Page 35

The Hardest Lie

Aleks

Anger.

Apathy.

Detachment.

Confusion.

Regret.

Repeat.

This was the cycle of my emotions for more than a week.

After the phone call with Mia, Giana, and Isabella, I checked firmly into survival mode — and I only did that for Mia. If she hadn’t made me promise, I would have added reckless to my cycle. I would have been drowning myself in whiskey, checking out of my life completely.

Because what the fuck did it matter now?

Not even work could serve as a refuge. I worked my games on autopilot, playing just well enough not to raise any flags to our staff but just terribly enough that Daddy P noticed. He’d tried to pull me aside to talk before our game against Jacksonville, but I’d shoved him off me and told him to eat a dick.

Not my finest moment.

I couldn’t help it. I was pissed. I was seething . And I took out that frustration on the ice, on any opponent who dared to go toe to toe with me, on any teammate who had the gall to question me, on the puck any time I got ahold of it.

It was easy to just be mad.

Never good enough.

Never good enough.

Even Otis knew I was off. I’d managed not to be a prick to the old man, but I’d been cold enough for him to get the picture that I didn’t want to talk. He’d stopped by my place unannounced as always, and when I’d declined to join him for a drink, he’d pushed his palm against my door in my attempt to close it.

“You have the power to change your circumstances,” he’d said, his eyes hard on mine. “Don’t you forget that, young man.”

It’d taken everything in me not to laugh in his face.

If he only knew how powerless I was right now.

I knew, underneath that rage and numbness, there was something more pressing vying for my attention. Something I was hellbent on ignoring.

Because at the base of it all — I was hurt.

I was fucking wrecked .

I supposed there was a part of me that always knew the truth. Mia’s father had told me from the start — I wasn’t good enough for her. And I’d agreed. I’d seen her for everything she was and me for everything I wasn’t and knew the two didn’t fit.

I’d held it together that night when we were teenagers, the night she’d asked me to kiss her and I’d found the willpower to say no.

I’d kept my distance over the years, watching her love other men from afar, other men who were my polar opposite in every way.

And even through this publicity stunt, I’d done my best to draw the line between real and fake, to realize what this was and what it would never be. I’d taken advantage of the excuse to hold her, to touch her, to kiss her — knowing it would all end one day, that it didn’t really mean anything.

But there’d always been part of me that wondered.

Never good enough.

Never good enough.

Even when I talked myself out of it, Hope was a loud little bastard in my ear. When I held her, I wondered if maybe she wanted me to. When I kissed her, I wondered if she liked it, wondered if the way her breath caught meant something.

And that night in my condo when she’d asked me to kiss her again, when she’d admitted she wanted me when there wasn’t a camera around to perform for, I hadn’t hesitated.

I’d jumped all the way in.

And like an idiot, I’d assumed it meant something.

It wasn’t fair of me to put that on her. She’d owned her truth that night.

Turn off my brain. Make me stop thinking .

She’d been anxious, scared. She was powerless in that moment and couldn’t sleep thinking about the possibility of her show being canceled.

And so she’d used me.

And fuck , I’d wanted to be used.

I’d let her do it again even now, even knowing this ice pick of pain in my chest was sure to follow, I’d still say yes. I’d still fall to my knees for her.

I’d told her she was in control that night, and I’d meant it.

But as soon as we woke the next morning and she was running around my condo like a hurricane herself, I realized relinquishing that control would be the death of me.

I wanted her to stay.

I wanted her to pause, take a breath, and talk to me.

I wanted to ask her who that song was about. I longed to know if her brain chemistry had been fucking destroyed and rewired the moment we gave in — the way mine had been. I craved her touch, her kiss, her assurance that something monumental had shifted.

But she’d just… left.

No conversation. No kiss goodbye — not until I literally ran after her and stole one in that elevator.

It was right back to business for her.

Never good enough.

Never good enough.

Even if I’d grown the balls to say fuck leaving it in her court and decided to ask her about that night, there hadn’t been time. I’d flown in for her show, played my part in our little stunt for the cameras, and then been effectively shoved to the side by her team as they celebrated her success.

And rightfully so.

She played sold-out shows at the Garden. She released a brand-new surprise song that shot straight to number one. Reviews for the tour were sensational. She was fucking sensational.

Why the fuck would she press pause on the most exciting time in her career to pet my hair and tell me I was a good boy? Why would she feel the need to coddle a grown-ass man who should have been able to easily discern that one night of fucking didn’t need to be followed up by a full conversation of what it meant?

