Page 15 of Rematch (Stingrays Hockey #3)

Victor studied his face closely. “You think it’s some sort of midlife crisis thing?”

Preston had considered that when he realized his struggles were mental, not physical.

But he’d dismissed the idea fairly quickly.

Because even if that was the case, the usual cures wouldn’t help because he already owned a shit-hot car, and he loved his condo overlooking the Inner Harbor.

So, it wasn’t like he could buy himself happiness or move.

On top of that, he had a decent social life with plenty of good friends—both his teammates and his neighbors—so he wasn’t hurting for company when he wanted it.

He’d even thought perhaps his sadness had been the result of losing Johnny and June back in September.

He’d bought his beloved clownfish right after he signed with the Rays, and they’d been a part of his life for fourteen years.

Just before Thanksgiving, he’d purchased two new clownfish and an even larger aquarium, and while he’d grown fond of the new fish, they weren’t the magic fix he’d been hoping for.

Which meant the problem was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to admit, not even to himself.

Chelsea.

“I’m only thirty-five. Too young for a midlife crisis.”

Victor didn’t reply, probably because he didn’t appear to agree.

While he really didn’t want to talk about his doldrums or the Chelsea sighting, Preston was kind of glad Victor was the elected spokesperson.

Because of all Preston’s teammates, Victor was the one most likely to relate to some of the shit that had been mucking his thoughts lately.

He and Victor weren’t just the oldest guys on the team; they were two of the longest-standing Rays, both playing for Baltimore for over a decade.

So, they had a shared history as far as their careers went.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to talk about some of the other, easier things he’d been thinking about recently.

God knew he wasn’t ready to deal with what he just saw down the street.

“How long do you think you’re going to keep playing?” Preston asked.

Victor’s brows rose so high, they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You thinking of retiring from hockey?”

Preston quickly shook his head, even though he wasn’t as sure of that answer as he might seem. “I’ve been at this for fifteen years, and believe me, I’m starting to feel every minute of that. In my back, my knees, my ankles.”

Victor smirked. “Tell me about it. Hockey takes its toll. But come on, man, we’re not past our prime yet. Shit. I feel like I’m just hitting my stride.”

Preston agreed with that. With each passing year, Victor got stronger and stronger. The guy was a beast on the ice, and there was no better defenseman in the league than Victor Reed.

“You are,” Preston agreed.

“And so are you,” Victor added.

Preston wasn’t so sure about that. While his playing hadn’t declined, he felt as if he’d reached a plateau these past couple of years.

If he asked his teammates and coaches about it, they would say they had no problem with that plateau because he was still a rock-solid left-winger.

He knew that. If his playing had slipped, he would have been the first one to put in more fucking hours in the gym and on the ice…

or, if it came to it, make the decision to walk away.

He was a competitive asshole, but he was also a team player who believed in earning every penny of his ridiculously generous salary.

Preston leaned back and sighed. “I’m not sure it’s the physical wear and tear of the job that’s getting me down. I think it has more to do with work/life ratio.”

Victor snorted. “You been talking to the team shrink?”

Preston chuckled miserably. He probably should talk to the shrink, but as soon as he thought it, he dismissed it. Fuck that jazz.

“What the fuck are you talking about, work/life ratio?” Victor pressed.

“It’s hard to have a social life during the season,” Preston explained.

“Bullshit. We go out plenty. You’re not talking about fucking partying; you’re talking about fucking. As in, you aren’t getting any. And we all know why.”

They did know why. All of his teammates knew about…her.

Preston rubbed his eyes. He’d already opened up to Victor, so why not go for broke? He needed advice.

“I just saw Chelsea. Fifteen minutes ago.”

If Preston had been in a better frame of mind, he would have laughed at Victor’s outright shock, his wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.

“Chelsea? Your fucking Chelsea?” he asked loudly.

Preston had long ago stopped noticing the way Victor dropped the F-bomb into sentences the way some people used commas, but the same didn’t hold true for the two elderly women at the table next to them, who were shooting very disapproving glances.

Unfortunately for them, Preston didn’t have it in him to curb Victor’s foul language today. “She’s not my Chelsea.”

His response seemed to catch Victor off guard. “She’s not?”

Preston shook his head. “Nope. Chelsea belongs to the guy I just saw her locking lips with down the street.”

