Page 14

Stone

“ C ome on up.” Remy’s voice crackles through the intercom outside her complex, grainy under the sound of the continuing rain. “Apartment door’s open.”

The thrum of angry music vibrates behind her words, all grinding bass and raw vocals. It’s something dark and industrial that I’ve never heard her play before.

Remy’s usually a jazz, world music, or indie folk-rock girl.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, but the buzzer is already blaring.

The elevator looks like it’s out of service, so I take the stairs, each step up to the third floor weighted with memories of tonight’s shitty family dinner.

I can’t believe Coach went there, flat out saying he didn’t think Remy had what it takes to land the Seattle job without help from people with more experience. I especially can’t believe he went there without preparing any of the parties involved. Call me crazy, but it seems like someone—me, Justin, or, I don’t know, his daughter —should have been given a heads up about his “pro coaching help” plan.

If he’d consulted his guests ahead of time, all the awkwardness and hurt of this evening could have been avoided. Any one of us could have explained to him that Remy didn’t need our help and, even if she did, this wasn’t the way to go about offering it.

Hell, he didn’t offer anything. He laid down the law and called the plays, the way he always does. But Remy isn’t one of his players, and we weren’t on the ice. As my niece would say, it was all “so cringe,” I could barely force down my food.

The way Coach dismissed everything Remy’s accomplished, dismissed her experience as a woman in the game, and blasted past her boundaries without even seeming to hear her…

Honestly, it was painful to watch.

I don’t understand why he can’t see the truth right in front of him. Remy is an incredible player, a kick ass coach, and an almost intimidatingly successful professional. Basically, she’s the last person who needs her daddy to step in and help her find her way. She’s a fucking powerhouse, more than capable of calling her own shots and charting her own course.

Coach should have been telling her how proud he was, not embarrassing her in front of people she works with every day.

No wonder she’s pissed off and busting out her angry music collection…

As I climb the stairwell that lets out not far from her apartment, the heavy beat echoes off the concrete walls. By the time I reach the third floor, I can make out the lyrics to “Head Like a Hole” by Nine Inch Nails.

Ouch. She’s cruised right over to the pitch-black side of the angsty rock spectrum…

When I reach her door, the music is loud enough to vibrate the bones in my chest. I let myself in, as directed, and…freeze in the doorway.

It looks like a bomb went off in the middle of her tidy apartment. Or like she was raided by an FBI team who’d been tipped off that she’s hiding national secrets in her hockey player memoir collection.

Remy moves back and forth in front of her usually pristine bookshelves, dressed in cutoff shorts and an oversized Portland State sweatshirt, pressing up on tiptoe in her bare feet as she methodically strips the top shelf bare. Half her books and trophies already litter the floor in chaotic piles, and she’s hard at work decimating the rest.

Her movements are efficient, controlled, but also quick and a little scary.

“Hey there, Bossy,” I call out over Trent Reznor’s scream-singing, aiming for a teasing tone. “Hope I’m not interrupting your rage cleaning. That’s my favorite kind. Only time cleaning is actually fun.” I pick my way around a mound of award plaques that once lined a lower shelf. “Well, maybe fun’s too strong a word, but at least…” I trail off, searching my database, but it’s been a long day, and the brain meat isn’t playing nice. “What’s that word?” I shout. “The one that means that you got all the feelings out?”

“Cathartic,” she shouts back without missing a beat or a step. “You can turn it down if you want. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

“Right, thanks,” I say, gratefully lowering Trent’s volume to a less ear-splitting decibel. When I’m done, I continue in a gentler tone, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re smart and pretty and look really hot in jean shorts?”

She shoots me a tight smile but doesn’t stop gathering books into her already heavily loaded left arm. Tension still vibrates in the air, dinosaur footsteps warning that the T-Rex is just around the corner and she’s pissed .

“Is there um…anything I can help with?” I ask. “Are we dusting or…”

“No, I’m not dusting. Or rage cleaning.” She dumps her latest load of books onto an already overflowing pile with a lack of concern for page and binding damage that is also out of character. “Just purging myself of shit that no longer serves. I’ve heard Stephanie say that at least a dozen times in yoga class, but I never really understood what it meant. At least, not at a deeper level.”

She pauses, chewing her bottom lip as she moves back to the shelf, approaching her MVP-Minnesota State Championships trophy, the largest in her substantial collection. “Now, I think I do. It came to me in a rush on the way home. All of a sudden, it was all so clear.” She swipes a rough thumb over the golden plate at the base of the trophy, where her full name—Artemis Leanne Lauder—is inscribed. “Do you know of any resale stores or charities that accept things like this as donations? Or should I just throw it away?”

“Hey, now, killer,” I say, starting toward the shelf. “Let’s put a pin in this for a second, okay? Talk this through a little before we head for the Dumpster?”

I extend a hand, but she grabs the trophy instead, avoiding eye contact as she paces away. “Thanks, but I don’t need to talk it through. I don’t want any of this crap anymore. I really don’t.”

