It was an afternoon game because it was on a weekend. Conner didn’t call and warn his parents that he wouldn’t be playing because we got full-on day drunk on mimosas and lost track of time. We were catching up—laughing, sharing stories, and maybe, kind of, possibly flirting. I mean, I can’t be one hundred percent sure because it has been years since I was flirted with, or did any flirting, but… our glances toward each other were too long, our smiles too deep, and we kept touching each other. A brush of hands, a knee pressing into a knee on the couch. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I just kept sipping my mimosas until analyzing it seemed like too much work.
We only realized the game had started when his phone started blowing up. Call after call and text after text from every member of his family. Cousins, parents, sisters, even his grandparents called. He didn’t pick up for any of them. And his mood, which had been upbeat, changed as the game went on. Grumpy Conner was back. With a vengeance.
It’s been a very long time since I felt helpless, but I felt just that watching Conner watch his team play—and win—without him. I could do nothing but keep refilling his glass. We were out of orange juice now and by the time the buzzer went for the end of the third period, we were taking turns drinking straight from a second bottle of champagne.
“I guess it was me,” Conner says as I click off the TV and his phone blows up beside him yet again. The name on the screen is Mama C, which I know is Callie Caplan-Garrison, his stepmom.
Once again he ignores it. “I don’t know everything about your family but I know that Callie is not a woman who puts up with being ignored.”
He glances over at me and shrugs. His handsome face is void of emotion, but I know his heart isn’t. He’s just putting on a stoic face because he doesn’t want to break down or freak out in front of a woman he barely knows. Or probably any woman. Or anyone. That’s why he’s hiding. Conner is a prideful beast. Most professional athletes are.
He gets up and heads to the kitchen with the now-empty bottle of champagne. I stand to follow him but I’m a bit wobbly. Damn, I’m going to have a hangover if I don’t get some Advil and water into me. But I don’t head to the bathroom to grab the bottle of pain meds. Instead, I pause at the island and watch him clean up the kitchen.
He feels my presence and looks over at me. He smiles. His eyes, though, aren’t lying. He’s upset. “You look cute right now.”
Well now… I was not expecting that to come out of his mouth. I look down at my outfit. I had changed into a pair of clingy, pale pink lounge pants and a white t-shirt before the game started, while Conner built a Boy Scout-worthy fire in the wood burner. I’d taken my hair out of the pineapple but hadn’t beaten it into submission with product yet so the curls were wilder than normal. I arch an eyebrow. “You have champagne goggles on right now.”
He chuckles. The sound is deep and robust, and sexy as all hell. I start to tingle and it's not from champagne. "I've thought you were cute since I was nine so no, not the champagne."
“You… what?”
And then my phone goes off, filling the room with the sharp bell sound that is my text message alert. I’m off-balance internally from his little revelation so I walk over to the couch where it’s balancing on the armrest. I reach for it, see the name across the screen, and freeze.
T.P.
“No. Fucking NO,” I chant to myself and quickly open the message.
What the hell is he talking about? I text him those exact words. He can’t mean downstairs here because he doesn’t know where I live. That’s on purpose. I haven’t told a single person at the hospital in case it gets back to him and the Garrisons are all sworn to secrecy as well.
My phone pings again.
“No fucking way,” I say as I march right past the kitchen and Conner.
“What’s wrong?” Conner asks because he’s been watching me unravel, but I ignore him.
I head over to the two large windows right of the television. I see his car before I see him. It’s a cherry red Ford F-150. His winter car. In the summer he drives a vintage Porsche 911. Not good vintage but, like, 90s vintage. A total douche-mobile. I frown. And then I see him. Well, the top of his head. He’s walking around by the barn door, which is always locked. He tilts his head up and I leap back from the window like he’s aiming a weapon at me.
My back slams into Conner’s front. It’s like hitting an actual wall and almost winds me. He grabs my shoulders to keep me steady. I hadn’t realized he’d walked over. “What’s going on?”
