Page 12

EIGHT

Jolie

“ G et up and get dressed. I’m taking your ass out.”

Ginger stood in the middle of our room, extending her hand in my direction, her attempt at pulling me out of bed. Except I didn’t have any fingers to give her—all of mine were holding Beck’s sweatshirt, my nose buried in the fabric, inhaling his spicy smell that had soaked in.

“Jolie, come on. Please get up.”

I had known this was coming, so my response, “Go without me,” was already prepared.

“Ha!” She flopped down beside me. “Listen to me, girl. We’re going to the hockey house. Whether I have to put makeup on you myself and dry-shampoo your hair into a ponytail, you’re coming. I’m not going without you.”

I groaned, “I’m most definitely not going to the hockey house.”

“Please?” She rubbed my knees, almost shaking them.

“You’ve been moping in this room since you got back from Beck’s hotel this morning.

You didn’t eat lunch. You didn’t eat dinner.

I get that you’re all up in your feels, but you’re going to snap out of it and have some drinks and get him off your mind. ”

“I’m not moping.” But I was moping. I couldn’t help it. Waking up to a Beck-less room and a note and his sweatshirt and the slapping realization that he wasn’t coming back had been a real kick in the gut. “I’m watching the game.”

LA at Washington wasn’t a game I’d normally care about. I had no interest in any team other than Boston. But Beck had changed that, and seeing him on the ice tonight weirdly made me feel closer to him. It made the sting of his absence and the hollowness in my chest feel less intense.

But the game was just a temporary fix. Beck wasn’t coming back—not in the way I’d just experienced over the last three nights.

“Babe, the game is almost over. There’s, what”—she turned toward the screen—“two minutes left?”

I hugged his sweatshirt closer to my chest. “So?”

“And you don’t even like LA.”

I closed my eyes and sighed.

I’d watched every second of this game, even the intermissions. Although it wasn’t really the game I was focused on; it was Beck. He was in the first line, and my stare didn’t leave him whenever he was on the ice. And if he wasn’t, I tried to catch a glimpse of him on the bench.

The way he looked in his uniform— God . I could see hints of his beard through his navy-and-silver mask and those hazel eyes every time the camera zoomed in on him.

“Jolie? Are you even listening to me?”

I was staring at the screen. The clock was running out. Beck was no longer playing because LA had such a big lead, and the third and fourth lines were in.

I gradually glanced over at her. “No.”

“I’m begging you—let’s go.”

I shook my head. “The press conference will be coming on in a couple of minutes. I have to see it. He was the top-scoring player in the game, I know they’re going to interview him.”

She grabbed something on my bed and stood, backing up several paces toward her side of the room.

“I’ll make a deal with you.” She waved the TV remote in her hand.

“I won’t shut the TV off and throw the remote out of the window if you promise to get dressed the second the press conference is over and come out with me. ”

The scowl was heavy on my face. “You wouldn’t.”

She went over to the window. “We both know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you—and letting you mope in this room is not going to happen on my watch.

So, yes, I would toss this sucker out the window.

” She cranked the semi-broken old latch, and I felt an immediate breeze as the window pane opened a crack.

“Remember, I’m doing this for you.” When I didn’t answer, she said, “I don’t want you hurting—and I know you are. ”

“But I shouldn’t be hurting.” My voice was getting quieter with each word. “It was three nights. That’s nothing. That’s like a long weekend at best. So, why do I feel like this?”

She closed the window, leaving the remote on her desk, and she rushed over, putting her arm around my shoulders. “People have fallen in love in much shorter time frames. Trust me, it’s possible.”

I lowered the sweatshirt from my face and set it on my lap.

Every breath of his spiciness made me miss him more, causing my brain to spiral.

One day, probably soon, his scent would fade, and the only thing I’d have left was watching his games. Yet he’d have many more overnighters in cities across the country, where he’d probably spend those evenings with someone else.

I heard the rumors. I knew how things worked when it came to single professional athletes.

I wasn’t stupid enough to think this was the first time Beck had done this or that it would be his last.

It didn’t matter if we’d had the most amazing time.

I was replaceable.

And that made me ache harder. It made my stomach turn. It made the knot in my chest move into the back of my throat.

“Jolie, you’re in your head. I can see those wheels spinning. Don’t do it, don’t dwell on it, don’t try to make sense out of it. It will keep you in your feelings, and that’s not where you need to be right now.”