Victor grunted in response to that information. “Well, that explains your award-winning disposition this morning. Are you sure it was Chelsea? I mean, isn’t she supposed to be in Paris?”

“I’m positive it was her, though I don’t have a clue why she’s not in Paris or how she ended up in Baltimore.”

Victor rubbed his jaw, which, even now, first thing in the morning, was covered with a five-o’clock shadow. Victor swore his beard grew back before he even finished shaving. “Back up and start at the beginning.”

“I decided to walk here rather than drive.”

Victor scowled. “In that jacket? It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

They got another dirty look from the old ladies, but Victor either didn’t see or didn’t care.

“The wind didn’t pick up until I was on my way here. I walked down a different street from my usual because it sheltered me from the cold better, and I saw a sign for a new bakery.”

At Victor’s blank expression, Preston explained, “Chelsea’s childhood dream was to open her own bakery. She planned on calling it Sugar and Spice.”

Victor cracked his neck, the action a regular habit that drove Preston crazy. “Never ceased to be amazed by how much shit you remember about a chick you hooked up with for one night a year ago.”

Preston ran a hand through his hair. “I remember everything about Chelsea.”

“So you saw the bakery,” Victor said, getting them back on track.

“It’s not open yet, but the sign is already there. I stopped short when I saw the words Sugar and Spice Bakery.”

“And then what?”

“I was standing across the street. Before I could walk over and check it out, another man stopped in front of the bakery, waving to someone inside.”

“Chelsea,” Victor said.

Preston pointed to the tip of his nose. “Yep. I don’t know who the guy was, but I could tell they were close. Like, really close.”

“Did you go over and talk to her?”

“No,” Preston replied. “I was going to, but then the guy started kissing her and I…”

“You couldn’t watch it, so you fucking stormed off.”

He and Victor had been teammates for a damn long time, and it showed. The guy knew him well.

Victor smirked. “So how the fuck do you know the guy’s a boyfriend? Maybe they’ve just gone on a few dates. Maybe it’s nothing serious. How hot and heavy was this kiss?”

Preston didn’t have a clue because the second the other man laid his lips on hers, he turned around and got the hell out of there. “As you said, I didn’t stick around to watch.”

Preston considered the body language between Chelsea and the other man.

They had stood close to each other, but Chelsea hadn’t hugged the guy when he showed up or acted overly excited to see him.

Of course, he’d been at a disadvantage, only able to see the man’s face during their interaction, which told him the guy was seriously into her.

Maybe Chelsea wasn’t as into the guy as he was her. That initial smile of hers had looked forced.

Or…

Maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Preston threw his head back, glaring at the ceiling. “What if he’s her boyfriend? What if it’s serious?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Preston’s groan prompted Victor to roll his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Romeo.”

This time, there was no missing the dirty looks the old women shot their direction. Victor acknowledged them with a single nod of the head, which Preston knew was as close as they were going to get to an apology.

Victor leaned closer to the table, his voice only slightly quieter when he said, “You’ve been crying in your fucking beer over that girl since last year.”

Preston scoffed. “I haven’t been crying in my beer,” he lied. Because he had been doing that.

“Have you slept with anyone else since Chelsea?”

Victor already knew the answer, so Preston treated it as a rhetorical question.

After all, the fact every single one of his teammates not only knew Chelsea’s name but that he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind, date anyone, sleep with anyone else, or freaking move on from the greatest one-night stand in history, was a testament to how much he’d talked about her in the past year.

“Dude. You were obsessed enough that you went looking for her.”

He had. Or at least, he’d done as much as he could, though Preston wouldn’t say he’d launched a full-scale search. In truth, all he’d known to do was call Elio and Gianna to see if they remembered a Chelsea, who’d come to the Ugly Christmas Sweater party with an Allyson.

Neither of them did. Gianna had a list of people who’d bought tickets, but she didn’t have a clue whose tickets Chelsea and Allyson had used—since they’d gotten them from a friend of friend—so his one and only lead had been a dead end.

He’d kicked himself for not insisting she let him drive her home, because at least then he would have had an address to work with. Instead, he’d had nothing except her first name, Chelsea, and the undying belief that she was his soul mate. The soul mate he’d let slip through his fingers.