“My… he’s… did you tell someone I was living here?” I demand, and there’s no way to keep the panic from my voice. But it’s easily misinterpreted for anger because my panic mode makes my voice hard and aggressive. That comes from the time I spent on the street. You couldn’t show vulnerability. So I’m not at all shocked when Conner’s relaxed, friendly expression starts to slip.
“No. I’m avoiding everyone, remember?” Conner replies. “Who’s out there?”
He steps toward the window and I grab his arm and yank him back. Well, I try. The man is too sturdy and thick to be manhandled by the likes of me. My hand can barely grip his giant bicep. He continues moving forward without a problem. As he tips his head down to peer outside, his light brown hair tumbles forward, grazing the red mark on his forehead from last night. He bristles, which I know means he saw Beckett.
“Why is there an Echolls on Garrison land?” Conner demands and turns on me with a scowl.
This is not the time for my girl bits to get all warm, but they are. Angry Conner is very… appealing. I swallow and try to regain control of myself because this is definitely not the time and probably not the place. “He’s my ex. And that sounded ridiculous. What are you two, Capulets and Montagues? Hatfields and McCoys?”
Conner’s face twists in a series of expressions that include, but are not limited to, confusion, shock, disgust, and disbelief. “You dated an Echolls?”
"Yeah. Tenley has since explained the entire family is a bunch of assholes, but I didn't know that when I met him in med school," I mutter, and my phone dings again. Both of us tip our heads down to read the message.
“Adult?” I repeat out loud in annoyed amazement. “Beckett’s idea of adulting is convincing me to apply for the resident’s program at his hometown hospital and then sleeping with his high school ex behind my back for an entire two years. Two years!”
“He did that?” Conner asks. His eyes dart down to my screen. “You named him T.P. in your phone? Why?”
“Toilet paper because he’s a shit stain, toxic person, trash panda, it stands for a lot of things." I toss my phone on the couch like it's a hot potato and I'm a five-year-old. "And let's not even get into the ring I found in his sock draw. I thought it was for me."
My face heats at the humiliation because I had grinned like a lovesick puppy but as I shoved the ring back under his wool socks, I also found a box of condoms. Opened and half empty. And we hadn’t used condoms since before moving to Silver Bay. But I don’t tell Conner any of those gory details. Not in words. If I say it out loud, those tears building behind my eyes will fall. So I stay silent, but he can see the heat of humiliation reddening my cheeks. Can’t hide that. “I don’t want to see him. I left our apartment with nothing but my medical books, computer, and my suitcase of clothes almost seven months ago. I’ve managed to avoid him and his fiancée ever since, even though we all still work at the same damn hospital in the same tiny town.”
“She’s a doctor too?”
“Nurse. NICU, which luckily I don’t have to deal with on my psychiatric rounds,” I explain as I pace the floor between the fireplace and the couch. “He’s doing a cardiology specialty. And I confessed this drama to the admin who does the psych scheduling, your cousin Shelby, so she checks his schedule and makes sure we don’t overlap.”
“Gotta love Shelby,” Conner murmurs with a small smile. Shelby is the daughter of his Uncle Cole and Aunt Leah. The big sister to his cousin Grady who also plays hockey, of course. . Conner turns back and peeks out the big window again. “What does he want?”
“He’s been texting me to get my stuff out of the apartment and I’ve been ignoring him,” I explain and reach for Conner’s arm again. “Get away before he sees you!”
“Too late,” Conner replies and my heart takes a swan dive in my chest. Conner lifts his hand and gives Beckett an abrupt, terse wave, but he isn’t smiling at him, which I appreciate.
What I don’t appreciate is that Conner then gives Beckett a ‘one second’ sign and turns and starts towards the door. “Conner! I do not want to see him!” I wail. “I can’t!”
Anxiety starts to quake through my body, sobering me up. I don’t want to be humiliated in front of Conner and nothing about seeing Beckett again won’t be humiliating. Conner turns and grabs my shoulders in his wide, strong hands. His grip is firm but gentle. “Mac, I’ll handle this, okay? I have a plan.”
“A plan?” I squawk like a parrot as he marches to the door, flings it open, and starts down the stairs.
