Page 6 of Slap Shot (Blades Hockey #5)

Daisy

¨So, what youˇre saying is that you got fired today.〃

¨Excuse you,〃 I mutter while playing a game of hot potato with the steaming plate of leftover pasta that I pull from the microwave. Quickly, I set it down on the counter and shake out my tingling fingers. ¨I quit today, thereˇs a big difference.〃

On the other end of the line, Westonˇs twin brother, Tory, doesnˇt miss a beat: ¨Mr. Phister was totally about to can you, admit it.〃

I groan. ¨Can we not call him that? Please?〃

¨But itˇs his name.〃

¨Yeah, but itˇs . . .〃

¨Suggestive?〃 Toryˇs laugh echoes in my kitchen as I go through the motions of setting the table, which is tucked cozily against my bay window. ¨Do you think itˇs an inside joke between him and Mrs. Phister? Because there are about a million-and-one puns they could be dishing out daily, and hopefully they havenˇt let down all of humanity by having a bad sense of humor.〃

I gag a little at the thought of Mr. and Mrs. Phister sharing anything between them.

¨Why did I call you again?〃 With a glass of white wine already waiting for me on the table, I slide halfway down the cushioned bench and place my phone beside my dinner plate. ¨I have regrets.〃

¨You called because my brother is currently playing knight-in-shining armor on ice, and I donˇt have a life.〃

¨Sounds like the Frozen edition of Medieval Times.〃

¨Sounds like youˇre avoiding the topic,〃 Tory replies breezily, and I have the distinct impression of him sitting in his living room with his feet up on the coffee table and reruns of Game of Thrones playing on TV. ¨When were you going to tell me that Mom and Dad are fighting, and Iˇm about to become the child of a divided home?〃

Rolling my eyes, I reach for the wine. ¨West should have smothered you in the womb.〃

¨He tried, you know. Obviously, it didnˇt work out.〃

¨Regrettable,〃 I utter with mock solemnity.

¨Brat.〃

¨Nerd.〃 Giving up the gooseghost? I never remember how the saying goesI slouch back against the wall, wine glass still clasped loosely in my left hand. In so many ways, Tory and West couldnˇt be more different, but theyˇre both relentlessly stubborn, so I donˇt bother trying to change the subject again. ¨You saw the tabloid article, Iˇm guessing?〃

¨One of the girls at the office was passing it around.〃

Which means that Westˇs dad definitely saw it, then, since Tory works for his familyˇs real estate brokerage. And since David Cain has never been able to keep his opinions to himself, itˇs only a matter of time before he calls West directly to express his everlasting disappointment. ¨Ugh. Love that for us.〃

Tory makes a sound of sympathy. ¨It could be worse. You and West could have been caught fucking on camera, a la Andre Beaumont.〃

¨You know, I said that exact same thing to my dad and he didnˇt even crack a smile.〃

¨You sure the no-fun Phisters arenˇt rubbing off on him?〃

I laugh so hard that I need to put my wine down. Thatthat right there is why I called Tory Cain.

Weston might be the other half of my soul, but his twin is right up there, too. After the Blades drafted West, Tory and I spent another two years together at UConn, him while he finished undergrad and started on his masterˇs in computer engineering, and me while I wrapped up my degree in accounting. There were a lot of late nights spent with too many textbooks sprawled out before us, one too many beers, and a horrible habit of always saying the wrong thing at exactly the right time.

¨All jokes asideyou doing okay?〃

Toryˇs voice is soft and concerned. In this moment, in that particular tone, he sounds so much like West that I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes. Before they can fall, I drain the rest of my wine and then stare at my plate of pasta as if it has the answer to all of my prayersit doesnˇt, by the way. Iˇm garbage in the kitchen but get by the best that I can.

