Chapter Eighteen
I absently shove some Saltines into my mouth as I wait for the third period to start. The Mountain Lions are up over Edmonton 3-1. Gavin has been on fire again tonight, scoring two out of the three goals, with the other one scored by Cade and assisted by Maxime.
Normally, I’d consider today a day to celebrate. I started my TV job and got the contract started for my book deal. Seeing Maxime get an assist on a goal would be the icing on the cake and reason enough for cupcakes covered in an abundance of sprinkles and a glass of bubbly champagne.
Instead, I can’t eat. I’m nauseated. The only thing I’m indulging in is a sleeve of crackers, which I’m using to try to calm the anxious sea roiling in my stomach.
The articles have started appearing online about me seeing Maxime.
Bile rises in my throat. I texted Maxime from the station to let him know, and he responded that he knew it was coming, he wasn’t planning to read the articles, and the media attention is irrelevant to us.
I haven’t read them, but I have skimmed the headlines: Skye Moves on with Hockey Player! Is It Love? Between Skye Reeve and Pro Athlete? Blah blah. I have received phone calls all afternoon from media outlets, but I haven’t returned them. Charlotte is giddy about Maxime. I told her it was still new and to have no comment if anyone asks her.
I keep checking my social media feeds for new posts, but so far, the tabloid that has been the worst in its coverage of me—Dishing Weekly—has only run a brief spot on their rumor page. That is the one I fear the most, and I know it’s coming, but today is apparently not going to be the day.
I groan and put the half-eaten sleeve of crackers on the coffee table. Boris and Natasha are chasing each other through the apartment without a care in the world. I need to be more like them. I need to shelve the worry and focus on the game. Live in the moment, focus on what I can control, and quit worrying about when the bomb will drop in Dishing Weekly.
I also shouldn’t think about the other thing I can’t control: Aly Meyers.
I screw up my face. She was okay during the flower potting segment, but she did “innocently” ask if I had enough of dirt, ha-ha, as in tabloid coverage.
I gamely played if off, chuckling that it was part of being on reality TV, blah blah, and went about potting my bulb in between her and the guest gardener.
After the show, the producer, Stephen, apologized and said Aly would be spoken to about what happened on set. Rick came and talked to me privately, too. He said Aly was territorial with other women who have worked on the show in the past and that it had nothing to do with me being on a reality show but me being a strong talent. He said I was a real natural on-air, he was happy I was on the show, and I shouldn’t let Aly get under my skin.
Oh, and Aly? Not a word to me as soon as the cameras were off.
Rick’s comment confirmed what I had already suspected, though. Instead of seeing me as someone who could bring value to the program, I was a threat. One Aly wanted to rattle and diminish as best she could to cement her position as host.
I snort. Whatever. I can handle her. If I am grateful to Dishing Weekly for one thing, it’s for making stuff like this seem so irrelevant when horrible untrue things are published and splashed on covers and put up in supermarket checkout lines for my family and friends to see.
Aly is an amateur. Her behavior won’t change how I feel about doing my job.
I only hope Maxime can deal with the tabloids in the same way.
Stop it, I think. You need to trust Maxime and what he says. He’s going to deal with it. I have to trust my judgment and believe him when he tells me he can handle the crap that is going to head his way.
I reach for a thick-cabled throw blanket on the end of the couch and tuck it around me. It’s not snowing today, but it’s still below freezing outside.
I watch another commercial roll by and wish Maxime was here to get cozy with. I’d love to kiss and snuggle with him under a blanket. I want all the sappy romantic things with him at home. I want a fireplace, blankets, warm clothing. Wine. Candles. Kissing. Caressing. Me snaking my hand underneath his sexy, lumberjack, plaid shirt and feeling his chest, raking my fingertips through that dark hair and finding the contours of his pecs as my mouth leisurely explores his—
I blink. Okay. That was a good diversion—imagining a sexy, intimate date with Maxime.
He can’t come home soon enough.
The game comes back on, and I listen as the announcers reset the scene. They talk about the great plays of the top line—Gavin, Maxime, and Cade—and the solid goaltending of Westley Pratt, whom the Mountain Lions got in a trade a few weeks ago.
Maxime heads to center ice for the face-off, and I eagerly watch as he places his stick down, the camera zeroed in on his intense face as he waits for the puck to be dropped. I find myself holding my breath as the Edmonton player and Maxime both go for the puck. Maxime wins the draw, and it sails out of the circle, where a Mountain Lions’ defenseman brings it back up the ice. I watch again in amazement as Maxime positions himself in front of the net, ready to take a pass, but it’s intercepted by an Edmonton player who makes a break toward the other net.
Gavin and Maxime take off in the other direction, to get back on defense. Gavin gets to the other end first and becomes entangled with an Edmonton player for the puck. The Edmonton player hits him from behind, and Gavin slams into the boards with his right leg first. I gasp as I see it bend backward.
“Gavin was hit hard,” John Lewis, the Mountain Lions play-by-play announcer, says gravely. “His leg just buckled there.”
Play stops as the team trainers rush toward Gavin. I watch in horror as Gavin’s leg remains bent back. He puts his hands on his head, then his leg, then back to his head, and tears sting my eyes as I know he’s in agony.
“Oh, Gavin, no,” I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth.
I see Maxime is standing behind him. Everything is still. The doctors are hovering over him now. I want to throw up. I feel awful for Gavin. He doesn’t deserve this. Not after what he went through with Veronica.
“Gavin is just so fast, so strong on his skates,” Martin Czeck, the color analyst, says, as they replay the gruesome injury again. I close my eyes. I can’t bear to see it again. “But as you see right here they get tangled up, and he goes awkwardly into the boards.”
