Chapter Seventeen
It was day two of Caleb being on the road, and Zara was dragging. Nothing felt right. She kept forgetting what she opened the fridge to get or that her female authors dollhouse was already packed up and waiting to be displayed at the Friends of the Library charity ball, so she couldn’t even make little last-minute adjustments. When it came to her art, nothing was ever finished, she just ran out of time.
And now her life seemed to be nothing but time. She should be out at a museum or taking Anchovy to Fido’s Café or meeting Gemma for drinks. Instead, she was wandering around her tiny studio apartment wondering what Caleb was up to and sneaking glances at her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed his call. She hadn’t. The damn thing had been obnoxiously silent. She’d shot off a few gif texts—feeling as awkward as a fourteen-year-old messaging her first crush—but hadn’t gotten anything back. Not even a K or an emoji.
“Not that it matters. It’s not a relationship,” she told Anchovy as he watched her pace from one end of her apartment to the other. “He’s just busy. Working. Having team dinners with the other players. Sleeping.”
There. It all made perfect sense.
Unfortunately, that lizard part of her brain that held on to every fear and unquenchable worry she’d ever had in her life was reminding her with each passing minute of all the times she paced waiting for her dad. When she was ten waiting to see if his sure-thing pony had come in first like his buddy had sworn he would. When she was fourteen and he’d gone off to sweet-talk their landlord into floating them another week on the rent. When she was seventeen and he’d been so sure that taking out a loan for an oxygen bar was the winning idea he’d always been waiting on. The other day, when she’d waited for two hours for him to stop by to help her pack her author dollhouse for the ball and he’d never shown, leaving a voicemail later telling her he’d ran into a friend from the neighborhood. In each of those instances, she’d come last, been his lowest priority. Oh, her dad had never meant to make her feel that way, but it didn’t change anything.
Now here she was again, wearing a hole in her apartment’s carpeting while the person she loved left her hanging without any communication.
She jolted to a stop, all the oxygen in the room gone.
Loved.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. She’d skipped over breaking rule number one and had landed smack-dab in the middle of falling in love.
The white-noise static filling the space between her ears where her brain had been previously was so loud, she almost missed the chirp-chirp sound of her incoming text notification.
All the pent-up ugly in her whooshed out in one deep exhale.
She wasn’t goofy smiling. She wasn’t goofy smiling. She was totally goofy smiling.
All the bounce returned to her step, and she did a shimmy dance move across her apartment. She was in love and in trouble and so far out of her comfort zone, she didn’t know what to do, but for tonight, at least, she’d go with it, let herself go with her gut. Feeling like she did right now, it didn’t seem like anything could go wrong.
…
Caleb couldn’t explain it, but the ice smelled different when the clock had ticked down to almost regular season. He moved faster on the ice, checked harder when it counted, and got the puck like it was meant for him. At least that’s how it usually went. During today’s game, though, he was sucking wind.
He sat on the bench in front of his locker with his forearms resting on his knees and the towel draped around his neck. Something was off, making it hard to concentrate, but he couldn’t figure out what. He hadn’t changed his skate laces. The tape on his stick was the same as he always used. He’d even put on his socks left and then right, just like always.
“Is it the tape?” Phillips asked, because if there was one thing that united all hockey players besides their love of the game, it was their belief in the power of superstition and routine.
“Nah,” Caleb said. “I put it on myself.”
“How about Zara?” Petrov asked, no doubt still grudge-holding about the no-trade thing. “Has she finally kicked you to the curb?”
He glared at the center, who was dripping everywhere because the asshole never bothered to use a towel, preferring to air-dry. “She’s not available for other dates.”
“Has she agreed to that? If not…” Petrov shrugged. “By my count of the videos, you guys only have one more date.”
Caleb wasn’t going to take the bait—he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He fell into it anyway, all but snarling at the other man and all but hearing a countdown clock on his time with Zara. “That’s not how it’s gonna go.”
“What are you going to do to make that happen?” Blackburn asked as he sat on the bench opposite and tied his street shoes.
“I have no fucking clue.”
And wasn’t that the case. The rules had made perfect sense in the beginning. Neither of them wanted to be there. Now, he didn’t want to stop being with her. Everything was better when Zara was there.
Christensen, fresh from the shower, stopped in front of his locker next to Caleb’s. “You need help winning a woman? I have the answers.”
Everyone in the locker room laughed. On the ice and off it, the forward was known for playing fast and loose. Taking advice about women from Christensen was just asking for trouble.
Petrov chucked an empty water bottle at their line mate. “When was the last time you were with someone for more than three dates?”
“Survey says never,” Christensen said, not sounding like he cared. “But that doesn’t change that I am a man who has serious game. The ladies love me.”