Despite the wine, my throat feels like sandpaper when I whisper, ¨I hurt him.〃

¨Didnˇt ask about West, brat. I asked if youˇre okay.〃

Not really, no. The last few days have been a whirlwind, and not the good kind. Self-awareness has always been a blessing and a curse for me, which means that Iˇm acutely aware of the fact that my decision to spawn Bunny into a living, breathing entity now has dire consequences for everyone I love. I always planned to keep her a secret. Not because Iˇm embarrassed, but because thereˇs safety in the anonymitynot only for myself but for all the people who have sought Bunny out.

Iˇve been a safe place to land for so many people. And now the community that I built from the ground upthat sense of belonging which has given me so much purposeis gone, just obliterated with nothing more than the tap of a button.

While I feel guilty for lying to West and my dad and Tory, too, I also feel . . . at loose ends, in a way that I havenˇt since that hospital bed when everything went to shit.

¨Daisy?〃

Before I can answer, thereˇs a heavy knock on my front door. ¨Hold on,〃 I tell Tory, scooting out from the bench to walk barefoot into the tiny living room that doubles as my office. I take him off speakerphone and press the device to my ear. ¨Itˇs probably Anita.〃

¨The lady who makes you water her plants whenever sheˇs away?〃

¨She doesnˇt make me, I offered.〃

¨You can barely keep yourself alive. Tell me exactly how many of her plants youˇve murdered.〃

¨Ye of little faith.〃 Since I live in an apartment building with twenty-four-seven concierge service, I think nothing of opening my front door without checking the peephole first. ¨Iˇll have you know that her plants are thriving under my〃

Oh .

¨Hang up the phone, Hall.〃

Iˇm only a little ashamed of the way my heart stutters into overdrive at finding my best friend standing unexpectedly on my ¨Oh Shit, Not You Again〃 welcome mat.

Heˇs clearly just come from taking a post-game shower: his still-wet blond hair is darker than usual, the wavy strands chaotically mussed like he barely stopped to towel off before driving here, to my building in the Back Bay, rather than heading home to his place in Winthrop. I know he came here first because heˇs still in his game day suita suit that I custom-ordered for him because West has absolutely zero interest in fashion. The expensive material hugs his powerful frame, showcasing the broad expanse of his shoulders as well as his muscular hockey thighs. Heˇs left the top three buttons of his matching black dress shirt undone, which only accentuates the column of his throat and the stubble shading his jaw.

Heˇd look like a model if not for the fact that heˇs way too rough around the edges to be strutting down a fancy Parisian runway. Instead, every rugged inch of Weston Cain seems to have been stitched together to wreak havoc on hearts everywhere.

With my gaze locked on his mossy green eyes, I speak into the phone, ¨Itˇs your brother.〃

I hear Toryˇs TV shutting off. ¨Yeah?〃

West glowers, which is definitely a sight to behold because glowering isnˇt exactly in his genetic makeupunless heˇs chasing down his opponents on the ice, of course. My heart, traitorous organ that it is, only thuds faster. ¨He seems . . . angry?〃

Tory hums a little. ¨What does that even look like?〃

¨Honestly, sort of like that time we found him clinging to the trash can on your twenty-first birthday.〃

¨His poor little athleteˇs body couldnˇt handle all the booze.〃

¨He tried, though,〃 I murmur sympathetically.

¨And failed,〃 Tory says, laughing.

¨Daisy.〃

I raise my brows at my best friend. ¨Yes, Weston?〃

¨Hang up the phone, please.〃

¨But Iˇm〃

¨The phone, Hall. Now.〃

¨Looks like I have to go, Tory. Your lesser half needs me.〃

¨Aw, I always knew that you loved me the most〃

West plucks the device out of my hand and shoves it into the front pocket of his slacks. ¨Inside, Daisy. Now.〃

A shiver works its way down my spine.

Yes, West. Anything you say, West .

Great, now I sound just like Frat Bro Trevor.

Gross .

