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True. In the last few hours, I’ve gained tens of thousands of followers on IG. It’s crazy how disappointed they’re about to be with my content.
He gives another of those dry laughs.
“Well, at least there’s a bright side. Are you good, ma? I can imagine how fucked up this can be for someone who’s not used to it.”
“The fucked-up part is that youareused to it,” I blurt out. I’m tired. That’s the only explanation for why I’m continuing this conversation with him when I can jump off right now. “How are you doing? I’m sure it’s not exactly fun being caught kissing another woman when ...”When you’re still obviously in love with your wife and the world knows it.“When it’s not as deep as they’re making it seem,” I quietly say aloud.
“People are going to believe what they want, no matter what I say or don’t say.”
“Right.” I should leave it. Again, end this call, let this go. But instead, I ask, “Is your son okay? Khalil, isn’t it? Seeing you with another woman that isn’t his ... mother,” I finish on a murmur.
A long, heavy beat of silence throbs over our connection. And for a moment, I don’t think he’s going to reply. And heat scorches up from my chest, passes my throat, and pours into my face. Even though he can’t see me, I duck my head, the embarrassment damn near a physical weight.
“Never m—”
“Yeah, Khalil. And he hasn’t seen anything, that I know of. My in-laws have kept him away from social media.”
My in-laws.Notmy son’s grandparents. NotKendra’s parents. Butmy in-laws. I don’t know if it’s a conscious choice of words, but I catchwhat isn’t said. He very much considers himself still married and a taken man. And they aren’t just his son’s grandparents but hiswife’sparents.
The message is received loud and clear.
Suddenly, the urgent need to get off this phone is like a fire alarm clanging in my head, reverberating in my pulse, my veins. It’s damn near a primal warning.
“That’s good.” I stand, restless. “Listen, I’m about to give Graham back this phone. I just got off work, and I’m tired. Thanks for looking out for me when you didn’t need to.”
Not granting him a chance to respond, I thrust the phone back at Graham and stride past him, out of the living room, toward the stairs. Am I running away? Quite possibly. But not from Solomon—from myself and my obvious penchant for rejection. Solomon Young is no good for me. And more importantly, he doesn’t want to be. He might call himself riding to my rescue by sending Graham, but there’s a big difference between caring and responsibility, duty.
I’m clearly the latter.
The sooner I accept that there’s nothing between us but regret and bad choices, the better off I’ll be.
Chapter Seven
SOLOMON
“I got it.” I tap the back of the front seat, forestalling Graham from climbing out of the Range Rover to open my door.
I’ve been a professional athlete for twelve years—starting with the Edmonton Oilers at eighteen—but in a lot of ways, I’m still that boy growing up in North Preston, Nova Scotia, with a loving but hardworking single mother. She provided everything I needed—a safe home in a protective and close-knit community, clothes on my back, food in my belly, and an education. And though her paycheck didn’t stretch for the extras, she found a way to make sure I stayed in the sport I loved.
Still, we didn’t know anything about luxury cars, drivers, or security. And though I’ve been able to afford all three—and more—for the last several years now, a part of me will never be used to all this extra shit.
And having another person open a door for me when I have working hands and limbs seems pretentious as fuck.
If not for being so damn tired after a run of away games lasting more than a week, I would’ve driven myself. But Graham met me at the airport, and I was grateful as hell. Both me and my tired, bruised body. Now, though, pushing open the rear door and stepping out ofthe vehicle, that weariness and pain ebbs, swamped by the excitement and love rising inside me and swirling between my ribs.
A smile lifts the corners of my mouth as I climb the front steps to the white palatial home that belongs to my in-laws. The quiet of the Blackstone neighborhood is broken only by the soft chirp of nocturnal insects and the resounding chime of the doorbell I push. Kendra had a key to her parents’ home—her childhood home—that she’d use when we visited. Despite my in-laws’ encouragement, I’ve never taken that liberty. This is their home, not mine. And though I’m close with them, I haven’t been able to bring myself to use the key that remains in Kendra’s jewelry box that I packed up and put into storage for Khalil one day.
Moments later, the wide front door with its pristine arched windows opens, and Nate Talley, Kendra’s father and the owner of the Pirates, stands in the doorway. Tall and on the lean side, he exudes authority from his unwavering gray eyes to the straight, powerful set of his shoulders. In his early fifties, he’s a handsome man. But it’s his wife, Caroline, who blessed their only child and daughter, Kendra, with her lovely features.
I smile at Kendra’s petite mother as she walks up behind Nate, and like always, an invisible hand fists my heart and squeezes, twists. From the smooth light-brown skin to the loose shoulder-length dark-brown curls framing delicate facial features and brown eyes a couple of shades lighter than her skin to the slender build, Caroline is like a future vision of Kendra. So much, at times, it’s difficult to look at her for too long.
“Hey, Nate, Caroline.” I move forward, stepping into a foyer that I can’t call anything butgrand.
A black-and-white marble floor stretches beneath my feet, and a gilded ceiling soars high above us. The elaborate crown molding lends the spacious area an air that dates back to another era. Which tracks, since Kendra once told me this house was built at the turn of the twentieth century. Before Nate owned a hockey team, his family had their hands in everything from textiles manufacturing to banking to real estate. Given their generational wealth, I hadn’t been surprised whenhe’d insisted I sign a prenuptial agreement before I married Kendra. A twenty-three-year-old hockey player fresh to the States wanting to wed his daughter after only knowing her for four months? Shit, in my head it sounds sketchy as fuck. But it was love at first sight for us, and if I had to sign away any claims to her inheritance, I didn’t give a damn. I only wanted her, not her shit.
Moving into the living room, I scan the massive stone fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows, and richly upholstered furniture. The room seamlessly pours into a just-as-elegantly-appointed living room that I’ve spent many dinners and holidays seated at with my adopted family.
“Where’s Khalil? Sleep?” I ask Nate and Caroline, who follow me into the room.
