Make It Sweet

A little wrinkle formed between her brows. “You always lived there?”

“Of course not.” I ran a hand along the back of my neck. “I had a condo in DC. A nice place in Georgetown, overlooking the Potomac. I sold it because I had no need for it anymore.”

Did she think I was that bad off? Christ, I had been a star. I made over eighty million in my years of playing, with more coming in from endorsements. I was a wealthy man. Frankly, I probably made more than she did. Even without playing. Instantly, I felt like a dick for thinking that.

Maybe my scowl projected more of my thoughts than I realized, because she shook her head, as though apologizing. “It’s just . . . we never talk about it. Your life. You stay in Rosemont like you’re hiding away—”

“I’m not hiding away. I’m there because . . .” My throat constricted, and I made an aggrieved noise to clear it. “Mamie needs company.”

Shit. It sounded utterly ridiculous. And we both knew it.

“That’s it?” she asked softly, gently. “You’re devoting the rest of your life to keeping Amalie company?”

My gut twisted, and I grunted, sliding my eyes from her, then getting pissed about that and glaring back defiantly. “She’s my grandmother.”

“I know. But what about your life?” She was closer now, facing me from the other side of the long kitchen island. “You’re so young. You have so many options—”

“That’s right,” I cut in, feeling that old resentment, that old thwarted frustration build. “I do.”

She paused, her brow knitting again. “You do,” she repeated, unsure.

I puffed out a breath. “I didn’t want to discuss it right now. But I talked to Rickman.”

“Your old coach?”

I nodded. “Rickman, yes. And to Clark, the general manager of my team, as well as Jack Morison, the owner.” My hands spread out onto the counter, pressing down to ground me. “If my doctors give me the all clear, and if I feel good about playing, they’ll take me back.”

It was as though all the air whooshed out of the room. Emma’s mouth fell open, and she gaped at me in horror.

“They’ll take you back?” She paled. “But you retired.”

“We are all aware of that, Em.”

“You retired,” she said more forcefully, “because you were in danger of damaging your brain. Permanently.”

“I know,” I snapped. Then took a breath. “But I’m still in top shape. Being on the ice again . . . it felt good. I could still do this. I could just . . .”

“Just what? Fucking die?” She said it shrilly, then bit her lip like she was struggling to calm down.

“I’ll be careful,” I said, struggling, too, when all I wanted to do was shout. “I’ll be very careful.”

“Playing hockey. A full-contact sport.” She snorted, making a face. “The very sport that got you into this position to begin with.”

“Emma . . .”

“Don’t Emma me.” She waved a hand, as though she could bat her irritation away. “Don’t . . . placate me!”

“Fine. I won’t.” I gripped the sides of the counter. “Then don’t lecture me like I’m an ignorant kid.”

“Then don’t act like an ignorant kid,” she retorted hotly. “Use that very great and very precious brain of yours. This is irrational—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“You used that brilliant brain when you retired. Use it again, damn it.”

My teeth clacked together, and I ground them, unable to reply without yelling.

Energy crackled around Emma, lighting her eyes, drawing the lines of her body into sharp relief. She was beautiful, terrifying. “What about Delilah’s offer? You love baking, creating desserts. You’re an artist—”

“I’m a hockey player!” My shout echoed in the space and bounced back at me. “It’s all I ever was or wanted to be!” The sound that tore from me was like a wounded animal’s, shaming me, enraging me. I pounded a fist on the counter. “Don’t lecture me on what I am when I have the chance to . . . to . . . fuck.”

I turned away, my throat clogging. Panting, I set my hands on my hips and blinked rapidly to clear the burning prickle behind my lids.

Silence had a weight and coldness to it. I closed my eyes and took a breath. “I’m in the best shape of my life, Em. I can do this. I’ll be careful now. I know what’s at stake.”

The words were as brittle as spun sugar. But she didn’t smash through them like I expected. She didn’t fight me. Her sigh was soft, a puff of air. I wouldn’t have even heard it if I hadn’t been so attuned to her response, waiting for the fight I wanted to have.

“You’re never going to be happy with anything else, are you?” she said.

A ripple of something went through me, and all I could do was shake my head in negation. Closed off and shut down, the last thing I expected was for her arms to wrap around me from behind, for her to press against me and hold on tight.