“Oh yeah,” Phillips said. “Right up until they’ve spent more than forty-eight hours with you.”
Christensen flipped them off, but before he could launch into another defense of his studliness, Blackburn stepped into the fray, crossing the locker room to stand in front of Stuckey.
He looked at all the players and gave a disgusted huff. “Seeing as how I’m captain and I’m the only one of you chuckleheads in anything like a relationship—no offense, Phillips, but whatever it is that you have with Marti is too messy to be called a relationship—I believe I’m the only one here who can comment on what Stuckey should be doing to fix his Zara problem.”
Denying that he was in deep was useless. These guys knew him too well for that. Between the months of September and June, they spent more time with one another than their own families. That was the hockey life. He’d chosen it. He wouldn’t change it for the world. Now he just wanted to add Zara to it.
“So what do I do?” he asked, almost desperate enough to take advice from Christensen.
Blackburn crossed his arms and gave him a hard look. “What’s the goal?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “I want to be with her.”
“For a night or for longer?”
“The second.” Without a doubt.
Blackburn rubbed his chin for at least a ten count, then just when Caleb was convinced the other man was going full vow-of-silence monk on him, he shrugged and said, “Then find a way to make that happen.”
Fucking A. He could have come up with that shit advice all by himself. “That’s what I’m asking you to tell me how to do.”
“I don’t want to date her; I don’t fucking know what specific thing will apply to her,” Blackburn said. “You gotta figure it out.”
Caleb considered strangling himself or Blackburn with the towel but just balled it up and threw it at the captain instead. “You are horrible at giving advice.”
“But I’m really good at telling people to get their head out of their ass, which is exactly what you need to do.” Blackburn dropped the towel in a laundry bin and picked up one of the new mini pucks the marketing department would be handing out when they got back home to all the fans on opening night, tossing it to him. “Figure it out, Stuckey.”
Then he walked away, leaving Caleb staring at the tiny puck that wasn’t even half as detailed or clever as it would have been if Zara had made it. She would have painted the team logo on it and given it some scuff marks as if it had been used in a game. She would—
How in the hell did he convince Zara that being with him, going beyond—way beyond—five dates was worth it, that taking a chance on love was worth it? Lucky for him, he knew just the Miss Fix It to consult.
…
Caleb walked out of the Carlyle Building the next day with part one of his game plan completed.
He’d gotten a promise from Lucy for tickets to the Friends of the Library charity ball in a few days. Once he was there, he’d be back up in case Zara needed help getting an introduction to Helene Carlyle. His secret weapon there? The fact that both Carlyle sons were huge Ice Knights fans. He’d get Phillips and a couple of the other guys to come with him to help smooth the way for Zara with some Carlyle meet and greets, but only if she needed it. Knowing her, she wouldn’t, but he wanted to be there for her just like that safety net had been at their obstacle course date.
Hooking a left and heading toward Zara’s apartment, he slow rolled when he spotted a limo at the corner with a well-dressed older woman standing nearby.
The guy in a chauffeur’s hat put a suitcase into the trunk. “Is this everything you need for the airport, Ms. Carlyle?”
“Yes, Linus,” the woman said. “Thank you so much. It was good to come back, but I’m ready to get home to Italy.”
He caught the last bit in full as he was passing by and jolted to a stop. Airport? Italy? Now?
Shit.
Zara would be devastated. She’d been waiting for the ball just to be able to meet with Ms. Carlyle. He was moving again before he even thought about it, powered forward by instinct and the undeniable urge to help Zara.
“Ms. Carlyle?” He stopped a few feet away, making sure to stay out of her personal space as the words rushed out. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I overheard you’re leaving and my girlfriend— Well, she’s not my girlfriend, not yet, but she’s a miniatures artist and she’s been working her ass off—pardon the language—to put together the perfect piece to show you. Are you really going to miss the ball?”
“I’m afraid I am,” Ms. Carlyle said. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Zara Ambrose.”
She looked up toward the sky as if she was going through her mental contacts list. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of her.”
“Here, hold on.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up some pictures of the dollhouse that he’d taken last time he’d been at Zara’s apartment. “These aren’t the greatest photos, but you can see she does amazing work.”
She took his phone, giving him an assessing look as if she was trying to place him. “What was your name?”
“Caleb Stuckey.”
“The Ice Knights defenseman?”
Okay, his wasn’t a household name for most people, let alone someone known for her bank account and art collection rather than for being a rabid hockey fan.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She let out a soft chuckle. “Don’t be so shocked. A mother always takes an interest in whatever fascinates her children.” She glanced down at the phone, enlarged the photo, and made several little hmmm sounds. “I truly am sorry to miss seeing her work.” She handed him back his phone. “It is impressive.”
