Page 16 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO (Second Chance Hockey Players #1)

Chapter twelve

Liam

I cannot sleep.

The night is still, the kind of quiet that amplifies every thought. I am lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word from our argument earlier. I do not know why; the image of Decker giving her his card makes me angry, and I am angry that it’s making me angry. And the kiss…

Damn it, the kiss.

It should not have happened. I should not have let it happen. But the moment she opened her mouth and started firing off her usual brand of infuriating “What’s it to you?” I could not think straight. She is maddening. Impossible.

Frustration. Anger. Guilt. And something else I refuse to name burns through me.

She is like a damn splinter under my skin. No matter how much I try to push her out of my mind, she is still there, irritating, impossible to ignore, even after all this time.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it, desperate for any distraction. But it’s just an email from work. I toss it back down and let out a heavy sigh. My house feels suffocating, too quiet, and too loud all at once.

The sharp trill of my phone breaks through again. I glance at the screen. Mom. I groan, debating whether to let it ring out, but I know she will just keep calling. Resigned, I swiped to answer.

“Hello, mom.”

“Liam, finally! Do you know how hard it is to get a hold of you?” Her voice is sharp, layered with just enough irritation to remind me why I do not answer half the time.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply, leaning back against the couch.

“Too busy to call your mother?” She snaps.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s your father.”

Of course, it is.

“What did he do now?”

“He is impossible - completely unreasonable! Can’t he just let it go? We have been together for years, and yet…, why can’t he just let us resolve this like we always do?”

I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, tuning her out and trying to block out the mounting frustration in my chest as she launches into a tirade about some minor disagreement. Something about alimony, or was it the house?

I pick at a loose thread on my couch cushion as her words blur into background noise. Divorce was never pretty, but my parents are making it an Olympic sport.

“Are you even listening to me?” She snaps suddenly, jolting me back to attention.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Then what did I just say?”

“Uh…,” I rack my brain but come up empty. “Look, Mom, what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to support me!” She fires back, her voice rising.

“Mom,” I say, my voice strained but firm, “you have been saying this for months. You know where I stand on this. You and Dad need to figure it out yourselves. I am not taking sides.”

There is a beat of silence on her end, and then, softer but no less cutting, she asks, “When are you coming over?”

I sigh. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you should. Next week will be good. A good friend of mine is visiting, and her daughter’s been asking about you. The poor girl’s been gushing nonstop.”

I close my eyes, counting to three before responding. “If this is another setup, forget it.”

“She’s lovely, Liam,” Mom presses, ignoring me entirely. “You would like her if you just gave it a chance. Liam…”

“Mom,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m not interested.”

“Why are you always so difficult?” she huffs. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up over that money-hungry orphan girl, after five years?”

I feel my jaw clench, the anger rising in my chest like a tidal wave. The words "money-hungry orphan girl" hit me like a punch to the gut, and it is all I can do to keep my voice steady.

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice low, tight.

“What? I am just saying…”

“No, you’re not just saying anything,” I snapped, cutting her off.

“Oh, come on, Liam,” she says, exasperation bleeding through the line. “You know I am right. She took the money I offered her without a second thought. What kind of woman in love does that? A decent one would’ve…”

“Stop it, Mom,” I cut in sharply, my hand trembling with the effort to keep my temper in check, “just stop it.”

“I just want what’s best for you,” she says, her voice softening.

I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow even to my ears. “And you think setting me up with some friend’s daughter is what is best for me? Mom, you are relentless.”

She does not reply immediately, and for a second, there is only the sound of her breathing on the other end of the line.

“So, are you still coming to see her?” She asks softly.

I let out a groan. “You are unbelievable, you know that? Maybe focus on fixing your own life before you try to dissect mine.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” she hisses, the warmth gone from her voice now, replaced by icy steel.

“And don’t you dare bring her up again,” I retort, my patience wearing thin.

There is a heavy silence on the line, the kind that feels like a standoff.

“You know,” the words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them, “and you wonder why you and Dad are getting divorced, and why you do not have a good relationship with any of your children? You are so wrapped up in your own issues and your need to control; you never stop to think about what is best for anyone else.”

