Hawke Read online

  "Already had decided on doing that," I assure her. "I'm glad we reconnected. It was long overdue."

  "Yeah, it was," she affirms. Not in a derogatory or chastising way, but merely agreeing with me on a fact of life. She then turns back to unpacking the boxes, and because I don't want to push her any further, I watch the clock on the wall tick down the minutes until I can take the ice pack off.

  I accomplished what I intended to do here--let Vale Campbell know that I won't be a stress upon her at this time, and that we can have a friendly working relationship like adults.

  Chapter 6

  Vale

  Tuna salad.

  Bottle of water.

  And what the hell, a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie.

  I slide my tray down the line in the executive cafeteria, also located on the bottom floor of the arena. I have a grand total of twenty minutes to eat lunch and get back up to the weight room, where I'm doing a strength training session with Max Fournier, who looks to be a shoo-in for the starting goalie slot now that Ryker Evans has retired. Fournier tore his ACL season before last, had a terrific rehab, but wants to up his game as far as his core strength. So I put together a plan for him and we have our first session today, which I'm excited about, because although I love tending to acute injuries, I really get a kick out of helping players with their conditioning.

  I pay for my meal and grab the closest table. The cafeteria is deserted because it's almost two p.m., which means this could be a late lunch or an early dinner for me. The morning drills are done and most of the players have left, but they're due back for a practice scrimmage in a few hours.

  While I really want to eat my cookie first, I force myself toward the tuna salad, thinking maybe that will fill me up and dissuade me from the cookie after. I can afford the calories for sure, because no matter how busy my day is, I usually budget time for getting in at least a half-hour workout of my own, but for some reason, cookies and sweets seem to congregate around my hips.

  Just as I place the first bite of tuna in my mouth, I hear, "Up for some company?"

  That voice. Rich, deep, and rough.

  I don't even need to glance up, but I do, meeting Hawke's bright blue eyes dead on. He has his hair pulled back into a short ponytail, one lock at his forehead having sprung free to hang down over his eyebrow. His face is open and affable, which is still taking a bit to get used to. Ever since last week when I iced his knee, the tension that had existed between us seems completely gone. And that's all on Hawke. He extended an olive branch to me and I took it, and as of now, we seem to be existing on a polite and friendly basis. I see him around the locker room or training rooms and he always waves or says hello. He has me tape his knee up every day before practice and we make small talk, usually about current events or something funny that's happened in the news. All very easy and nonthreatening, and it's put me completely at ease with him.

  But there is a downside to this renewed yet casual friendship.

  And that's the way in which this new cordiality between us only serves to highlight the void that still exists. Every time he gives me a friendly greeting, I remember the days when he greeted me every morning by rolling over in bed and kissing me soundly. Every time I tape his knee, I realize how cold, clinical, and unfeeling my touch is upon his skin, especially when Hawke and I used to be all about the passionate touch. All those things tear me up inside, because I went a long, long time missing those things about Hawke after I called it off with him.

  And then there came the inevitable time from deep within my misery when I realized I had probably played it all wrong. I had cut ties with him as a means of punishment--both to him and myself--but after a few weeks of reasoned thought, I knew I had made a mistake. I missed him so damn much and I had to believe that he knew I didn't mean it when I told him I didn't love him. Surely he knew that wasn't really me. Surely he understood that people don't just love one day, and the next it's gone.

  So I called him and left a voicemail, asking him to please call me so we could talk. I waited two days before I called again. Left another message.

  I never tried to call back after that. He was making it clear he didn't want to talk, but that didn't mean I was giving up. So I sent him an email and then I waited patiently, because Hawke wasn't much of an emailer. In fact, he tended to eschew all social media, so there was no telling when he might ultimately see my email.

  But he never wrote back.

  And then I gave up.