I left the screen to look at her and say, “We just had so much fun together.”

She gently nodded. “I know.”

“And I knew I’d feel like shit after he left—I’d tried to prep myself for it.

Maybe that should have stopped me from carrying on through the whole three nights, but …

” Flashes of our time together were filling my vision.

The way he had held my hand when we walked to the boat.

The way he had hugged me whenever I was cold.

The way he’d looked at me—each time, not one single time. “I just didn’t want it to end.”

She rubbed the middle of my back. “Based on the note he left, I’m positive he felt the same way.”

I wasn’t going to cry.

I couldn’t.

Getting emotional over this wasn’t going to help the situation. It wouldn’t make me feel better. And it wouldn’t bring Beck back.

I had known what I was signing up for when I told him I’d leave the bar with him.

We were both beyond single. We’d made that clear.

He made no promises.

But that was then.

In the time we spent together, I saw hints of the man behind the hockey mask. I saw flashes of his heart, a rawness that was usually covered by his uniform.

Sure, Beck Weston was a hockey star, and that was what had initially attracted me to him. But he was so much more.

My hands went over my face. “It doesn’t matter, Ginger. He’s gone.”

“Yes, it does matter.” She clenched my arm, forcing my fingers to fall and land on top of the sweatshirt. “He said he wished he could bring you to LA with him. He said in a perfect world, he would. And he told you he liked this—meaning what was going on between you guys.”

I could hear his voice saying those words.

They had been replaying nonstop since I’d gotten home.

“He even gave you his number. He didn’t have to do that.” Her hand stilled. “But by doing that … babe, he was showing you.”

My eyes left the screen again. “Showing me. I?—”

My voice was cut off by the commentators announcing the press conference, and I quickly glanced back at the TV. The screen changed, showing a long table, wrapped in the NHL’s logo, with two players from LA sitting in front of mics.

One was Beck.

I found Ginger’s hand, squeezed it in mine, and slid to the end of my bed.

He hadn’t showered. He’d come straight from either the ice or the locker room. His hair was wet, his face sweaty. He didn’t even bother wiping it off with the towel that hung around his neck.

Something I was strangely grateful for. The way sweat looked on that man should be illegal.

“I’m about to die,” I confessed.

“I don’t blame you. I kinda am too.”

A group of reporters, not in the angle of the camera, were calling out questions for Beck and his teammate. I saw Beck’s mouth moving in response, I heard his voice, but I wasn’t processing anything he was saying.

I was too fixated on his face. On his eyes and how riveting they looked. On his lips. Ones that I’d kissed not that long ago. On his beard that was untamed and devilishly sexy.

“What the heck is on his mustache?” she asked.

I couldn’t glance at Ginger. Nothing in this world could pry my eyes off my TV. “What are you talking about?”

“Right above his lip and below his nose, like halfway, stuck to the hair … is that … a … piece of a protein bar? Or something like that?”

“A what?” My heart was pounding so fast. I released her hand, got on my feet, and walked to the TV to get a closer view. “Oh my God.”

Ginger was right. There was something woven into the hairs above his lip. It wasn’t large, and if you weren’t looking as intently as we were, you would probably miss it. But it was definitely a … questionable crumb .

“I don’t know what it is,” I admitted. “It’s brownish, almost tannish.”

“But it’s something,” she pressed.

I sucked in some air and nodded. “Yeah. It’s … something.”

“Definitely food, right?”

I took another step, knowing that wouldn’t give me the answer, but it was still worth a try. “A piece of a cookie? Or a protein bar, like you said?” I touched the screen. “Or maybe pizza crust?” I laughed. “At least crust that isn’t burned, like the kind I make.”

Several seconds passed before she said, “The internet is having a blast, trying to figure out what it is.”

I backed up, but I didn’t take my eyes off him. “What do you mean?”

“The memes have already started.”

I continued to step backward until I reached the bed and held out my hand for her phone.

Once it hit my palm, I placed it in front of me, scanning from the TV to her cell, back and forth, so I wouldn’t miss any of Beck.

“My God, they’re ruthless. It’s like everyone has to be so perfect.

No one is allowed to have a real moment?—”

I cut myself off when I realized what I’d just said.

A real moment.

