CHAPTER SEVEN
WREN
Carter puts away the goals and skates over, coming to a sharp stop, a wave of ice showering the glass.
He steps out and places his stick down.
I wriggle my nose, not sure why Carter loves this place so much. It smells like someone put dirty socks in the margarita machine. “How does it feel?”
His hands clasp the edge of the bench, a hand-span between us. He nods. “It feels good. Scratch that. It feels fantastic.”
The cheeky smile I remember from our childhood plays on his face. It’s nice to see it again. “What about your knee?”
He makes a fist and taps his kneecap. “No problems. In fact, I think the increased exercise will be good for it.”
“You never exercised in…”
“Inside? They don’t have ice rinks in state penitentiaries, and the exercise ‘yard’ was the size of a tennis court. With everyone crammed in there you could barely move let alone perform any kind of sport.”
I glance at his arms, very conscious of the ball of heat that’s swelling between my legs. “But you must have done something to get,” I have no idea how to phrase this, so I go with, “ripped.”
He laughs, looking at his guns in turn. “These? Cardio was out, the free weights were taken by the skinheads, but I still had my body, so I’d spend my cell time doing crunches, push-ups, dips, lunges, bear walks…”
“It shows.” I gulp, worried I’ve said too much.
“Thanks,” he replies, adding a small smile, but the whole Mr. Universe thing isn’t doing my stamina any favors out there on the ice.”
I doubt Carter’s ever had a problem with stamina…
“I was actually thinking about hiking up to St. Mark’s,” he continues, “to get my cardio up a bit for training. You in? I mean, you look fit enough.”
‘Fit enough’—Maybe I’m reading a little too much into that. “I haven’t been hiking since I was in Girl Guides.”
He rocks on the bench, the muscles in his arms coiling, the definition in them bold. “It takes about five hours to get to the summit and back. David and…” he trails off. “It’s a great view from the summit.”
“Sure,” I offer, not really certain what I’m signing up for, but keen to spend more time with Carter, to get to know this man I’ve lost for so long.
Carter stops rocking, looks at me. “Did my brother hurt you?”
It comes completely out of the blue. I take a moment to collect myself before answering, unsure how much to divulge exactly what happened between us. “If you’re talking about the affair, it was a shock, yes, but I’m coming to terms with it.”
“I’m not talking about the affair. Physically, did he hurt you?”
I instinctively reach up to my arm, rubbing it where David pulled me that night, the hard slap that followed driving me to my knees.
Yes. “What does it matter? He’s gone.”
Carter sits up straight, suddenly seems tense. “If he was here. If he hurt you…”
“You’d what?” I laugh, the trill of it out of place. “It’s not doing anyone any good dwelling on it, Carter, least of all you. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he messed up my life in ways I never saw coming, and I suppose it’s my fault, but—”
“It’s not your fault. Don’t ever think that.”
“I could have been more… forthcoming, with…”
“Sex?”
The lump in my throat’s grown to a full on pomegranate now. “Yes.”
Why are you even having this conversation?
“Did he satisfy you? Sexually?” Carter’s swallows a bit himself, unsure of this new line of questioning.
I didn’t think it was possible to be this hot at an ice rink.
Straight out with the big guns. I shake my head. “There were other issues.” I’m debating how much of myself I’m prepared to lay out on the table here. Can I really open up to Carter after all these years?
Why the hell not?
Screw it.
I tell him. “David wanted a baby. We tried for almost a year. I went to a clinic, got the all clear, but David refused to go, certain it was my fault, that I was somehow denying him. Eventually we stopped sleeping together, and you know what? I was thankful.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Let’s just say David wasn’t big into mutual satisfaction.”
Carter hangs his head. I know he wants to apologize again, but he holds his tongue.
“You didn’t deserve any of this, Wren. You were too good for him—always.”
I desperately want to change the subject. I hang my head too, my hair falling forward to hide my face, before I draw it back up, running a strand behind my ear. “By the way, I got in touch with David’s mom yesterday.”
“My mom?”
I’ve confused him. “No, no. David the kid, the ice hockey fan.”
“The sick kid?”
“Yeah. At first his mom was, how shall we say it?”
“Reluctant,” Carter suggests.
“Precisely, but she came around thanks to my supernatural powers of persuasion. She’s bringing him up tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? To Oatville?” I can see Carter wasn’t expecting this so soon.
“You think you’ll be okay with that?”
He straightens himself up, acts tough. “No problem.”
“Because you can tell me if this is too much.”
“No,” he says with greater authority. “I want to help.”
“Cool.” Why the hell do I keep saying that? It’s like being around Carter has turned into some kind of nostalgia machine. “Should we head home then?”
He stands, one arm open. “Lead the way, little bird.”