  I went through a period of self-castigation for ruining something that may have been built on young and unsteady love, but it was love all the same. And I got very low. So low, I wasn't sure how to exist. I didn't hang out with my friends--except for Avery, who refused to let me shut myself fully away. So she would hide in my bedroom with me while I listened to sad music, and when I got really depressed, would pelt me with gummy bears from the other side of the room. I dropped out of the local community college I was attending and I even took up writing morbid poetry. Nothing tasted right. The sky always seemed gray. I was broken over everything I'd lost, solely due to bad judgment and decision making.

  It finally took one--or maybe several--stern lectures from my father to get me going again. He wasn't about to watch me wallow in self-pity forever, and after about a month, he practically dragged me out of the house and to the arena with him. For the first time ever, I actually watched my father do his job. Sure, I'd been into hockey, but everyone in Sydney was into hockey. We're Canadians, after all. I'd gone to Oiler games both before and after I started dating Hawke, although they were more thrilling having a boyfriend on the team. But I never really knew what my dad did day in and day out to bring home a paycheck.

  I found it fascinating watching him have a very close and personal hand in an athlete's prowess. I started spending my days with him there, watching him rehab injuries and build muscle and core strength. I watched young men come to him for advice, and I watched him improve play.

  And then I decided that's what I wanted to do as well.

  "I assume your lack of acknowledgment means you don't want company," Hawke says, and I shake my head slightly. He grins down at me, and because I know his face like my own, I can only imagine those two perfect dimples he sports underneath his beard. I miss those dimples, but the beard is a mighty fine look too.

  I wave a hand to an empty seat. "Sorry. Was woolgathering."

  He plops down and unwraps a large Italian sub on his tray. "Thinking about your dad?"

  I quickly shake my head because I'm not now, nor will I probably ever be ready to tell him what I had been thinking. It was too painful to think about the night of the party. Just talking about it would lead to more hurt feelings, mostly likely an argument, and I was enjoying this truce with him too much.

  "No," I say with a smile. "Actually just thinking about how good that beard looks on you. What made you decide to keep it after the play-offs?"

  "Lazy groomer, I guess," he says before taking another bite of his sandwich.

  I dip my head so he doesn't see my smile get bigger, because that was always Hawke. While he was fastidiously clean and always smelled amazing, he hardly ever paid attention to his appearance. Usually a quick brush of his fingers through his long hair or a shave once a week was as good as it got with him. I loved that wild, untamed look about him, though, and the beard definitely suits.

  Hawke swallows, takes a sip of his bottled water, and tips his head at me. "What about you? You've changed a lot."

  I cock an eyebrow at him, seeking elucidation.

  "The piercings," he prompts.

  "Oh," I say in understanding as I absently run a finger across the bridge of my nose. "Well, turns out those aren't the best things to be sporting when you're trying to get a job. I got rid of them before I started my master's. Tried to polish up my image just a bit."

  Hawke gives a gruntlike chuckle and then dives back into his sandwich. We eat in silence for a little bit and it's not the slightest bit awkwar
d. I'm wondering if that's because we've shared hours of silence together before, and know the safety of it. Or maybe it's just that we have nothing to say to each other and that's okay too.

  That's probably it. So much time has gone by, feelings have died and we're not who we were all those years ago.

  Except, have feelings really died? There's been anger and defensiveness on both of our parts for sure. He wronged me, I wronged him, he wronged me again. All things that we should wisely confront and clear the air because we were mere kids back then and we're adults now. All things that will probably never happen because this peaceful little truce is safe and stress free.

  "Your dad says you've been busting your ass with work," Hawke says out of the blue. I look up from the remnants of my tuna salad and he's eyeing me with concern. "Two jobs. You came home pretty late last week when I was visiting and I saw your dad yesterday. Stayed until around eight p.m. and you still hadn't come home. Is that par for the course?"

  "Yeah, well, it's what we have to do right now. Dad's treatment is covered by the clinical trial, but we're still making his house payment back in Sydney and he can't touch his retirement from the Oilers until he turns sixty-five. Plus I still have student loans and there are some incidental medications that aren't covered by insurance, so it's necessary right now."