As she made her move to get into her limo, the determined desperation that came in the final minute of a game when his team was down by a goal slammed into him.
“Her studio is only a few blocks away,” he said, trying like hell not to sound like someone her driver should be giving serious side eye and possible a hard elbow to. “You could get a look for yourself in person before your flight, if you have time.”
One steel-gray eyebrow went up. “And you say this Zara isn’t your girlfriend?”
“It’s a long story.” But starting to feel shorter by the minute.
“Well, I hope you can squeeze it into a short car ride.” Ms. Carlyle slid inside the back seat. “Are you coming, Mr. Stuckey?”
A soft buzz of warning vibrated against the back of his skull, but there was only one answer he could give. Zara deserved to have her chance.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and got into the back of the limo.
…
Zara was on her hands and knees in the bathroom, scrubbing the base of the toilet with a rag made from an old T-shirt soaked in a mix of cleaning product and water that still smelled strong enough that Anchovy was keeping his distance. The dog may not be thrilled with this turn of events, but deep cleaning was her go-to fix for when nothing in her life made sense. Her room in high school had always been beyond clean.
Shocker.
The rest of her apartment was a wreck, but she was going to clean the bathroom until her life started to make sense again. She’d spent her entire life depending only on herself. The idea of being able to depend on someone else had her cleaning her toilets like she worshipped at the altar of Pine-Sol and Magic Erasers.
She had just wrung out the rag when Anchovy let out an excited woof half a second before the knock on her front door. Peeling off her protective gloves, she stood up and went to the door. After scooching Anchovy over so she could get in front of the peephole, she raised herself on her tiptoes to see who it was. Her heart sped up the moment she spotted Caleb. Just the sight of him on the other side of her door settled all of the whirling mess of anxiety that had knocked her off-balance.
He was here. Just like he said he would be.
The realization that she could always depend on him for that nearly knocked her off her feet—well, that and the fact that Anchovy’s tale was thwacking her.
Excitement bubbling up inside her, she flung open the door and all but jumped into his arms. “Caleb.”
He wrapped his strong arms around her, deftly dodging Anchovy’s attempts to join in on the fun, and kissed her. The brush of his lips electrified her all the way down to her toes, but it was over too quickly. He set her down and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face the woman he was with. Zara had never met her before, but she didn’t need an introduction.
Helene Carlyle was standing in the hallway outside her apartment.
Zara’s brain had to still be functioning because her lungs were working and she hadn’t keeled over from a heart attack, but she couldn’t manage to get any words out of her mouth.
“It’s so good to meet you, Zara. Caleb has said so many interesting things about you this morning,” Helene said, looking every bit like the Harbor City grand dame who spent half her year in Italy with her second husband. “May I come in?”
Still mute, Zara nodded and led the way inside her apartment. The bleach smell of cleaning that had been comforting only a moment ago hit her nose like a stinging slap. There were dishes in the sink. The box of cereal she’d had for breakfast was still on the counter. Her bed, visible from where they were just inside the front door, was unmade, and Anchovy sat on it with a bedraggled toy that at one time had been an oversize neon ball. He thumped his tail hard against the bed but thankfully had gone into visitors mode and would stay on the bed until given permission to come say hello thanks to the gate set up in front of the bedroom door.
“Sorry for the mess,” she said, immediately comparing every inch of her messy apartment to the immaculate Helene and finding herself more than wanting.
This was not the impression she wanted to make. The only thing keeping her from drowning in a puddle of embarrassment was the fact that she’d get a second chance at the Friends of the Library charity ball.
“Well, I was leaving the Carlyle Building when your young man stopped me, and I just had to come look at your work right away,” she said, glancing around the apartment, her gaze stopping on Zara’s near-barren worktable. She walked over to it, Caleb going with her. “I was intrigued.”
My work?
A horrible realization began to dawn. This was her shot at impressing the country’s most influential miniatures collector, and she had nothing to show her. Her gut twisted and her palms turned clammy. What had Caleb done bringing Helene Carlyle here?
Okay, there’s a way to save this. Everything isn’t lost. Not yet.
She pasted on her best everything-hasn’t-just-turned-to-shit smile. “I’m so sorry, but everything is with the Friends of the Library to be auctioned at their charity ball.”
“That’s too bad,” Helene said, the initial interest lighting her eyes dimming as she turned away from the workbench. “I’m flying back to Italy tonight and won’t be able to attend the event as planned.”
“What about the antelopes?” Caleb asked as he handed two of the animals over to Helene, sending a look of apology to Zara.