Still, I take my butt back inside my apartment, all the while asking over my shoulder, ¨Whereˇs your key?〃 I donˇt remember the last time heˇs knocked on the door, if he ever has. When I got the keys from the landlord two years ago, West carried me over the threshold like a bride, and then we laughed ourselves silly before proceeding to drink too much celebratory wineheˇd just gotten the news that he was finally being taken off Injured Reserve after months of intense physical therapy.

When West doesnˇt answer right away, I turn to find him standing in my entryway with his suit jacket clutched in one hand. On the rare occasions that he comes over after a hard-fought game, heˇs usually camped out on the couch by this point and already nodding off from the adrenaline crash. Tonight, he looks utterly drained, which is par for the course, but something . . . doesnˇt feel right.

I tilt my head. ¨Whatˇs wrong?〃

¨Did you watch the game?〃

¨What?〃

¨The game, Hall. Did you watch it?〃

His voice is pitched low, the charmingly boyish dimple in his right cheek nowhere to be found. Iˇm not na?veI know that a few days isnˇt enough time to miraculously erase the fact that I hurt him, no matter how well-intentioned my reasonsbut my gut, which is always attuned to West, is screaming that the worry in his gaze has nothing to do with our argument.

¨You know that I havenˇt.〃 Not yet, anyway.

Because unless Iˇm physically present at TD Garden, I prefer to watch the Blades play after the game has officially ended. Itˇs a weird, anxiety-driven habit that not even years of therapy has helped me overcome. Between my own career-ending injury and watching West get pulverized a few years backwhich led to his surgery and months of recoveryI like to be prepared, thatˇs all. I keep an eye on my notifications, take note of anything that might send me into a spiral, and then watch accordingly.

At my answer, West jerks his head in a small, satisfied nod. ¨Good.〃

¨Yeah?〃

¨Yeah,〃 he echoes.

I find myself staring at his suit jacket, which he hasnˇt put away, and then at his fancy dress shoes that heˇs yet to take off. ¨Are you going to tell me whatˇs going on?〃

His gaze darts to mine before slipping away.

Right. Okay, then.

With a nod of my own, I head for the loveseat where I always leave the remote control for the TV. Iˇve just picked it up when West growls from behind me, ¨ Donˇt .〃

¨You know I donˇt like that word.〃

¨Yeah, well, you know that I donˇt like it either, but Iˇm telling you〃suddenly, heˇs right there in front of me, his towering frame blotting out the rest of the room as he tosses his jacket over the back of the sofa¨ donˇt .〃

I blink up at him. ¨Did you seriously come here just to tell me not to watch tonightˇs game?〃

Rough edges aside, a flush creeps up Westˇs throat. ¨So what if I did?〃

¨I can just wait until you leave, you know.〃

¨Then it looks like Iˇll be sleeping on your couch.〃 His calloused fingers circle my wrist. Gently, he tugs the remote out of my grasp. ¨And for the record, Iˇll be confiscating your laptop, too.〃

What the fuck.

The moment that he turns away to presumably hunt down my computer, Iˇm like a dog at his heels, not panting, thank you very much, but stalking every move he makes through my six-hundred square foot apartment. He comes up empty at my desk and in the kitchen. When he enters my bedroom, I finally lose my patience.

¨West.〃

¨Daisy.〃

I grab him by the elbow and drag him to a halt. He didnˇt bother with hitting the switch on his way in, so the room is full of elongated shadows thanks to the light filtering in from the hallway. Though maybe I should, I donˇt let him go, not even when I have his full attention. Cast in shadow, his green irises appear nearly black.

¨Youˇre freaking me out. Did something happen tonight?〃 I run my gaze over him, quickly assessing the familiar lines of his body for any sign of physical damage. ¨Are you okay?〃

¨Iˇm all good.〃

¨Youˇre lying to me.〃

He slips out of my hold. ¨Maybe Iˇm doing it to protect you.〃

¨Yesterday, you told me that I shouldnˇt be trying to protect you when you didnˇt ask for it. And for what itˇs worth, I understand why you were annoyed because Iˇm not asking you to protect me now.〃 Maybe itˇs too soon to bring up Bunny, but I donˇt see the point in tiptoeing around my alter ego, not when the rabbitˇs already out of the bag. Or the cat. Whatever. ¨I rate you an eight out of ten on the hypocrisy scale,〃 I tack on with a smile, hoping to ease the tension that seems to be scaling the walls and threatening to consume the room.

