Page 14 of Rematch (Stingrays Hockey #3)

Chapter Five

One year later…

Preston tightened his jacket around him, cursing the cold wind that had kicked up since he’d decided to walk to the restaurant rather than drive.

It was a pretty, if chilly morning, but it wasn’t like he was a stranger to the cold.

Hell, after spending a lifetime playing on ice, it was rare that he even felt cold.

But today’s biting wind—paired with his too-light jacket—was in danger of freezing his nuts off.

He should have driven, but he’d hoped a nice brisk walk outside might energize him. He’d been sluggish and…well, blue since Thanksgiving. For a few days, he wondered if he was coming down with something, but when the doldrums persisted, he realized his troubles were mental, not physical.

Preston was typically an upbeat guy, but this had been a tough year for him, starting with saying goodbye to Chelsea last December. While it had been hard to watch her walk away, he honestly thought he’d bounce back. That the memory of her would fade and he’d move on.

More the fool him.

The immediate attraction or infatuation or whatever the hell it was when he’d met her had only grown with each passing month, until he’d reached this point. This celibate, never-go-out-on-dates, lonely bachelor state that showed no signs of ending.

Possibly ever.

He crossed over a couple of blocks, hoping to find a side street that was less wind tunnel before continuing in the direction of the restaurant where he was meeting Victor for breakfast.

This new route was less familiar, the street one he never walked or drove down.

After a few blocks, he slowed his pace, noticing several new businesses had sprung up in the area.

They’d been gentrifying this street in stages over the past few years, but he’d missed the latest round of improvements to what was now a lovely tree-lined block.

The storefronts advertised an array of shops and boutiques, offering everything from candles to Baltimore souvenirs to an Italian deli.

Halfway down the block, he paused when a sign across the street caught his eye.

“Sugar and Spice Bakery.” There was a cardboard sign tucked in the corner of the window that said, “Coming Valentine’s Day.”

Sugar and Spice was Chelsea’s dream bakery name.

Just recalling it took him back to that night last year, the one he’d played over in his mind so many times, it was a wonder he hadn’t gone mad.

While he knew this couldn’t be Chelsea’s bakery, given the fact she lived in Paris, he still couldn’t help but hope.

Then he shook himself. Even if Paris hadn’t worked out, she would have moved back to her hometown, to Philadelphia. The chances of her opening a bakery twelve blocks from his condo in Baltimore were zero to nil.

Regardless, he stood there for a full minute, tempted to cross the street and peer in the window. It was a stupid whim but a powerful one. After all, what would it hurt to take a closer look? It wasn’t like he could obsess over the one who got away any more than he already did.

Given it was nearly nine on a weekday, there were a fair amount of people walking around, all of them with their heads down, dashing off to their nine-to-fives.

There was quite a bit of traffic as well, as a steady stream of commuters drove to work, which meant that as he stepped to the end of the curb to cross, he was forced to wait.

Then he remained where he was when he saw a tall man in an expensive suit stop in front of the bakery window, waving to someone inside.

It wasn’t until Preston saw her step outside that he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Chelsea.

It was his Chelsea.

His Joy.

Here in Baltimore.

Preston froze, blinking rapidly, convinced he was seeing things. Perhaps today was the day he finally went around the bend, losing his mind once and for all.

It didn’t make sense for her to be here, and yet…

She smiled as she approached the man. Even from across the street, he could see the smile was somewhat forced, not the genuine, easygoing ones she’d given him.

Preston couldn’t hear what Chelsea and the man were saying as he was too far away, and there was too much noise from the foot and vehicle traffic.

He also couldn’t beat back the sudden rush of jealousy as the man bent toward her, cutting the personal space between them in half.

This didn’t feel like a polite conversation between acquaintances.

They were too familiar with each other, the man too friendly.

Preston had wished for an entire year that he could see Chelsea again, and now here she was, less than thirty feet from him, and he couldn’t make himself move, too many questions holding him back.

Why wasn’t she in Paris?

When had she moved to Baltimore from Philadelphia?

Who was this man?

Why was he standing so close to her?

Full-blown envy erupted when the man reached out, tucking one of Chelsea’s curls behind her ear, the action too intimate for Preston’s peace of mind.

Unfortunately, it was only the man’s face Preston could see clearly, Chelsea turned at an angle so that he only caught the occasional glimpse of her profile. As such, he couldn’t see how she was looking at the man.