“Listen, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. The stunt your dad pulled tonight was complete bullshit. But that doesn’t mean?—”

“No, it wasn’t bullshit.” She turns back to me with a laugh that sounds more angry than amused. “I mean, it was, but that’s just Dad. That’s who he is, Stone. Who he’s always been. And he’s never going to change.”

She starts pacing again, the trophy still clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her bare feet slap against the hardwood as she moves, her cheeks flushing pink as she gains momentum. “More importantly, he’s never going to let me change. Never. No matter how old I get, or how successful I am, or how many trophies my teams win. I will never get to be a fully-fledged adult professional working in this sport without my father feeling entitled to stick his nose into my business any time he feels like it. And people will always listen to him because?—”

She continues in a deeper voice, impersonating the hockey bros who are always eager to kiss her dad’s ass. “Oh, wow, look, it’s Tim Lauder, the famous hard-ass of hockey. Wow, Tim, how did you win so many titles and turn so many losing teams around? Is it just because you’re committed to being a huge hairy dick or is there another strategy involved?”

She lets out another strained laugh as she lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “People are always so desperate to please him. To win the famous Coach Lauder’s seal of approval.” Her jaw clenches. “But not me. Not anymore.”

She thrusts the trophy toward me again, pointing to it with her free hand. “I never cared about this shit. Never. I just wanted to be a great player and keep getting better. Dad’s the one who acted like our dog had died if my team didn’t bring home first place or I wasn’t named MVP. Except that our dog couldn’t die because I didn’t get to have a dog growing up, no matter how much I loved animals or how many times I begged for one. Dad was too busy coaching and deciding who I should grow up to be to care about anything else. And I just let him decide that for me. Decide what mattered. Decide who I had to be.”

The music pounds softly behind her words as she moves, matching the fury in her steps. Her pale skin is bright red now, and her breath is coming faster, but she shows no sign of stopping.

“Even as an adult, even once I finally realized I’m the one who gets to decide what I care about, not him, I’ve always pretended we’re still on the same page. I’ve kept the peace and played along instead of speaking up. And it isn’t because I’m afraid of him or think he’s right or anything like that.”

She stops moving, her green eyes blazing as she focuses on something over my shoulder, something I suspect only she can see. “It’s because, deep down, I think I knew it was pointless,” she continues in a softer, but no less emotion-filled voice. “He will never see me as anything but an extension of him, a reflection of him. And as long as that’s true, I never get to be a real person. I’m just…a trophy.”

She drops the trophy on the floor beside the books, where it lands with a heavy thud.

Before I can respond, she whirls and kicks the bookshelf with a guttural sound of rage. The built-in, designed to survive decades of tenants, doesn’t budge, obviously, but Remy does.

A beat after impact, she crumples with a whimper of pain, grabbing her bare foot as she hops backward.

I lunge forward, catching her before she can fall, but she pushes me away, dropping onto the couch and curling around her injured foot like a wounded animal. Her face is a mask of anger fighting to win the battle against grief, her jaw clenched tight as she refuses to give in to the tears shining in her eyes.

I grab the speaker remote from the coffee table again, silencing Trent mid-snarl.

The sudden quiet feels thick, heavy with everything she just let out into the open, probably for the first time, if I had to guess.

Crossing my legs, I sink down onto the floor in front of her, curling my fingers. “Let me see.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Shh.” I reach for her foot, gently, but firmly. “Let my magical healing touch fix it. Works on Barb every time someone accidentally steps on her toes. Which happens more than you’d think when you have a dog the size of a loaf of bread.”

“She’s not as big as a loaf of bread,” Remy chokes out.

“Okay, fine. A croissant? No, she’s bigger than a croissant. Maybe a filled donut? Or a cream horn? The long skinny kind, not the big round kind, obviously.”

“Obviously.” She lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, but as I cradle her foot in my palms, the tension vibrating in her muscles slowly begins to fade. Her big toe is swelling up, but I don’t think it’s broken, and hopefully it’s nothing ice and a pain-killer can’t cure. “You do have a healing touch, you know,” she murmurs after a long moment.

“I know,” I say with a toned-down version of my shit-eating grin. “I’m a man of many gifts.”

“You are.” Her bottom lip trembles as she adds in a whisper, “I love him, you know. I love him so much, but…it hurts sometimes. It really hurts.”

My heart splinters at the raw emotion in her voice. “I’m so sorry, babe. This just… Well, it fucking sucks. Growing up, my parents were always so careful to make sure all their kids knew that we got to choose our own path and be our own people. And that they loved us and supported us, no matter what. I can’t imagine how hard this is. And how much harder it was when you were little.” I stroke my thumb across her arch, wishing I could soothe away more than just her physical pain. “You’re so damned strong. Seriously.”

She’s quiet for a long, long time. Then, in a voice so soft I almost miss it, she whispers, “But I’m tired of being strong, Stone.” The words carry a hint of shame, as if admitting that she’s tired isn’t something that’s allowed. Not for Tim Lauder’s daughter. “I just want to be me. And for that to be enough for once.”