He stops halfway and motions for me to join him. “Come on. Trust me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Trust me anyway.” He holds out his hand. I bite my lip and stand frozen at the top of the stairs. Conner’s shoulders rise and fall on a frustrated sigh and then he reaches out and grabs my hand in his and pulls me toward the door.
He drags me all the way down the stairs. In the small square entryway at the bottom, he changes the grip on our hands. He's not holding my hand like you would a child while crossing the street anymore. Now he's got our fingers laced together, like lovers. I want to protest, or at the very least demand to know the details of this plan, but there isn't time. He flips the deadbolt and flings open the door.
Beckett Echolls is standing there holding a box. His girlfriend, Heather, is right behind him, also holding a box. And now this situation has officially gone from bad to worse. I don’t have makeup on, my hair is everywhere, my eyes are likely glassy from the booze and I…
Conner squeezes my hand in his. I tilt my head up and he winks with the confidence of a King. Then he turns to face my ex. “Beckett, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, Conner,” Beckett says like he’s pleasantly surprised but his eyes are dull and flat. Not a bit of excitement in them. He looks irritated and confused. “Don’t you have a game today in Brooklyn?”
“The Barons game just ended,” Conner replies vaguely. He pauses to watch Beckett look at me, then back at Conner, then at our hands which are still joined. And then Conner says something that makes my brain explode. “I was scratched, so I came to see my girl.”
I almost ask him who he’s talking about, but I’m distracted by Beckett’s jaw unhinging like he’s an anaconda trying to swallow a truck. Heather leans forward and nudges him in the back “Beck! We can’t stand here all day!” Heather snaps.
“Relax, babe!” he says but his tone is tight. He eyes us again, and I eye him back. Beckett looks the same as he always did. No weight loss from emotional stress. No bags under his eyes. No sad frown permanently creasing his forehead. He looks relaxed, unbothered, and even happy. I fucking hate him.
The top of the box in his arms isn’t closed and I can see one of my picture frames on top of a throw pillow. A throw pillow? He’s giving me back the throw pillows we bought together?
“Who told you where I was?” I ask Beckett. My voice sounds softer and less steady than I would like.
“Do you want your stuff or not?” Beckett replies tersely. He’s got that look on his face which I know is pure annoyance. He has no use for me anymore. That doesn’t sting as much as it used to, but looking past him, at the face of his pretty, thin, blonde ex-turned-current, does. She is nothing like me, inside or out, but he thinks she’s the better option. “I could have just thrown all this stuff out, but I’m trying to be the adult here.”
Again, this asshole tries to insinuate he’s an adult. Maybe ignoring him and ghosting him wasn’t adult, but I was in pieces. Conner squeezes my hands again and it gives me the strength to speak. “I believe the word you’re looking for isn’t adult but adulterer.”
“Mackenzie…” He sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Mac,” Conner interrupts and lets go of my hand only to wrap an arm around my shoulders and pull me forward so I’m snuggled into his side in the doorway. “She prefers Mac. Always has.”
I feel myself relax a little into Conner’s side. Beckett's big brown eyes widen even further. Behind him, Heather sighs impatiently and my gut rolls with humiliation. She's the reason he discarded me like week-old pizza. Conner looks over at her. "Heather, right? You were in my class at Silver Bay High."
"Yeah. Hi Con," she says with a flirty smile. She is flirting in front of her… my eyes move to her hands. No ring. That big, square-cut solitaire I found isn't on her hand. Yet. But Beckett is still definitely her boyfriend and she's flirting with Conner in front of him. Or am I overreacting? "How's the Big Apple? I love New York."
"I prefer Maine," Conner replies, and then, before I realize what’s happening, he turns his head and presses his lips to my temple. “With my girl.”
Oh no he didn't! Oh shit, he did.
Beckett blinks so rapidly that I almost ask him if he has something in his eye. When he speaks there's a stinging amount of disbelief dripping from his tone. "You're dating Macken… Mac? You? With her? Since when?”