I open my eyes and see more doctors around Gavin, along with Maxime, who hasn’t left his side.
“This arena is silent right now,” John continues. “They know.”
Their words blur in my head as I see Gavin writhing in pain on the ice. It seems like he is there forever before a stretcher comes out.
“Oh my God,” I whisper aloud.
They go on to talk about Gavin as the captain, what he has brought to the team and what it means to lose him as they fight to stay in position for a playoff spot.
I watch as they take off his helmet, his golden blond hair standing out against the sheet of ice. Another trainer slides a towel under his head.
This game is dangerous. I knew it was, but now I’m seeing it firsthand.
Next time, it could be Maxime lying on that ice.
Tears fill my eyes. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of Maxime when Gavin is the one who is hurt, but I realize how much Maxime means to me already. I would be devastated if he was in another country, hurt, where I couldn’t get to him—
I choke back a sob. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t.
A team of people carefully get Gavin onto a stretcher. The players tap their sticks on the ice, and the crowd stands and applauds as Gavin is taken out of the arena, where no doubt an ambulance is waiting for him.
“Now the Mountain Lions will have to find a way to regroup with their captain gone,” Martin says.
“We’ll see how they can do that when we come back,” John says before they go to break.
I say a prayer for Gavin. I pray for God to keep Maxime safe on the ice, too.
A heaviness fills my heart as I think of Gavin and Maxime.
The team has lost their beloved captain.
And now the leadership of the team, and everything riding on their playoff dreams, has just fallen onto Maxime’s shoulders.
***
I climb into bed, but I know I won’t be able to sleep until I hear Maxime’s voice. The Mountain Lions went on to win the game, 3-1, but I watched it play out in a numbed state. Seeing Maxime play without Gavin hurt my heart. They kept showing Maxime on the bench, talking to his teammates, and there’s no doubt in my mind he was keeping them together tonight with his calm, steady, focused leadership.
Natasha and Boris jump up on the bed with me, and while Boris stays a safe distance away, Natasha curls up next to me, purring happily. I nuzzle her sweet head, thinking how glad I am to have these babies with me tonight. I need them more than they could ever need me, and their presence is helping me stay sane.
My mind flashes back to the third period when, with absolute shock, I watched Maxime get in a fight with another Edmonton player. He dropped his gloves and began throwing punches at a defenseman. I screamed at the TV as his opponent, who was twice his size, practically took Maxime’s head off with one punch. When I saw his cut-up face in the penalty box up close, all I wanted to do was hold his face in my hands and make it better. Maxime is not a fighter, but I know why he picked that fight.
He had to show his team he could be the fiery leader that Gavin is in his absence. On top of all of this, the second he looks online, he’ll see his name linked with mine in cheesy screaming headlines.
Maxime doesn’t need my crap in his life right now, I think sadly. If he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore, I’d totally get it. He has enough going on without my baggage.
As if on cue, my phone rings. I swipe it off my nightstand, and it’s Maxime. I answer, desperate to hear his voice.
“Maxime,” I say before he can say a word. “I’m sorry about Gavin. And I’m sorry you felt like you had to fight in his absence.” I have to stop because of the lump forming in my throat. I shove it down so I can continue. “I’m sorry about those awful headlines. I know you don’t need this shit that I bring with me wherever I go,” I say, and my voice begins to wobble. “I’m sorry, I’m sor—”
“Arrête, chérie,” Maxime interrupts.
His words reach up and wrap around me, and I listen to his command.
Maxime clears his throat. “Sweetheart, stop,” he repeats in English. “If you think I’m concerned about being called a ‘Super-Hot Euro Babe,’ you underestimate me. In fact, I rather like being called a super-hot Euro babe. I watched that segment online on the bus to the arena. Aly was a bitch to you. But you—you held your own. I’m proud of you. You were amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m shooting my first report on Thursday with some new theme decorating service that is opening in Boulder. Wait until you see me report. With no Aly, I’ll be so much better.”
“Dealing with Aly proves how skilled you already are.”
“Maxime? I want to go back to something.”
“What?”
“I kind of like that you called me your sweetheart,” I admit.
“It’s not too soon?”
“No,” I say without hesitation.
I swear I hear him exhale. “Good.”
“It’s very good. Are you blushing?”
“What?”
I grin. “You blush when you get flustered. It’s rather cute.”
“I’d rather you think of me as a super-hot Euro babe.”
We both laugh, and then I clear my throat.
“How is Gavin?” I ask.
“He’s in surgery. It’s a broken femur.”
I gasp aloud. “Oh my God.”
“It’s bad,” Maxime says quietly. “We’re going on to Winnipeg right now. I’m about to get on the bus. Gavin will stay here and then fly home to Denver when he’s able.”
“Let me know when he is,” I say. “I’ll get together with the girls. We’ll make some dinners for him and bring them over. I’ll go first. It might be a good time to talk to him, too.”
Maxime is silent for a moment.
“What? Is that okay?” I ask.
“You have a beautiful heart,” Maxime says.
A happy flush radiates through me, warming my skin from head to toe. “Thank you.”
“You do. I’ll never understand why Tom let you go, Skye.”
“I can say the same thing about Juliette.”
“She had her reasons,” Maxime says softly.
“Maxime? What happened between you two? Because I honestly can’t see why she would ever let you go.”
“Laurent!” I can hear Cade’s voice in the background. “Time to get on the bus.”
“I’ve got to go,” Maxime says. “I promise we’ll have this conversation tomorrow night. I’ll tell you everything. And Skye?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you aren’t the one wanting to end things after you hear it.”