“It’s game six,” I whispered.
“Then you better get the fuck out of here before they all try to stop you.” He nodded toward the door. “And besides, you know he’ll be in that box tonight. Make your move.”
I went.
Six hours later, I walked into Evie and Mila’s gallery. The space was beautiful, and had that intangible, artsy vibe I admired but would have had to pay a designer thousands to achieve. But my sister and Evie, they had the talent all on their own.
And front and center, framed under elegant lighting, was a giant picture of me tying my skates, and the look on my face? It was all for Evie. There was no cocky NHL star, no smirk of flirtation, it was just me, looking at the photographer—at her—like I was hanging on her every word, because I had been.
“Holy shit!” Mila shouted as she came around the exhibit, making me jump. “You’re supposed to be in Anaheim!”
“Where is she?” They were the only words that came to mind.
“In the back.” She motioned in the direction she’d come from. “I’ll just…uh…make myself disappear!” She walked past me, pausing to lean up and kiss my cheek. “I knew you had it in you to make the grand gesture, but damn, brother.” A quick pat on my shoulder and she was gone, the door to the gallery closing behind her.
My heart pounded at an erratic beat as I made my way to the back of the gallery, where Evie stood in a pair of shorts that drew my attention straight to that incredible ass, rising up on her toes to straighten another photograph.
Every muscle in my chest relaxed at the sight of her and I took in my first real, deep breath since she’d walked out of our hotel room almost a month ago. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, leaving her neck bare, and my name was splayed across her back in the Reapers hoodie she wore, which made me laugh. It was ninety degrees outside, but my girl had the air conditioning turned up enough to sport a hoodie in early June.
“Oh good,” she said without looking back. “Is it straight?”
“Looks good from where I’m standing.” And she did.
She gasped and spun, her hand flying to her throat, where the lucky charm necklace I’d had made for her graduation hung just above her breasts. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re here.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and shrugged. All I’d had with me was my suit, but I’d ditched the coat and tie on my drive over from the Charleston airport.
She opened her mouth and shut it. “I…” Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Good, because I’ve had a few hours to think about it on the plane, so I have a few things in mind.” I ran my tongue over my lower lip in nervousness.
“Okay,” she said softly, tucking two errant curls behind her ears.
“You walked out on me.” My voice came out rough.
Her eyes flared wide. “Because you—”
“And I let you,” I ran her right over before she could get the wrong idea of how this conversation was hopefully going to go.
Her mouth snapped shut, those pretty pink lips pursing as two little lines appeared between her eyebrows.
“I let you go because I was pissed.” I shrugged. “How fucking stupid was that? I had you there, in my arms, in my room, and I let you go because I was pissed at you for not having any faith in me, in my feelings for you.”
She opened her mouth, and I held up a finger.
“You took the word of some tabloid reporter over mine that you were just another woman in a long line of women. You took the commentary of an asshole, clickbait writer who said you didn’t stack up to the women who came before you.” I ripped my hands from my pockets and laced them behind my head, trying to keep them busy so I didn’t reach for her. “It felt like you didn’t listen when I told you how beautiful you are, or how you’re the only woman I want, or worse, you just ignored my words and believed someone else’s.”
She shifted her weight, but didn’t look away.
“And there’s part of me that’s still really, really pissed that you took everything we had—everything we can still have—and walked out on it because of something someone else said. Someone who isn’t in this relationship. Someone who doesn’t know our history. Someone who doesn’t know that I can’t fucking breathe until I’m in the same room with you, Evangeline. Someone who sure as fuck doesn’t know how it feels to kiss you, to hear you laugh or watch you try to incorporate zucchini into every single baked good known to man. Someone who doesn’t know that I’ve never felt the kind of peace that I do when I’m in your arms, or the way you drive me out of my mind, just thinking about getting my hands on you. That part of me wants to push you against that wall and fuck you until you remember what we have, and why I shouldn’t be so goddamned easy to walk away from.” My hands fell to my sides.