There is a stunned silence on the other end, and I instantly regret it. I rub my hand over my face. “I’m sorry,” I say, but my tone is cold. “I’m just..., tired, Mom.”

“I didn’t mean to..., I just..., I just…, Liam.” Her voice cracks again, quieter this time.

“Yeah,” I say, my tone softening just a little. “I know. But I am busy. I need to get off the phone. I will talk to you later.”

“Okay. I..., I love you.”

“Love you too,” I say, though it feels hollow.

“Liam…”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

I hang up before the words can linger any longer.

I sit there in silence, letting the weight of everything sink in. Why? Why did she have to bring that up again? Why? Why did she have to also drag me back to places I have spent years trying to move on from?

It is as if the person close to me is not doing that enough.

Money-hungry orphan girl.

I rub my hands over my face as I lean back.

The pressure in my chest is building, tight and uncomfortable.

I grab my glass and drain the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp, the burn doing little to ease the tension.

For a moment, I sit there, staring at the empty glass, debating whether to pour another.

After a moment of indecision, I push myself up from the couch, my legs heavy with the weight of the day. Crossing to the bar, I grab the whiskey bottle and pour a generous amount into my glass, not bothering to measure. The amber liquid swirls as I lift it to my lips, its sharp burn grounding me.

Glass in hand, I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view across the yard is almost peaceful, the darkness punctuated by the warm, inviting glow of the guesthouse lights.

I just stand there, staring, when I see movement. Hazel. Her silhouette moves through the room, her figure drawing my attention like a magnet. My eyes follow every motion, the way she grabs her bag and throws or sets it down somewhere.

Her shadow stills as she steps closer to the window, and for a brief second, I wonder if she can see me watching.

I stay rooted, the glass cool against my palm, unable to tear my gaze away. My breath catches, and I hold perfectly still as though moving might break whatever fragile thread of connection exists at this moment.

She does not move at first, then she tilts her head slightly and turns abruptly, disappearing deeper into the room. I release a breath I did not realize I was holding, though the tightness in my chest remains.

A moment later, she steps outside carrying a large bag slung over one shoulder, its weight making her stagger slightly as she struggles to adjust her grip. In her other hand, she clutches her tripod, its legs clinking softly with each step.

I watch as she fumbles, the bag slipping further down her arm. She stops at the edge of the porch, clearly trying to figure out how to manage everything without dropping it all.

Against my better judgment, I grab my keys and head for the door.

By the time I cross the yard, she has made it halfway to the clearing behind the guesthouse, her movements slow and strained.

“Need a hand?” I called out.

She startles, spinning around so quickly that the bag nearly slides off her shoulder. “What…, Liam? What? Sneaking up on people now?”

“Was not sneaking. You are just jumpy.” I say, leaning against the railing.

“What do you want?” Her tone is equal parts of surprise and suspicion, her eyes narrowing as I step closer.

“You’re about to drop that,” I point out, nodding toward the bag.

“So?”

“I’ve come to lend a helping hand.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "I doubt that."

"Seriously," I say, holding up two fingers in a mock salute. "Scout’s honor."

She snorts, unimpressed. "You’ve never been a scout."

"Details," I reply with a shrug, suppressing a grin, "it’s the thought that counts. Do you want my help or not?"

She huffs, clearly debating whether to let me help or to stubbornly insist she is fine. After a moment, she sighs and relents, holding the bag out toward me.

“Fine,” she mutters, “but just the bag.”

I take it from her, and it is heavier than I expected. “There. Problem solved.”

“Congratulations,” she says flatly. “Want a trophy?”

“Is the sass a new thing, or did I just forget how sharp your tongue is?” I shoot back.

She rolls her eyes and starts walking.

“What the hell do you have in here? Bricks?”

She rolls her eyes. “Camera equipment. And some extra stuff.”

“Extra stuff?” I echo, raising an eyebrow.

“Props,” she says simply as if that explains everything.

I smirk, unable to resist. “Just admit it…, you’re carrying enough snacks to stock a small convenience store.”

She huffs, narrowing her eyes at me. “For your information, it is not snacks. It is essentials.”

“Right?” I say, tilting my head.

She straightens, turning to glare at me with a huff of annoyance. "It’s not that much."