  "Do you mind me asking what you make here?" Hawke asks, and while that's a deeply personal question to ask an acquaintance, I suppose our history means something because it doesn't bother me.

  "Forty-one thousand dollars and some change. I bring home a few hundred extra bucks a week at the gym, but that's commission based and I only have a handful of clients right now."

  Hawke is silent as he pops open a bag of chips. He'd finished his sandwich, but that was always the way Hawke ate, one thing on his plate at a time until it was finished. And he didn't like his food touching, despite the fact I used to remind him often that it would do so in his stomach.

  "Do you need some financial help?" he asks quietly, raising his eyes from the bag to me, pinning me in place.

  "Financial help?" I practically squeak out in surprise.

  "Yeah...money to help pay expenses or something. I make considerably more than forty-one thousand dollars and I don't mind. You know I'd do anything to help...um, your dad."

  My head is shaking in the negative before he can even finish his sentence. "No, thanks. We're good."

  "Then how about taking me on as a client?" he asks as he picks a chip out of his bag. He waves it in a circle in front of his face with an impish grin. "I could use some extra conditioning."

  "That's part of the job I already get paid for," I remind him with a stern look. "If you want to schedule some time with me each week, we can do that."

  "But I don't like the equipment here," he counters. "Your gym would be better."

  "You don't even know what gym I work at, Hawke. You're just trying to find a way to give me money when I don't want to take it from you," I say, my voice bordering somewhere between a hint of frost and downright icy. Regardless of this new truce, there's still unspoken anger on my part as well. I sure as shit cut him loose, but he sure as shit turned his back on me when I reached out to him. I don't want any handouts from him, now or ever, because in the back of my mind, I'll always believe it's purely guilt driven.

  "Okay," he says with both hands raised up defensively. "But maybe I will take you up on some additional strength training."

  "That's fine," I say curtly before wiping my mouth with my napkin. "Just let me know and we'll get something scheduled."

  Hawke dips his head in acknowledgment and pops another chip into his mouth. I ball up my napkin, throw it on the remains of my unfinished tuna salad, and stand up from my chair.

  "Want my cookie?" I ask him as an afterthought, picking it up from my tray and holding it out to him.

  A peace offering, perhaps to counter my snappish attitude? Added benefit--I won't get those extra calories.

  "Sure," he says with a grin, and reaches out to take it from my hand.

  His forefinger touches the end of my thumb...barely a graze, and yet I feel it ricochet through my body.

  "Ouch! Son of a fucking bitch," I scream out as I jerk my hand away from the bathroom vanity drawer, where I had just slammed my thumb.

  Loud, crashing footsteps echo through our tiny apartment, getting closer until Hawke bursts in the bathroom door that I hadn't shut all the way while I was taking my shower.

  "What's wrong?" he asks as his panicked eyes rove all over my towel-covered body in search of blood or guts hanging out.

  "My thumb," I whine as I hold it out for him to inspect. It's red on the tip and throbs like a bitch. "I slammed it in the drawer."

  Hawke lets out a huge gust of relieved breath and mutters, "Jesus, Vale. You gave me a heart attack."

  I can't help it. I giggle and try to look apologetic. "Sorry. But it hurt, and that was just a little reflexive curse that popped out."

  Hawke takes my hand, lifts it up to examine the end of my thumb, and then bends down to press a kiss on the tip. "That wasn't a little curse that popped out. You screamed like Freddy Krueger was in here getting ready to slice you to bits."

  "And you burst in to save me," I say as I step in closer to him.

  "Always," he murmurs before bringing my thumb back up to his mouth and kissing the tip again. Except this time, his tongue flicks out and licks the end, while his other hand comes up to finger the edge of my towel just below my hip. "Bet I know something I could do to you to take your mind off this little thumb injury."

  I release the cookie and jerk backward from Hawke. I drop my gaze quickly, but not before I see his eyebrows knit together in confusion. Grabbing my tray, I kick the chair back in toward the table and mutter, "I have to get back to the training room. I'll catch you later."