He doesnˇt look convinced. ¨Hall . . .〃

¨Iˇm going to find out, you know that, right? Maybe Iˇll live in oblivion tonight, but by tomorrow, there wonˇt be any escaping whatever happened.〃

The sharp contrast in our height makes it so that I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze and he needs to hunch his shoulders so that we stay in the same stratosphere. But for all the inches that separate usand there are manyI sense the moment that he surrenders. A harsh breath rattles across his lips, and then, slowly, he reaches into his pocket to offer me my phone in what feels a lot like a truce.

When my fingers graze his, he doesnˇt immediately let go of the device, though.

¨This will hurt you,〃 he utters quietly.

¨More than I hurt you?〃 I donˇt know what possesses me to say it, but it feels important to get it out there between us. ¨Because I hurt you, West. And it kills me to know that I did.〃

¨Yes.〃

Thatˇs all he says yes .

I have no idea what to make of that answer, so I do whatˇs always best in high-stress situations like this one and park my butt on the edge of the bed. A moment later, the mattress dips with Westonˇs added weight as he sits down beside me.

Years ago, when we first met, I was so deprived of sunlight, buried as I was beneath layers of mortification and grief, that standing beside the Weston Cain barely registered as anything noteworthyuntil he offered me friendship. I jumped on the offer embarrassingly fast, so grateful to not feel so incredibly alone that it took me years to realize that the sun always shines brighter around him.

It took me even longer than that to understand that the anticipation I felt in seeing him was outside the scope of mere platonic friendship. I blamed being an elite athlete for giving me tunnel vision. I blamed my limited experience with dating for not recognizing the obvious signs of infatuation sooner. And I blamed me, most of all, because I literally friend-zoned myself within minutes of meeting him, and there was no turning back the clock.

Iˇm Weston Cainˇs best friend, and heˇs mine.

But Iˇm also so painfully in love with him, most days I think that I might shatter under the crushing weight of knowing that heˇll never love me back.

So, when West sit downs next to me, I scoot away, not enough to draw attention, but a few generous inches to give myself some much-needed breathing room. Not that it helps any. I can still smell the woodsy scent of his body wash, and Iˇve barely managed to orient myself to his proximity when his thick thighs are spreading wide and invading my space, leaving me no choice but to feel the imprint of his warm body alongside mine.

Then his whiskey-smooth voice is rumbling, ¨Do you remember what you said to me when we first met?〃 and in my mindˇs eye, Iˇm stumbling through that first meeting all over again, the vivid memory of a much younger West looking uncomfortable as his teammates teased him. Theyˇd failed to read the visual cues pouring from him in wavescues that Iˇd picked up on immediately even though weˇd never officially met.

¨I said that your friends were douchebags. Which, for the record, I still stand by that statement. And no, you canˇt change my mind.〃

Despite the almost suffocating tension in the room, he laughs. Itˇs low and husky, the sound rushing through my veins like a feverish current. ¨Not that part,〃 he says, sobering a little. ¨I meant when I asked what youˇd do if things got hard and everything was falling apart. Do you remember what you said to me?〃

My skin prickles with awareness. ¨I said that Iˇd hold your hand just so we both knew that we werenˇt alone.〃

West angles his big body toward me.

And then, with his shadowed gaze fixed unwaveringly on my face, he lifts one hand to rest atop his left thigh, his palm tipped up toward the ceiling. ¨Cˇmon, Daisy-belle,〃 he murmurs softly, ¨hold my hand, wonˇt you?〃

I hate him.

Or maybe itˇs just that I hate how much I love him.