“It is.” I hold her gaze, willing her to see that it’s the truth. The highest truth there is. “It’s all you have to be or ever should be. And it’s all I want, Rem. I just want you. The real you. Full stop.”

The tears in her eyes swell and spill over, but she’s smiling a small, heartbreaking smile as she nods. “I know you do. Me, too. With you. I just want you.”

Something shifts between us, an unspoken revelation that hovers in the air, intense, but beautiful.

Then she’s sliding off the couch into my lap, her lips finding mine with a need that takes my breath away. I catch her, steadying her with palms molded to her ribs as she straddles my thighs. Our kiss quickly grows wild, urgent, but also honest in a way we’ve never been with each other before.

Not even last weekend.

Clothes disappear, skin meets skin, but this isn’t just about desire or even comfort. This is about connection, about being seen and accepted and welcomed into the deepest parts of each other. With Remy, I can drop the social mask and just…be.

Be myself, be the Stone who isn’t always funny or easy or perfectly presented for maximum enjoyment and acceptance. In the past eighteen months, Remy has seen me pissed off and sick with a nasty head cold and needy and freaking out about the end of my career and she keeps coming back for more. We’ve finally reached the place where neither of us is pushing this away or pretending it’s not real. Or rare. Or worth fighting like hell for.

When she finally lowers down on my dick, hot and tight and perfect, my heart hammers and my head spins. The sensation is almost too much—not just physically, but emotionally. It feels like she’s inside me as much as I’m inside her. Like we’re sharing the same skin as we begin to move.

She surrounds me, changes me, makes me better.

Makes me hers…

Her fingers dig into my shoulders as I hold her close, one hand splayed across her lower back, the other tangled in her hair. We gaze deep into each other’s eyes, completely locked in, and for the first time in my life, the intimacy of a moment like this isn’t scary. It’s epic and beautiful and hot as fucking hell.

She comes fast. I do, too. I don’t even try to fight it or draw things out. That isn’t what this is about. This is deeper than getting off or sexual gymnastics. This is about what we value, what we need, who we are.

It’s about us.

Us…

As we catch our breath after, her head on my shoulder, I don’t even try to hold back the words rising inside. “I love you.”

She pulls back, gazing at me with a peace that proves we’re on the exact same page. “I love you, too.” She sighs as she brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “I wish you didn’t have to leave. But I know Barb needs you.”

“Come with me.” I squeeze her bare hip. “Barb’s okay for a little longer. I can wait while you pack a little bag. Or a big bag.” I shrug, “Maybe a really big bag.”

Her grin makes me want to kiss her again, but if I do, I won’t be able to hear her tell me she’s off to grab her suitcase. “Tyler Stone, are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Would I do something crazy like that?” I ask with a matching grin. “But, I mean…you could just come stay with me for as long as you wanted without leaving. And then when you wanted to go, you could go. And if you never wanted to go… Well, that would be okay, too.”

She cocks her head as she asks in a teasing voice, “What about when you get sick of me hanging around and want alone time with Barb?”

“Never getting sick of you, Lauder.” I pat her bottom, doing my best not to get hard again, even though I’m still buried deep in her sweetness. We don’t have time for another quickie, and I want her to know I’m serious about this. “And Barb knows how to share. She’s a class act and she loves you, you know that.”

“I do. And you’re the best.” She leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. As she pulls back, she adds, “Can I think about it? See if it still feels like a good call when I’m not emotionally exhausted?”

“Absolutely, no rush and no pressure,” I say, honestly surprised to hear that she’s even going to think about it. Yes, we both dropped the “L” word, but the “L” word doesn’t magically dissolve all the obstacles in a couple’s path, and we’ve still got plenty of those.

She sighs as she glances over at the mess on the floor. “And I should probably stay here and take care of all this.”

“But don’t throw anything away,” I urge. “Not yet. Think about that, too. And if you decide you’re still ready to get rid of stuff later, I’ll help you deal with it before the season starts.”

She nods. “Thank you. That sounds smart.”

We dress slowly, easily, and she walks me to the door, where I pull her in for a long hug. “Glad to be on your team, Bossy.”

“Yours, too. Give Barb a kiss for me.”

“Will do,” I say before practically floating down the stairs and out to my Range Rover.

I’m a happy, happy man.

Still, as I drive home, I start to wonder how exactly I’m going to manage being on Remy’s team and Coach Lauder’s. I still have almost an entire year left with the Badgers. I can’t afford to tell my coach that he needs to pull his head out of his ass and be the kind of parent his adult daughter needs before it’s too late.

But how can I keep my mouth shut when deep down I know that he loves Remy as much as she loves him? I honestly think he’s just…clueless. Well, clueless and kind of an asshole, but mostly clueless.

Maybe I’m a tragic optimist, but I think there’s still hope for them.

Where there’s love, there’s hope.

The thought reminds me that Remy said she loved me, which has me grinning like an idiot again as I let myself into my apartment and scoop Barb into my arms. I tell her the whole story on the way out for a late walk in the finally cloudless night, and she agrees—Remy should totally move in with us.

And we should totally figure out how to help Remy and Coach find their way back to each other.

But how?