Conner shoots him a look that says he thinks Beckett’s an asshole but then he smiles. Not his usual warm, infectious smile, but this cool, intimidating one that’s dipped in vinegar and wrapped in barbed wire. “Oh man, I don’t know the date this all took off. Babe, do you remember?”
I shake my head unable to quickly do the math on a fake relationship I didn't know I was in until thirty seconds ago. But then glance over at Beckett and Heather who were sleeping together on and off for two years behind my back and suddenly, I'm furious Beckett would even dare ask the question. "I think, if we're going to put an official date on it, it would have been right before you left for the season. Not this September, but last. It was supposed to be a one-time thing but…"
I shrug. It's exactly what Beckett said to me when he told me about Heather. She was supposed to be a one-time thing. Getting each other out of their systems. A final official goodbye but… shrug. That's how he explained it to me. And now, Beckett knows those are his words. I can see it in the bitter look twisting his face. Then he actually inhales so sharply that I hear it.
But I pretend I don’t hear a thing and turn my gaze up to Conner who is looking down at me with a gorgeous grin. He chuckles like we’re sharing an inside joke. We kind of are. “Right. That time in my parents’ boat house. I guess that’s the official moment, huh? God, that was a fucking perfect night.”
I nod, trying to imagine whatever he’s imagining doing to me in that boathouse. My face floods with heat. He leans in. “I love that it still makes you blush.”
And then… Conner Garrison kisses me. Not on my temple or the top of my head or cheek, but on the freaking mouth. And not a peck. A real, adult, honest-to-toe-curling-God kiss.
The kiss is soft but intense. His mouth opens slightly and his tongue teases my lips. It has my heart pounding like an unlatched screen door in a hurricane. Beckett clears his throat awkwardly. Heather huffs out a breath impatiently. “Umm, can you just please take your stuff, Mac? I have a party to plan.”
Conner pulls away and glances past Beckett to Heather. I’m fighting off a giant dizzy spell that’s from the kiss rather than the ample amount of champagne still pumping through my veins. “Yeah. Sure,” Conner says like it’s no big deal.
He untangles himself from me reaches for the box Beckett is holding and hands it to me. It feels heavy like it's filled with not only physical things but emotional baggage as well. I turn and place it on the bench in the entry. Conner reaches for the box Heather is holding and gives her a cool smile. But his voice is light and cheery as he says, "I should be thanking you. In fact, I am. Thank you for taking Beckett out of the picture so I could finally get a real shot at Mac."
Oh my God, is he for real? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling as Beckett’s face gets twisted grotesquely with… jealousy? No. Maybe? Conner keeps talking. “I’ve had a crush on her since I was nine.”
“You’ve known him since you were nine?” Beckett barks.
“I was fifteen. He was nine,” I clarify. “My father played with both Jordan Garrison and Devin Garrison and they were all friends off the ice. Didn’t your dad make any friends when he played?”
Beckett glares at me but doesn’t answer the question.
"Right. Cool. Well, you two better be going to plan that party," Conner remarks and reaches for the door.
“Do you guys want to come?” Heather asks.
Okay, this entire interaction has officially gone off the rails.
“To your party?” I ask, and I’m sure I look like I’m trying to incinerate her with my eyeballs. What kind of narcissistic, clueless monster invites the jilted ex to her party?
“It’s not Heather’s party,” Beckett explains rolling his dark eyes. “She’s on the committee that’s organizing it for the hospital. It’s a New Year’s party for the staff. You’ve gotten the email. Guess you ignored it, like everything else.”
"Beck, buddy, when Mac isn't at work I've been keeping her too busy to read emails. Sorry, not sorry." Conner shrugs that acidic smile on his perfect mouth again. "But yeah, we'll come to your little party. I'm sure she's allowed to bring her significant other, right?"
Beckett opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Heather nods. “Of course.”
I reach behind Conner like I'm wrapping an arm around his waist but I pinch the top of his very firm, very round, butt. Hard. I feel his whole body flex as he absorbs the pain but he doesn't flinch. And he doesn't back down. "We really appreciate the invite, Heather. We'll be there. With bells on."
I am going to murder Conner Garrison.