  "Later," he says softly, but I don't look back at him.

  Chapter 7

  Hawke

  I place the last stack of plates onto the shelf and shut the cabinet. The kitchen is now officially unpacked. I look around wearily at the empty boxes, crumpled newspaper, and packing tape scattered all over. It all needs to be cleaned up and I still have my bedroom to unpack. But it's not going to get done today because I made plans to go hang with Dave tonight and watch some college football. It's opening game day, and while us Canadians don't quite get nor fully appreciate the sport, it's what guys do when they hang out together.

  It's okay if I don't get my bedroom unpacked, though. I'm having a party tomorrow night for the team to celebrate the end of training camp. A sort of last hurrah before our first preseason game on Monday, so I'll just make sure my bedroom door stays shut so no one can see the mess inside. And personally, I'm quite content to live out of my boxes for a while. I mean, truly, what does it matter if I pull my underwear from a box or a drawer?

  We had our last scrimmage this morning and I expect the coaches are hard at work right now making the release notifications. Those poor dudes that just didn't cut it will get sent back down to the minors. I feel for them more than they'll ever know because I've been there. Felt what they're feeling today when someone tells you you're just not quite good enough to play with the big boys.

  I obviously made the cut. I mean, it was really a given, and Coach has had me playing first line all week, so I know I'll be starting right alongside Alex and Garrett on Monday when we travel to Chicago for the preseason game against the Bobcats. I'm really digging my new team. How could I not? Defending Cup champions and all that? But man, seriously, playing alongside greats like Crossman and Samuelson. Fucking heaven.

  I start to pick up the newspaper that had been cushioning my kitchenware for the move. I downsized tremendously with this move, and that's just a product of living and learning. I bought my first house in Pittsburgh my second year in the league, a monstrosity of six thousand square feet. I learned that's a lot of fucking house to keep clean. It was also a lot of fucking house to pay for when I basically lived in no
more than nine hundred square feet of it.

  So I bought a moderate-sized home here in Raleigh half the size of my previous, which meant I had to get rid of a lot of furniture as well. I just donated it to a veterans' charity because it was easier than trying to sell it. Still, there's plenty of room for a party tomorrow since it's just my teammates and their better halves, and I have a kick-ass back deck that spans the entire length of the house. I'll set tubs of beer out there, and with the mild, late-August evenings, people will congregate out there rather than inside.

  It doesn't take me long to clean up the rest of the kitchen. I break the boxes down, shove them and the newspaper into my large recycle bin in the garage, and glance at my watch. Just enough time to get a quick shower before heading over to Dave's.

  I wonder if Vale will be there. Considering what I know, I'm sure she'll be working late even though it's a Friday night. End of a workweek, and when everyone should be relaxing, I'm sure Vale will be working. And damn if that doesn't twist my guts up. I hate thinking of her and Dave struggling. I hated even more seeing the look of disdain on her face when I offered to help. I hated it because it truly showed me that despite the olive branch--despite the truce--there are still hard feelings.

  No clue why she's the one that has them, but I'll look past it. She's got so much on her plate right now, I figure she's just being defensive. And besides, I plan to hit Dave up tonight with the same offer. I expect he'll decline, but he won't be nasty about it.

  When I hit my bedroom, I rifle through some boxes and pull out clean underwear, a pair of faded jeans, and an old vintage Mountain Dew T-shirt with a few holes in it. Not dressing to impress anyone tonight, so might as well be comfortable. Before heading into the master bathroom, I grab my phone off the bedside table and give it a quick check. I see a text message from Michelle and a quick smile comes to my face.

  How's life in Carolina?

  I toss my clothes on the bed, sit down beside them, and text her back. Just finishing up some unpacking. It's great here. Where are you?

  She immediately responds, which is just like Michelle. As long as there's cell service or Wi-Fi, the woman is always connected. Pittsburgh. Flew in yesterday.