The other woman gave the pieces a cursory once-over but handed them back to him with only a quiet, “How lovely.” Zara took a shaky step back, her pulse thundering in her ears as she watched the dream she’d nurtured in secret and then taken the first baby steps toward fall apart before her eyes. She knew what how lovely meant. It was half a step above bless her heart when it came to dismissal disguised by pretty words.
She turned to Helene, desperation clawing at her as she tried to stay calm and recover the moment. “I’d been really hoping to meet you at the ball and get a chance to show you my work that will be featured there.”
She flinched at the sound of her own voice. It reminded her so much of every time her dad had promised that this time, this plan, would be different. And he’d been wrong just like she was.
However, the carefully neutral look on the other woman’s face told her just how late it was for that. There would be no recovery. This was it. The best option now was just to accept it.
Fighting to keep her shoulders from slumping in defeat, she lifted her chin and faced Helene. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time today.”
“It’s never a waste to meet someone with a vision.” The other woman traced a finger over one of the planning sketches on Zara’s workbench before picking up a small stack of others and quickly flipping through them. “Perhaps I’ll see your work at next year’s ball.”
Translation: Don’t close your Etsy shop.
“I hope so,” Zara said, managing to keep her voice even.
The word hope left a bad taste in her mouth, and as Helene offered a quick goodbye, saying that her driver was waiting out front for her, Zara had a hard time concentrating on the other woman’s words.
As soon as the door closed behind Helene, Zara sank down onto the couch, her legs too shaky to hold her anymore. “Why did you do that?”
For a big man, Caleb looked so small to her. He seemed to have shrunk into himself. Walking toward her, he opened his arms as if to gather her up.
She stopped him with a look. “What in the hell was that, Caleb?”
“Me helping,” he said, squatting down so they were eye level as she sat on the couch.
“Wow. I’d hate to see what you not helping is like.” The words spilled out of her, harsher than needed, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Hurt and frustration churned through her, twisting her insides into thorn-covered knots. “Do you know what just happened? You showed leftovers and commercial dreck to one of the country’s foremost miniatures collectors.” A hot rush of humiliation blasted through her. “My best work probably isn’t ready for Helene Carlyle, let alone a collection of antelopes bound for Peoria.”
“I know it’s not the outcome you want,” he said, taking one of her hands in his. “But she did mention next year.”
How could he still be so damn hopeful? How had she missed that he was just another dreamer like her dad, convinced that something not just better was around the corner but something amazing? What in the hell had she been thinking? It wasn’t his job that had made her hold back or the strangeness of the circumstances that had brought them together—it was the fact that deep down she’d known all along that Caleb Stuckey was another foolish dreamer.
“She was being polite.” Zara pulled her hand away. “She didn’t actually mean it, which you’d understand if you could ever read a room.”
“What the fuck?” He jerked back and stood up in one fluid motion. “I try to do something nice for you—to help you—and you throw reading in my face?”
Hating that she’d said that, hating that she hurt, hating that she’d been wrong about a possible future with Caleb, she reached out for him, but he evaded her touch. “That’s not what I meant.”
“If only I was smart enough to follow along, huh?” he asked, his voice quiet with a ribbon of pure, cold fury wound around each word. “Well let me tell you what I am smart enough to understand. You’re scared and you react by pulling into yourself. You can’t depend on anyone else? More like you can’t stand to let yourself even try to. And do you want to know why you’re really acting like this? It’s not because of Helene. It’s because you finally let down your guard with me, and it scares the shit out of you.”
He was wrong. He couldn’t be more wrong. While his anger might be cold, hers was burning hot, stoking a fire in her that turned the last of her self-control to ash. She stood up on the couch, giving herself enough height to look him straight in the eye.
“Fuck you, Caleb,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion that made her entire body jittery. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think you can just waltz in here and tell me what to do just like your mom or your coach does to you? Is there anyone in your life who doesn’t tell you what to do, or is there a decision you can make for yourself that doesn’t fuck something up?”
The air crackled around them with a low, mean energy that made the hairs on her arms stand up. Adrenaline poured through her as she stared at him, her breaths coming in fast bursts as if she’d just run at full speed down a mountain. From that angle, she had the perfect view to see the change in Caleb’s expression as he shut down in front of her, leaving only a mocking sneer in place of genuine emotion.
“That’s a low fucking blow, Zara.”
“I’m short; that’s where my punches land.” She hopped off the couch and stalked over to the front door, yanking it open. “If you can’t take it, why don’t you just leave?”
He strode to the door, his long legs eating up the space between them until he was right next to her, looking down. “Don’t worry. I’m already gone.”
She slammed the door shut behind him and made it three small steps away before she crumpled to the floor, her chest heaving with tears coming so hard and so fast that she couldn’t even make a noise.