Going into her office the next morning, Emma flicked the light switch and shivered in the cool reception area as she waited for the lights to illuminate the large, open-concept space. The office had been closed on the weekend, so it was freezing. The old heaters in the two-story historic downtown building took forever to warm the upstairs therapy offices, so she left her coat on as she adjusted the thermostat.
As usual, she was the first one in, just after seven. She dumped Friday’s leftover coffee down the sink and washed and refilled the pot with water. Setting it to brew, she went into her therapy room and opened her blinds. The sun shining in would help warm the five-hundred-square-foot space.
The old building on Main Street had been a brewery in the early 1900s. She loved the history of the building and its preserved original décor—maple hardwood floors, rounded archways, and an open concept design with crafted metal ceilings. She’d been thrilled when Glenwood Therapy and Rehabilitation had moved in above the medical walk-in clinic.
Of course, she enjoyed it much better once the heaters kicked in.
Rubbing her hands together for warmth, she sat at her desk and opened her Outlook calendar. In a town of five thousand residents, she was surprised that she’d been able to establish a fairly busy client schedule. Most were seniors with mobility issues or teenagers with random and—for some of them—frequent recovery from fractures and breaks. With Dr. Masey and herself being the only two therapists in the town, she was definitely kept busy.
Contrary to what Asher wanted to believe, he wouldn’t be able to train all day every day. Overtherapy would only make the leg worse and wouldn’t speed his recovery, but she scanned her schedule for the weeks ahead and added his name to as many of her open appointment spaces as possible.
She’d get to see him more in the next few weeks than she had in years. The thought made her heart race. At some point she would tell him how she felt about him. He was home. There were no distractions. She planned on spending as much time with him as she could, showing him how she felt, proving to him that there was more to what they had than just the amazing physical chemistry that still sizzled between them, despite years of sex. With his lips on her neck yesterday and his hands gripping her ass, it had taken all of her strength to push away.
Remembering the way his hard-on had pressed against her, she folded one leg over the other and tried to dull the immediate throbbing between her thighs. Damn, he better be right—he better heal quickly. She wasn’t sure how long she could take him being there and not being able to have sex with him.
Her cell phone chimed with a new text message. Seeing Jessica’s name on her screen, she groaned. It was seven a.m.—too early for Jess.
Dinner at my place Friday night next week.
Why did everything with her sister feel more like a command than an invite?
She didn’t respond, tucking the phone into the top drawer as she stood and gathered that day’s patient charts, grabbing a blank one to start on Asher. His first session would be that afternoon, and she was actually a little nervous about it. She knew what she was doing, and the average person with an average injury didn’t make her doubt her abilities, but this was an NHL pro athlete looking to recover as quickly as possible. Not to mention the man she was in love with.
No pressure.
* * *
The sound of the front door opening just after eight that morning had Asher hiding a handful of aspirin as he awkwardly descended the stairs.
“Hey,” Ben said as he entered, shutting the door behind him and shaking snow from his dark brown hair.
The sight of his brother made him instantly annoyed. He grunted a response as he continued his way to the kitchen. Then he swung back. “Why aren’t you in Tampa?” The Avalanche were scheduled to play the Lightning that evening, and Ben was supposed to have flown out already. Annoyed, angry, or irritated, Asher’s hockey brain still took over.
“I’m taking a later flight,” Ben said, removing his winter coat and tossing it on the back of a chair in the living room. “I wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing.”
Only took four days.
“That was unnecessary.” Asher went to the kitchen and opened the fridge for a bottle of water. Twisting off the lid, he tossed the four pills into his mouth and washed them down. They weren’t doing shit for the pain, which seemed worse today than it had the day after surgery. No doubt the good hospital meds were out of his system now. He’d yet to find where his mother had stashed the T3s, so the over-the-counter junk he’d bought the day before was his only hope. He chugged another mouthful of water, draining the contents, and tossed the empty bottle into the blue recycle bin near the kitchen door.
“How’s the leg feeling?” Ben asked behind him.
“Perfect.”
“Ash, look, I wanted to say that that check the other night probably wasn’t the best decision I’ve made on the ice.” Ben shoved his hands into his jeans pocket and stared at the floor.
“Is that an apology?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“You guess. Wow.” Asher shook his head. Opening a cupboard, he grabbed a mug, purposely selecting one with a New Jersey Devils logo on it, his annoyance rising when he had to reach far in the back, past three Avalanche mugs, to find one.
And the family said they didn’t play favorites. Bullshit.
“Is that what you need, an apology? Because the brother I know would have delivered the exact same hit if the roles had been reversed,” Ben said, reaching for his own team mug.
“So you’re not apologizing?” Asher poured the weak coffee into his mug, then set the pot back.
Ben reached for it and filled his own. “I am sorry…” He seemed to choke on the word. “But only that I made your injury worse. I’m not sorry that I played the game the way I always do. The way you always do. One hundred and ten, man—remember?”
“One night. One game away, Ben. You couldn’t let your competitiveness slide for one night?” He hobbled toward the fridge, but his brother got there first.
“Me? I’m competitive?” Opening it, Ben reached inside for the cream and handed it to him.
“Yes,” he said, adding it to his coffee, making it extra creamy, draining every last drop from the carton.
Ben shot him a look. “And you’re not?” He blocked his access to the sugar and only an unwillingness to damage his leg further prevented Asher from physically moving his brother out of his way.
“I wouldn’t have done this to you,” he said, abandoning the sugar.
“Bullshit. Westmores win. Plain and simple,” Ben said, his voice rising, but he handed him the sugar bowl. “I’d have delivered that body shot to Mom if she’d been protecting the puck.”
“Excuse me?” Beverly asked, entering the kitchen.