Still, it killed me to hold my tongue.

I didn’t want to push her. I didn’t want to distract her.

And when Isabella called that team meeting, I got my answer without having to ask.

We were done.

Never good enough.

Never good enough.

Now, we were back in my condo for the first time since the hurricane. Isabella and Giana were talking logistics in my kitchen, a bottle of wine between them. Mia was acting like nothing about this bothered her, fingers running idly over the keys of my piano as she hummed something to herself.

She was perfectly fine.

Writing a little song in her head.

Dreaming about getting back on tour.

And I was suffocating in the silence between us, drowning in everything I couldn’t say, dying a little more every time she smiled like none of it ever mattered.

“Okay, I think we have a solid plan,” Isabella said, picking up her wine glass and swirling the red liquid inside it.

Mia stopped playing, spinning where she sat on the piano bench to face the room. Our eyes caught for the briefest moment, her cheeks reddening.

Was she thinking about when I had her tied up on that bench, her arms bound, legs around my shoulders as I made her my meal?

Or was she embarrassed by what we’d done, hoping to never speak of it again — just the way she’d handled the night she’d asked me to kiss her years ago?

Her eyes snapped away too quickly for me to tell.

“We’ll tip off Stella that our lovebirds here are fighting later this evening, have our inside source tell her where Aleks ran off to, and let the games begin. Our favorite paparazzi here in Tampa will be ready to catch pictures of Mia crying as she runs to the waiting car and heads for the airport while the Internet starts exploding with videos of Mr. Bad Boy returning to his old ways.”

Stella, I’d learned that day, was one of Mia’s super fans with a huge YouTube channel and general social media presence. She was known for having the inside scoop when it came to Mia’s personal life — a seed that Isabella had carefully planted and nurtured.

If I was capable, I would have laughed.

Some fucking influencer was going to be the death of what little hope I had left.

“I’ve wrapped up all our pending sponsorships, commercials, and upcoming events, making sure the contracts are iron tight. This won’t be enough for any of them to terminate, and honestly, given the audience most of these brands have, they will likely be thrilled,” Giana said, paging through what I imagined was a list of said brands on her phone. She adjusted her glasses up her nose. “You’re a much hotter commodity when you’re single and showing attention to everyday women as opposed to locked down by the perfect Mia Love.”

I swallowed, gaze flitting to Mia.

Hers was on Isabella, distant and empty.

Bored.

My chest stung, those emotions I’d been burying clawing their way out of the dirt.

How could she not so much as look at me? How could she be here, in this place, and not remember everything about that night? It had been torture for me to live here since the phone call Isabella had for the team. Every time I opened my front door, I felt another piece of me shatter.

Mia was everywhere for me now — in my living room, at the piano, in the kitchen, in my shower, in my bed.

In my mind, in my heart, in my fucking soul.

“So, I guess this is it,” I said, still silently begging Mia to look at me. I needed to see her eyes. I needed to watch her every feature as she told me this was what she wanted. “One more performance and the show is over.”

She tucked her hands under her thighs, looking everywhere but at me. “Yep. One more stunt and then you’re free.”

I frowned at that.

Free .

Free from what… from pretending? From the crazy travel schedule?

From her?

I never wanted to be free from her, and I opened my mouth to say so but was cut short when Isabella clapped her hands together.

“You’ll both be free, and you’ll be able to say you successfully pulled off the craziest PR stunt of all time.” She paused. “Well, to me and G, anyway. You can’t tell another soul, or we’ll all be toast.”

Giana laughed and Mia smirked, and I felt fucking sick.

But with Mia avoiding my gaze and staying silent, she confirmed everything I should have kept in the forefront of my mind all along.

This was just a charade.

I was just a dirty little secret.

Never good enough.

Never good enough.

“What do you think, big boy,” Isabella asked, gripping my shoulder with a playful wag of her eyebrows. “Are you ready to put on the performance of a lifetime?”

One last time, my eyes slid to Mia.

Do you really want this?

Is it really all in my head?

Is this how you want the story to end?

A fierce ache rocked through me when she finally looked up, her wide blue eyes catching mine.

But she didn’t say a word.

I swallowed, nodded, and let the last of my fantasy of us die — along with my will to fight for something that had never been mine.

“Ready,” I said.

It was the hardest lie I’d ever had to tell.