“Not stalking, pursuing,” I drawl out. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes warning me that I’m going too far.
Reluctantly, I admit, “Okay, yeah, I heard it that time. How about courting instead? In a romantic, Hallmark movie sort of way.” I make it sound sweet and cute, despite my thoughts about Kayla being anything but.
Arms spread and palms flat on the counter, he stares at his steaming food. He’s going to cave, I can feel it. He can’t let her go any more than I can. “I’m not saying yes,” he says firmly, “but what exactly do you have in mind?”
“Flowers,” I say with complete surety. Then, I hold up a finger to stop Riggs before he can argue with me.
“Not roses.” He clacks his mouth shut, his fight deflating.
“ Obviously . That’d be boring and expected, and I think we can agree that a woman like Kayla Harrington warrants more creativity than that.
No, I’m thinking a huge, dramatic, mixed bouquet.
Pink? But not pale pink. More like a mix from blush to fuchsia.
Girly and pretty, but vibrant and strong.
Like Kayla.” I’m making it up as I go along, but in my mind, I can picture an arrangement worthy of a wedding, and hopefully not our funeral.
“Hmph,” he grunts, unimpressed. “What else?”
But he’s on the hook, and mentally, I sing, ‘ here, fishie, fishie’ .
“With a card apologizing for the blindside, and saying that we’re still thinking of her and hope she’s thinking of us.”
Waiting for him to agree feels like waiting for the puck to drop, like the action I constantly crave is less than a heartbeat away. Steady… steady… wait for it…
“That could work,” he finally says.
I throw my arms in the air in a V of victory. “Yes! I knew you’d be on board… eventually. After you got over your hurt feewings .”
“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, sounding like he’s the long-suffering one in our partnership when he only has to deal with me.
I have to deal with him . Louder and sterner, he decrees, “We send it with no expectations from her for more. We do owe her an apology, and I do hope she’s thinking good things about us.
But that’s it. No pressure. She drew her line in the sand, and we need to respect that. ”