Ben’s eyes widened, then he shrugged. “Well, I would have.” Then he pointed at Asher. “And so would you. You’re just butt-hurt because you have to wait a little longer for the milestone game.”
“And that makes you happy, doesn’t it?” Asher said, advancing toward him.
Ben scoffed, putting his coffee cup down. “Fuck off, man. You know that wasn’t my intention.”
“Language, Ben,” Beverly said, stepping between them.
“No?” Asher leaned around his mother to stare at his brother. “Admit it, you hate that I’m hitting this milestone so much earlier in my career than you did.”
Ben ran a hand through his hair. “Every milestone you reach, I’ve beaten you to it, little brother. Blame the birthing order, not me.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this.” Beverly held out an arm to each man.
Asher’s hands clenched at his sides and he forced a breath. Their mother would knock both of them out, if things came to blows. “Look, you’re not here to apologize, so why don’t you just get your ass on a flight to Tampa.”
“Fine.” Ben shrugged.
“Fine.”
“Boys, it’s the holidays. Ben, just apologize to your brother, and Asher, accept that it’s part of the game, and let’s move on,” Beverly said, looking back and forth between them expectantly.
Ben remained silent, his gaze burning into his above their mother’s head.
Asher leaned on his crutch and waited.
“I’ve got a flight to catch.” Ben kissed their mother on the head and turned to leave.
Beverly shot Asher a look.
“What? You heard him, he’s got a flight to catch.” And good riddance to him.
* * *
Limping into the arena without his crutch an hour later, Asher stopped to sign hockey sticks for several Bantam players leaving their early morning practice.
“When do you think you’ll be back on the ice?” the tallest kid asked.
“Hopefully before the end of the year,” Ash said, handing him back his stick. He had his first appointment with Emma that afternoon, and he hoped she could work some miracles on his leg. His argument with Ben that morning only fueled his fire to get back on the ice quickly. The next game against the Avalanche was on New Year’s Eve in Denver, and that was his new goal, his new focus for his recovery.
“Sorry about the milestone game,” the other boy said, readjusting the oversize hockey bag on his shoulder. “It totally sucks.”
Asher forced a nonchalant shrug. “I agree, but I’ll have it in a few weeks.” These kids looked up to him, and part of the role of being an inspiration was to fake a positive attitude, even when he wasn’t feeling it. Injuries were part of the sport.
“Well, if you’re feeling up to playing sooner than that, let us know. We could use an extra player on the lake. It’s finally frozen enough to play on,” he said.
“You got it,” he said, though Asher could barely remember the last time he’d actually played a game of hockey on an outdoor lake or for fun. Thirteen maybe? No. Even then, the drive to beat his older brothers had always dulled the joy of the game.
Seeing his brother Jackson entering the coach’s bench near the ice, he waved goodbye to the kids and hobbled over. “Hey.”
“How’d you get here?” Jackson looked surprised to see him.
“Walked.” After the confrontation with Ben, he’d needed the forty-minute walk in the bone-chilling cold to clear his head and cool him down.
“What part of ‘stay off the leg’…never mind,” Jackson said. “Feeling any better?”
“I will soon. Going to see Emma today,” he said, taking a seat on the cold wooden bench. He stared out toward the ice as Jackson’s Atom team players skated out and did several warm-up laps. They were all so eager to get out there. He remembered that feeling well, though his determined drive was always to prove he was the best. The youngest in the family, he’d had a lot to live up to. His gaze landed on the HOME OF THE WESTMORE BROTHERS sign hanging on the wall across the arena. Westmore Brothers. Not Ben. Not him. Both of them.
Why did sharing the town’s pride with Ben irk him so much? Did Ben feel that way? Would Asher feel differently if he was the one always a step ahead?
“Did you talk to Ben?” Jackson broke into his thoughts.
“You knew he was coming to see me?” He stretched his leg out in front of him, feeling the error of his ways for having taken the walk. The muscles around the knee joint seized and throbbed.
“He stopped by here first to borrow my balls or for validation or something, I’m not entirely sure,” Jackson said, checking his player lineup. “So you two are good?”
“No.”
He glanced at him. “Why not?”
“Because the asshole’s non-apology went from condescending to insulting in less than a minute.”
Jackson muttered something under his breath as he sat. “Look, Ben can be a jerk, and you know he doesn’t like to admit he was wrong.”
“Understatement.” He didn’t know how his brother’s fiancée put up with him. Though, as an attorney, Olivia was probably the only one who could effectively argue with Ben.
“But you’re just like him,” Jackson said, opening his coach’s bag and grabbing a stack of pylons.
“More insults?” Was everyone forgetting he was the victim here? He should have gone to see Emma early. She wasn’t a fan of Ben. She’d be on his side.
“Not insults. Truth. And here’s more. Without the rivalry with Ben, you wouldn’t be where you are.” Jackson waved his team in closer.
“Wow.” His family really wasn’t concerned with his ego.
“Ben has always forced you to work harder, dig deeper, push yourself further…”
“I work my ass off. I always have.” His jaw tightened. So, now they were giving credit for his success to Ben as well?
“Relax, man,” Jackson said, sensing his growing frustration. “I’m not saying you wouldn’t have done well on your own, but competing with Ben has always been a driving force in you. The competition between you two has made you both great. You feed off of one another’s energy. You push each other.”
Asher sighed, unable to argue with the words.
“Just think about it—if Ben didn’t raise the bar so high, what would you measure your success with?” Jackson stood and skated out onto the ice, calling his junior league team in to the center of the rink.
Asher’s gaze landed on the community pride banner once more. That was the problem. He thought about Jackson’s question more than he cared to admit. And he wasn’t sure of the answer.