Page 42 of At First Smile
“Thank god.” He sloshes a breath.
“Rowdy Rowan, is she yournewgirlfriend? Is she part of your plan to clean up your image?” someone mocks.
Image?I bristle.
“Fuck off!” Rowan roars and spins towards the sound.
“Rowan!” I snap, my mouth dropping open.
Reminiscent of a galloping stallion my pulse rages. The crush-drunkenness that fizzed inside me mere moments ago sobers with confusion. My breath shallows at the rampage of shouts and camera flashes.
“What on earth?” JoJo reaches us. Her gaze drops on Rowan. “This is him? This isyourRowan,” she gapes.
“Iverson! Iverson! Who is she?” The voices grow more demanding.
My eyes widen. “Who are you?”
“Just Rowan.” He swallows thickly. “Your Rowan… At least, I hope.”
“What about Emma Sinclair, Rowan?” someone laughs.
Who’s Emma?Tears brim in my eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I should have never… I’m sorry, Pen.” He lets go of my hand and walks away. The further he slips from me, the onslaught of shouts and camera flashes and snaps quiet.
“Pen, did you know who he was?” JoJo asks, looping her arm around my shaking shoulders.
“My Rowan… At least, I thought.”
CHAPTER TEN
Suck it Up Buttercup
Rowan
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!I grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles pale, as my Jeep inches along in the snarled L.A. traffic. Teeth clenched, I bristle with the need to get as far away from LAX as possible. I’d let out a hard breath after jumping onto the first shuttle that appeared, but my tense muscles still ache despite leaving the paparazzi curbside. It was a trick Eli Silverberg, team captain, taught me. Unlike Silverberg, with his famous former boyband star husband, I’m not accustomed to this level of attention. Other than the occasional random reporter at events I attend, most of the media around me happens at the rink before and after games or is relegated to the talking heads on sports shows.
Since I’d infamously punched Landon, there’s been an uptick in my ‘appeal’ to the press. Especially since it happened in Toronto, minutes after they’d beat us in game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. While Toronto is more a hockey town than L.A., it also considers me and Landon hometown boys.I’d gone to university there, while Landon grew up in Bedford Park, a suburb of the city and played at the same university, but at different times. Only unlike me, he’d lasted two years at university before he’d gone pro seven years ago. The media circus after I’d left the arena that night was nothing like I’d ever experienced.
It's why I escaped to my house outside Hamilton. It’s why I chose to drive to Buffalo to fly back to L.A. instead of flying out of Pearson Airport. It’s been almost two weeks since I punched Landon and the NHL Commissioner announced my five-game suspension to begin at the start of next season. I thought the incident would simmer down, but this…
Pen.The sensation of holding Pen, her muscles coiled tight, still pulses in my arms. Arms that crave to fold around her. To soothe away the gentle quake that rolled along her limbs thanks to the chaos at baggage claim.
“What have you done?” I glare at myself in the rearview mirror.
As traffic finally thins, I ease down the freeway. I could head home to the judgement-free embrace of GB, my two-year-old boxer. His goofy face is always a comfort. But do I deserve to sink into comfort right now?
No.
I could go to Axel’s. Wes is, no doubt, perched behind the bar. I can hear his sarcastic, “Are you just going to sit at my bar and brood all night?” On second thought, the popular West Hollywood pub may not be ideal right now.
The unshed tears glistening in Pen’s wide eyes as she stared at me haunts my vision. I can’t sulk. I can’t seek comfort. I need to protect her. From this. From me. Hitting the turn signal, I cross the lanes and head towards the nearest exit.
Forty-five minutes later, I steer the Jeep down a tree-lined street in Sherman Oaks. I brake in front of a one-storyhouse with a charming white picket fence wrapped around the manicured front yard. The house is like something out of a sitcom with its blue shutters, attached double-car garage, and a large bay window that overlooks the front yard. A swing sways from a large maple tree in the front yard.
I hurry up the shrub-lined red brick walkway to the front door. Before I can bring my hand to the turquoise door, it swings open and a tiny body hurls into me.
“Uncle Rowan!”
