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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Marissa

I knew this would end up biting me in the ass the second I agreed to come to the game. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

But I second-guessed my instincts because who could’ve ever predicted this?

Nothing about this evening has gone according to my expectations. Not a single thing.

First, I expected to just go and have a normal game experience, but nothing about it was normal. From the surreality of being there at all to Tina coming to claim me and take me up to the family box complete with a buffet and a gaggle of stereotypical WAGs who clearly didn’t like me any more than they liked Tina. And now Tina’s dragged me to a bar I’ve never been to—and frankly, I’m not sure Nick or Dozer have been here before either—and stuffed us into a tiny booth where Dozer and I are pressed together like sardines.

I’ve always admired his broad shoulders and muscular chest, but in this space, they’re liabilities. I feel like I can barely breathe.

“They’re a handful,” Tina says, wrapping up another story about her kids, “but god, I really love ’em.” She checks her phone. “Sorry. I’m talking about the kids too much, aren’t I?” She turns to Nick for affirmation or reassurance.

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her in to kiss her cheek. “You know I never get tired of stories about the kids.”

Sighing, she smiles at Dozer and me. “You’ll understand someday.” She waves her hands. “Maybe. I mean, sorry. Obviously, you might not want to have kids. In which case, you won’t understand.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “God. Sorry. That sounds super judgy. I just mean, like, being a parent is a whole different experience. Nothing really prepares you for it. Even if you think you’re ready, you really aren’t. You can’t be. And if you’re not a parent, there are things you just can’t possibly understand about being a parent, not because you’re not smart enough—because of course you are. You’re so smart! But it’s just an experience thing. Like, like”—she looks all around, casting about for a comparison—“like I wouldn’t know what it’s like to kiss Dozer.” Then she slaps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide above it.

My cheeks grow hot, and I blink rapidly a few times, forcing myself not to look at Dozer. If he weren’t blocking me in, I’d be tempted to say I need to go to the bathroom. Though, that would probably be a tactical error. So I’m stuck here, brazening out the embarrassment. Because, what the fuck, Tina knows about the kiss? Of course she knows. Obviously she knows. Dozer clearly told Nick, and the way Nick and Tina are together, I doubt there are any secrets between them.

“I mean, I mean,” she continues, her hand still covering her mouth and muffling her words, her eyes darting around as she searches for another comparison or a way to make things better. “Like, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to grow up in Texas! Yes! That.” She pulls her hand from her mouth and points at me. “I wouldn’t know what it’s like to grow up in Texas. I mean, I know what it’s like to live there. At least a little. Because Nick played for Dallas for a few years before he got traded to Detroit and then from there to Seattle.” She waves a hand around. “Obviously that’s not the same, though.”

“Right,” I say, hoping to punctuate the sentence and let it end.

Nick shoots me an apologetic smile from across the table. “Sweetheart,” he says to Tina. “I think we should get home. I’d like to check on the kids.”

Turning to face him, she puts her hands on his cheeks, gazing into his eyes dreamily. “You are just the sweetest man. I’m so lucky I married you.”

He kisses her, just a quick peck. “Not as lucky as I am that I married you.”

It’s enough to make me want to go, “Awwww,” out loud. Or it would be if it didn’t mean they’re about to abandon me here with Dozer.

“Oh, I’ll come with y’all. You said you were going to give me a ride back to my car, right?” Right, y’all? Right??? That’s what you said!!

I send out my telepathic signals of distress. Don’t abandon me here with Dozer! Please!!!

But they’re either oblivious or they’re ignoring them. “Sorry,” Nick murmurs, leaning close. “She gets really chatty and sentimental when she’s had a few drinks. If I don’t get her home soon, she’ll start bawling about how fast the kids are growing up.”

“They are!” she practically shouts. “They’re getting so big! Where are my babies? They were just tiny little babies yesterday! And now Shelby’s in Kindergarten and Noah! He’s in preschool!”

“See what I mean?” Nick mutters. “You can get Marissa back to her car, right, Dozer?”

“Course,” Dozer answers, sounding gruff and defensive. They exchange a meaningful look, and my spidey senses start tingling. Is this a setup?

I wait for them to leave before I finally face Dozer. “Nice setup.”

Holding up his hands, he scoots to the edge of the booth and turns to face me. “I swear, none of this was my idea. This has Tina’s fingerprints all over it.”

“Suuuure. Throw Tina under the bus. Nice, dude.”

“I swear!”

I can’t help laughing, especially since I’m really just giving him shit at this point. Even though I can tell this was planned, I believe him that he didn’t plan for it to end this way. He gives me a tentative smile, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he lets his hands down, one hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing, a telltale sign that he’s nervous or uncomfortable.

Good. He should be uncomfortable. Even better if he’s nervous too. He’s put me in an uncomfortable spot. It’s only fair I shouldn’t be stuck in it alone.

Sighing, I contemplate the remains of the beer still in my glass. Part of me’s tempted to get another. Or maybe a shot or two. Obliterate this fiasco from my memory. I could make Dozer just take me home and pick up my car tomorrow.