“And you think I’m a man who only seeks perfection? Shit, I’m far from that, Jolie. Listen to me. We all have real moments. Athletes especially. We’re under a microscope, and some of our most vulnerable experiences are caught on camera and blasted all over the internet.”

As I stared at Beck’s mouth while he was replying to one of the reporters, I recalled our conversation as though it had happened moments ago.

That crumb on his face—whatever it was—had to be a coincidence. He’d taken a quick bite of something to eat before he came out for the press conference and forgot to wipe his mouth.

Like I’d done before rushing into first period that day in ninth grade.

Right?

I blinked several times as Beck got up from his chair, as he and his teammate walked out of the press conference and the commentators filled the feed.

That was when I slowly turned toward Ginger.

Since I was still holding hers, she now had my phone in her hand, scrolling. “Girl, you should see the comments coming in. Some say it’s a piece from his helmet. Some say it’s food. Some say he put his face in the DC goalie’s ass and?—”

“Can I run something by you?”

She put my phone down. “Of course.”

I tossed her phone on the bed to free up my hands and wrapped them around me.

“Now, I could be wrong—and I’m sure I am—but I told Beck the story about the barbeque sauce that was on my face in ninth grade and how I was teased endlessly for it.

That conversation led to a talk about real moments and vulnerability.

He tried to make me feel better by telling me that things like that happened to athletes all the time and how they were caught on camera and would go viral. ”

She crossed her arms and smiled. “What are you saying, Jolie? That Beck put a crumb on his face on purpose?”

“I’m wondering if he did, yes. It doesn’t make sense why he would do that, but?—”

“Oh, it makes perfect sense to me.”

Why wouldn’t my heart stop pounding?

Why was it beating so fast that when I voiced, “Why would you say that?” I sounded breathless?

Her smile grew. “It’s just a hunch I have.”

“Explain your hunch.”

“ Hmm , where do I start …” She tucked her legs in front of her and rested her hands between them. “Beck’s still hockey rough with his unruly beard and messy hair, which looks messy on purpose, but it’s still messy.”

I slowly filled my lungs and moaned, “Yep.”

“But at the same time, he’s pretty. He’s put together, and for the most part, he’s groomed.

He cares how he looks. The suit he had on before tonight’s game was so sharp.

Even when he was dripping in sweat after the game, his hair wasn’t standing up in every direction—it was tamed—and his beard was finger- combed.

Trust me, that guy wasn’t walking into a room of reporters with something on his face unless he wanted it there. ”

I grabbed a bunch of my hair and lifted it off my neck, the room suddenly so hot. “You’re saying he left the ice, stopped somewhere to put that crumb, piece of helmet—whatever—on his face, and went to the press conference? But why?”

She shook her head back and forth, letting out a long breath. “One day, you’ll know your worth. I swear it’s my mission. But we’re so far from being there, it’s not even funny.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Ginger?—”

“The reason Beck would show a real moment is because he agrees with me and everyone else in thinking you’re the hottest woman alive. And he knows, if things were different, you would be his, and that man would never let you leave his side.”

“Ginger—”

“He also knows damn well you’re watching him on TV tonight and that you’re going to see the memes. He wants you to know you’re not the only one who has real moments, and he wants nothing more than to make you smile about it.”

“No.” I looked at my bare feet. “That whole theory is bananas. I don’t believe it.”

“Jolie …” She waited until I glanced up. “That boy is thinking about you, babe. The same way you’re thinking about him. And he’s showing you.”

Me

I have to know … was it a real moment or a staged one?

Beck

You should be asleep. It’s almost four in the morning.

Me

I’ve had all the drinks. Like, alllll the drinks.

Beck

Dive-bar night?

Me

Aww, I love that you know that.

But no. The hockey house.

Beck

LOL.

Me

Ginger’s idea, NOT mine.

She stayed there. I’m back in our dorm. But before I fall asleep, I have to know …

Beck

You think I’d put something on my mustache to cause the internet to explode? And draw even more attention to me? Shit, you know how I feel about social media.

Me

I don’t think you care what anyone says about you, which means you’d do something like that to prove a point.

Beck

I’ve got nothing to prove.

Me

Fair.

But maybe there’s something you wanted to show.

Beck

Did it show you something?

Me

Yes.

Beck

Sweet dreams, Jolie.