Was she in love with him?

Were they a couple?

That idea hit hard, and as much as he hated to acknowledge it, it hurt. Bad.

Chelsea lifted one arm, pointing to something inside the bakery as she and the man continued to speak.

Preston drank in the sight of her because, holy fuck, the past year had been good to her.

Her hair was longer, her curves curvier, her hips wider, her breasts larger, and that ass. Fuck , he loved her ass.

She was a living, breathing goddess, and the woman who’d invaded every single one of his dreams since the night they’d met.

And here he stood, immobile, unable to make himself approach her.

Not just because of the other man.

What if Chelsea didn’t remember who he was?

What if he’d been the only one to build that night up into something magical and unforgettable and perfect?

He mentally cursed at himself and took a step off the curb, refusing to be a goddamn coward.

However, he didn’t take another when the man leaned forward and kissed Chelsea.

Preston turned away rapidly, his heart thudding too hard in his chest. There was no way he could watch another man kiss her.

Departing quickly—lest he lose his mind, cross the street, and punch the fucker out—he maintained a steady, relentless pace, refusing to look back.

When he arrived at the restaurant, he was out of breath and torn between pure rage and utter despair. Victor was already waiting for him in a booth, and the astute bastard read both expressions before Preston could even attempt to school his features. Not that he was trying too hard.

“That’s a fucking brutal look,” Victor grumbled as Preston joined him. “What the fuck happened? Did someone piss in your aquarium?”

Preston didn’t—couldn’t—fix his face, so the scowl remained. “I’m fine,” he replied, too shortly to sell the words.

Victor snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

Before his friend could continue to question him, the waitress, Yvonne, approached them. “Hey, Preston, Victor. You guys want to start with something to drink while you look at the menu?”

The fact Yvonne knew their names, and they knew hers, was a testament to just how much Preston and his Stingrays teammates hung out here.

Sunday’s Side was the restaurant attached to their preferred watering hole, Pat’s Pub, and it was Preston’s favorite place for breakfast. He didn’t have a clue what the cook, Riley, put in her blueberry pancakes to make them so light and delicious, but he would walk a hundred miles across the desert on his knees for an order.

“I’ll have a coffee,” Victor said. “Black.”

Preston didn’t usually drink coffee, but he was having a hard time giving a shit what he drank or ate at the moment. “Same.”

Yvonne smiled as she flipped the cups already on their table, filling them with the pot she’d carried over with her. “Okay. Do you need a few minutes, or are you going with the usual?”

Yep. They were here a lot.

Victor, also a huge fan of the pancakes, spoke for both of them. “The usual. Tall stacks with the side of bacon.”

Yvonne chuckled. “Y’all really should consider trying something else. I promise it’s all good.”

Ordinarily, Preston was the one carrying on the polite conversation with Yvonne, as Victor was a grumpy bastard on a good day.

Preston must’ve look more pissed off than he realized, considering Victor was taking one for the team and handling all the chitchat, he and Yvonne sharing some pleasantries and talking about the season.

Yvonne was part of the Collins clan who ran the restaurant and pub, and if there were bigger Stingrays fans in the city, Preston hadn’t met them yet.

Once Yvonne left to put in their order, Victor leaned back, his arms resting on the top of the booth. “Alright. Spill.”

“Nothing to spill,” Preston lied.

Victor studied his face hard, then growled. “Sure, there isn’t. Listen, when the guys heard we were going to breakfast this morning, they appointed me their fucking spokesperson, even though I said fuck no .”

“Spokesperson?”

“The guys want to know what the hell is going on with you, man.”

Preston didn’t want to talk about any of this. Not his depression. Not Chelsea. Not that fucking asshole who was kissing her.

He thought he’d been pretty good at shielding his blues, but if his teammates had noticed…

Time to deflect.

“What do you mean?”

Victor frowned, annoyed at the way he was playing dumb. “You’ve been a fucking sad sack since Thanksgiving. Usually, you’re more annoying than that Will Farrell Elf character at the holidays, and today you walked in here looking like somebody just fucking punched your mother. So what gives?”

“I’m just not feeling it this year. Not feeling a lot of things lately,” Preston confessed. Especially not today. Not now that he’d seen Chelsea with that man.