But I’m not sure drunk me can be trusted around Dozer. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll either throw myself at him or rip into him for how he acted after the kiss. Both of those seem disastrous, especially if I aim to get so drunk I won’t remember anything tomorrow.

Decision made, I drain the rest of my drink and set the glass down with a definitive thunk. “Why don’t you take me back to my car?”

He finally lets his hand drop from the back of his neck, eyeing me warily. “You’re ready to go?”

I raise my eyebrows and dip my head in a slight nod.

“Really?” he pushes. “We used to have a drink or two and talk after a game.”

I lift the glass and give it a little wiggle. “We had a drink. We talked.”

“Tina talked,” he says in a flat voice. “ We didn’t talk. And even if we each said a few words, this is the most we’ve talked to each other since …” He trails off like he can’t even bring himself to mention the elephant in the room that’s stifling conversation.

A humorless chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head, facing the table and contemplating my glass, wishing it still had something in it. God, maybe I should get some shots.

“Look, Marissa,” he says, his tone somehow businesslike and pleading at the same time, “you have to understand?—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, a knife cutting through his excuses, my hand flying up to reinforce it. I close my eyes and shake my head, surprised at the vehemence of my objection. Well, the vehemence that comes out, anyway. I’m not at all surprised by the strength of my feelings, I’m just usually better at keeping them on lock. “Don’t say anything else.”

“Please, just let me?—”

“No!” Opening my eyes, I twist to face him fully. “Stop! God, what don’t you understand? I don’t want to talk about this. There is no reality in which this conversation will be anything but painful for me. And I’m so, so, so goddamn tired , fucking exhausted , of flaying myself open to assuage the consciences of the men in my life. So no. I won’t listen to your apologies or excuses or whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better. Because I can guarantee it won’t make your rejection feel like anything other than that. No amount of, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ will soften that reality. And god, don’t you dare fucking apologize .” I spit the word out like it’s something filthy. “Like kissing me is something to be atoned for.”

He studies me when I pause, his expression full of compassion, and if anything, that makes me even more mad.

“You know what?” I say, grabbing my jacket. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you. This is bullshit. Let me out. I’m leaving.”

He holds up his hands again, sliding out of the booth. “Okay. Just let me make sure the tab is closed, and I’ll give you a ride.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ll get a cab or an Uber or something. I’ll fucking walk . But this, this, this”—I wave my hands in the space between us—“whatever this is? Or was? It’s over. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hurting myself this way. It’s not healthy.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he says softly. “I never want to hurt you. I didn’t—” He turns his head, looking away and taking a deep breath, and I’m torn between wanting to hear what he has to say and wanting to flee. He’s still blocking my exit, but I know if I pushed my way past, he wouldn’t stop me. Not Dozer. He’s not that kind of guy.

But that sounded like a genuine apology. He’s sorry for hurting me . Not sorry if he hurt me. He knows he did, and he’s sorry.

Even so …

“You told Nick and Tina,” I hiss. “God, that was embarrassing to realize. And like that. What’d you tell them? How much you regret kissing me?”

“Yes!” he explodes, throwing his hands up. “Because now look what’s happened! I fucked everything up! Again! Just like I always do. Hockey’s the only thing I can do right, and even that’s been fucked lately. I’ve been sleeping like shit, playing like shit, everything’s been shit since. You won’t even talk to me anymore. We used to hang out all the time, talk all the time. I looked forward to it. I liked browsing car websites with you while you were looking for parts. I liked hearing about your current project and the ones you’ve worked on and sold. You’re so proud of those cars, and you fucking should be! It’s amazing! And I know you’ve been fucked over hard by other guys, and the absolute fucking last thing I ever wanted to do was add myself to that list.”

My lips part in surprise at that explosion. Never in my whole entire life has a man acted like a fight we were having wasn’t entirely my fault. Did he just … did he just admit responsibility? That he’s the one who messed up?

I snap my mouth closed, not sure how much that really makes it better. “You apologized for kissing me, though. After we kissed, you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

It’s his turn for his mouth to drop open in shock. “ I acted like I wanted to get away? You stood up and practically ran away! You moved faster than guys gunning for the puck! And you weren’t even on skates!”

“You completely shut down! You closed up like a clam.” I mime a clam closing up with my hands, and he jerks his head back.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did!” I counter, scooting closer and pointing at him. “We broke apart, and you immediately went to straightening things up like you didn’t know what to do.”

He throws his hands out. “I didn’t! I didn’t know what to do. You’re one of my best friends, and I’d just kissed you, and”—he turns his head, seeming to realize that we’re practically shouting in a bar full of people. He turns back to me, a pleading look in his eyes, and asks in a low voice, “Please, can we go and talk about this without an audience?”

Sighing, I let my shoulders drop, looking around too and noticing more than one person has their phone trained on us. Who knows if they’re taking photos or videos or both. And it dawns on me that this will likely end up in the tabloids. Maybe on sports talk shows. Oh god …

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”