Rookie (Seattle Sharks 4)

“The Shark?” she gasped.

I chuckled. “Yes,” I said. “Could you please add him to the approved visitor’s list?”

“Absolutely,” she said, straightening in her chair. She was about my age, with a pretty smile and shining blue eyes.

I tried not to notice how much friendlier her attitude had adjusted since dropping my non-boyfriend’s name.

Smiling at John, I walked down the hallway, pausing outside of Mom’s room—as I did so often.

Steeling my nerves, reinforcing the walls around my heart . . . just in case. She was blameless in all of this—a victim of a disease that didn’t discriminate—but I was constantly crushed when I saw her in pain. When I could tell my presence made her uncomfortable because she couldn’t quite place where she knew me from.

“Hello,” I said as I walked into her room.

She wasn’t painting at the window, but sketching at the small desk in the corner of her room.

“Hello,” she said, barely looking up from her work.

I took a peek over her shoulder and held back my gasp.

The charcoal sketch was of me as a little girl, maybe six or seven when I’d went through my braids and ribbons phase.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, choking back a sob as I sat in the seat a few feet away from her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I’ve finally gotten the eyes right.”

She’d nailed them. Their slightly uneven shape, the width of the pupil—mine were almost always more dilated than normal.

Her eyes. My eyes.

“Have you sketched this before?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other.

She nodded, staring at the piece. “Many times.” Her brow pinched. “I dream about her. This ornery little thing, racing across a frozen lake, her braids whipping in the wind.”

“Sounds like a lovely dream.”

“I think she’s me.” She set the charcoal down, sighing as she spun to face me.

“I think you’re right,” I said, glancing from the picture to her. “I can see the resemblance.” Her eyes scanned my face, searching for that thread. I hurried to fill the silence. “How was your day?”

Her eyebrows raised, an easy smile on her lips. “Wonderful,” she said. “They served a fantastic lunch. And the weather was nice enough for me to dig around in the garden today.”

“Did you plant anything?”

“A few more iris seeds,” she said. “You know how they’re my favorite.”

I did know, so I nodded.

“Then I had a nap,” she continued. “And I had that dream. That little girl . . . a swan princess on a frozen lake, and I woke to draw it while it was still fresh.”

“Sounds like a perfect day,” I said.

Such a rare treat, to see her looking so happy.

So youthful, alive.

When I’d returned home, she’d been a shell of the woman I knew. My father’s neglect and the lack of proper treatment had turned her into an ashy husk.

Now she was filled with brightness.

Something unwound inside me, a sort of loosed breath I hadn’t had in so many years.

And even though she didn’t recognize me in this moment, I was happy.

Because she was healthy and well and living the best life she could.

Pride trickled into my blood—knowing I put her here—but it wasn’t enough to erase the guilt that I’d left her. For the care I hadn’t realized she wasn’t getting.

I hoped I never saw my father again.

I would likely slit his throat.

“Oh.” Mom straightened in her chair, her hands flying to her hair as she looked over my shoulder toward her door. “John,” she said, a shy smile on her lips. “Who have you brought to see me?”

I turned, noting John and the towering God of a man next to him.

He came.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I worried he wouldn’t. That it would be too much to handle too soon.

But there was Bentley Rogers, looking fine as ever in those jeans and Henley, his sleeves rolled up over his massive forearms, the shirt straining against his large chest.

“A Shark,” John teased, ushering Bentley inside.

“I’ve never met a Shark before,” she bantered right back at John, further assuring my thoughts of her care.

He was so good to her.

My mother pointed to the open chair between us by the window. “Please, take a seat. This is my friend—” Her words cut short when she pointed to me.

“Chloe,” I said, offering my hand to Bentley.

“And you are?” Mom asked after Bentley had released me.

“Bentley,” he said, his voice cracking as he looked her over. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, a kind of cold fear, but that smile was as charming and strong as ever.

My mom jolted in her seat, her eyes lighting up.

“Bentley Rogers?” she gasped.

My eyes flew wide, and Bentley locked on to mine, silently asking what to do. I nodded at him in a signal to go with the flow.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Shark. Rogers. Right, you play hockey.”

My shoulders dropped a bit. I had hoped she might’ve been connecting the dots with so much history and love in the room, but it was just as nice for her to recognize him from the news. I’d often caught her watching the NHL package when the season was on, some old habits never die no matter if you remember them or not.

“You’re right,” he said. “I do.”

She whistled, her eyes trailing over his face, down his chest, and back up again. “You’ve grown up, too.”

He raised his brows.

“Those news cameras don’t do you justice,” she continued.

A roller coaster—that’s what these moments were. Rising tides of hope and then the instant drop when reality sank home.

I shouldn’t whine, it was a thousand times worse for Mom.

Though, she was happier than I’d ever seen her, and her old spitfire personality had slowly returned to her these last weeks.

That helped hold my heart together.

“You watch the games?” he asked, leaning his elbows on his knees to catch every word she uttered.

Which was plenty once she got started on hockey.

I watched the pair of them, laughing and talking, easy as it ever was. Mom had always adored him, it was Father who was a prick to him.

The exchange, how tender Bentley was with her, how carefully he chose his words as to not confuse her timelines, only made me fall harder for that man. I wasn’t sure it was possible to love him more, but I did.

Wholly.

Fully.

Completely.

Gone.

He’d always owned my heart, but seeing him now, spending these past weeks with him—even in secret—the man claimed my soul.

My cell vibrated in my pocket, and since the two were in a deep discussion about why Ontario was the absolute worst, I fished it out.

I’ll be there next week.

We should meet.

Talk things out.

All at once the good feelings were sucked from the room, a vacuum swallowing any and all happiness. I bolted from my chair, the anger boiling inside me too much to take sitting down.

Bentley’s brow furrowed as he looked up at me.

Mom just tilted her head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the adrenaline making me breathless. “Excuse me for a moment please.” I hurried out of the room, Mom already back to chattering away by the time I made it to the hallway.

The phone trembled in my hand, the fear coursing through my veins like he might pop out from the around the corner.

I’d ignored his threats, texts, and emails this entire time.

Saved them, but ignored them.

And I’d been in denial about the Ontario game in our house.

But time was up.

And as so many things in my life were going right?

??mom being healthy and happy, Bentley . . . having the little stolen moments that I did—I was so done with being afraid.

My fingers flew across the keys.

I will meet you.

And we will discuss the end of us.

How you’re going to leave me alone.

For good.

No more threats.

The little bouncing balls seemed to do their thing forever until finally the message came through.

Can’t wait.

That’s it.