But only because thereˇs currently a tidal wave of emotions spinning through me, all of them so overwhelming that Iˇm not even surprised when damp heat resurfaces, once again threatening to spill over. Reaching up, I immediately use the heel of my palm to scrub away any tears, the motion ingrained in me after years spent working myself to the bonemy coaches never liked a crier. Then again, those days are long gone now, stuffed inside a memory box along with dashed dreams and career-ending injuries.

Through the blur of tears, I see West wriggle his fingers. ¨Itˇs just a handhold, Hall. No need to cry on me now.〃

I mean to give him a friendly, bro-punch in the shoulder, but find myself leaning into his arm instead. On a deep sigh, I let my eyes flutter closed, absorbing the heat from his body. Existing in Westonˇs orbit is like a shot of serotonin to the system, and I always find myself desperate for another hit.

When Iˇve been quiet for too long, I mutter, ¨I donˇt cry.〃

¨Of course, you donˇt,〃 West returns kindly.

¨You donˇt believe me.〃

¨Iˇll always believe you.〃

Fondness for him thickens in my throat. Sometimes, I wish that he wasnˇt so vocal with his affection, but if he wasnˇt, then he wouldnˇt be him, and I wouldnˇt change West for anything. With my eyes still closed, I reach blindly for his hand, linking our fingers together like itˇs the most natural thing in the world.

¨Iˇm sorry that I lied to you.〃

West squeezes my hand. ¨You wanted to protect me.〃

¨Always.〃

¨And I want to protect you,〃 he utters like a vow.

¨Always,〃 I whisper back. ¨Maybe itˇs enough to know that even though we canˇt protect each other from everything, at least we wonˇt let go.〃 I clutch his hand tighter, so he knows exactly what I mean.

¨Thatˇs what Rose said to Jack in Titanic right before she shoved him into the ocean. Donˇt let go, Jack , and then just, like, goodbye, Jack. See you never.〃

I lose it.

Itˇs been some of the worst days of my life, but suddenly Iˇm laughing so hard, Iˇm actually wheezing. Between near-silent giggles, I choke out, ¨Goodbye, Jack, say hi to the fish for me.〃

¨Goodbye, Jack, donˇt let the door hit you on the way out.〃

¨No,〃 I howl into Westˇs shoulder, ¨not the door. You went there.〃

He sounds so fucking proud of himself when he drawls, ¨Sure did.〃

Lifting my head, I seek out his glittering green gaze amidst the shadows. Eye contact with West is always hit or missthere are days when he seems to crave the intimacy and others when I can tell the prolonged connection is overstimulating for him. Itˇs never bothered me one way or the other, but I canˇt deny how hard my cheeks flush when he not only looks me in the eye but presses our clasped hands to his heart.

¨Weˇre going to be old and gray one day, and Iˇm still gonna be holding your hand, Daisy-belle. Nothing will ever change that.〃

I wonder if he might act differently if he knew how I feel.

If he knew that I love him.

This time, Iˇm the first to look away, lowering my gaze to my phone. It looks so harmless resting on my thigh but has the power to destroy whatˇs left of my already crumbling world. Nervously, I fiddle with the case. ¨Remember that time in college when we played truth or dare, and I dared you to do goat yoga in the quad wearing nothing but a jock strap?〃

With a low chuckle, Weston shifts beside me. ¨I remember it being very, very cold.〃

¨Iˇm sure the goats felt the same way.〃

¨The goats werenˇt wearing next to nothing.〃

¨Youˇre right, Cainthe goats were wearing nothing.〃

He bumps my shoulder with his. ¨Jerk.〃

I flash him a blinding smile, then swallow down my nerves. ¨Ask me truth or dare?〃

¨Yeah. Okay.〃 He doesnˇt pull away, just lets our shoulders stay flush together. ¨Truth or dare, Hall. Whatˇs it gonna be?〃

¨Truth.〃 I turn my phone over with my free hand. ¨What happened at the game tonight?〃