ZOE

Twenty-One Days Left…

It’s the butt-crack of dawn when Andre pulls up outside of my house on the following Thursday.

Four a.m.

I’m convinced that the only reason four a.m. should ever be seen is if you’re stumbling home after an all-night boozer and you’ve lost both your shoes and your dignity.

While I recently had to put down my favorite pair of stilettos (R.I.P Manolo), my dignity is mostly still intact. Somewhat.

Andre’s headlights flash again, illuminating the dark living room where I’m camped out on the couch. I’ve been ready since two, thanks to the jittery nerves that haven’t eased since I first laid down for the evening.

The walls of the living room glow, shadows dancing across its dark expanse as the car lights stress the driver’s impatience.

With a groan of displeasure, I roll onto my side, legs slipping onto the floor. My feet go into an old pair of gym shoes, and my hand grapples in the dark for the strap of my oversized purse.

Quietly, so I don’t wake my family, I escape out the front door. Since my dad lives in the heart of Somerville, a close suburb of Boston, the street is lit with streetlamps. An ambulance’s sirens kick off in the distance, and I swear I can hear Tom Fedd’s baby crying bloody murder next door.

But the interior of Andre’s car is dark, so dark that I can barely see him sitting in the driver’s seat.

His door opens. Like a shadow creeping through the night, he unfolds his body from the car, leaving the driver’s side door ajar.

“Want me to put your bag in the trunk?” he asks, his voice still rusty with sleep. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the rustiness does things to my girl parts. Things I would rather not feel when it comes to Andre Beaumont.

I glance down at my bag. “I stocked up on snacks for the ride.”

His shoes crunch over the gravel until he’s two feet away. In the early morning, he’s more silhouette than anything else. His features are a mosaic of slashed shadows stretching over the bridge of his nose and carving out the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are obscured, thanks to the baseball hat he’s wearing.

I want to reach up and tip it back with my finger—get a read on his mood this morning.

In other words—is this drive to New York City going to be as painful as I imagine it will be? God, I hope not.

Andre’s chin dips, indicating my bag. “I thought maybe we could stop for some breakfast along the way . . . . I know how you get when you’re hungry.”

Surprise straightens my shoulders. “Not going to lie—I thought you’d take the starve-me approach this morning.”

Eyes still hidden by the brim of his ball cap, I watch the way he swallows, hard. “I thought about it, trust me. Just let you waste away during the drive.”

“How sweet of you,” I mutter. “What, are you going to toss my body out in Connecticut or something?”

His lips curl up in a wicked grin. “Nah, Zo, I was thinking more along the lines of the Jersey Turnpike.”

My heart stutters at the humor in his tone, even as I outwardly scoff. “Always a gentleman, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Gentleman? Me?” He lifts his ball cap, teasing me with the promise of seeing his eyes, before resettling the hat over his head, brim pulled low. “I think you’ve got the wrong hockey player.”

“I’ve certainly got the wrong something, that’s for sure.”

“Already regretting having me as a client?”

“I won’t if you promise to behave.”

He reaches down and wraps his fingers around my purse strap. “I’m not the best trained pup in the litter.”

I roll my eyes at his metaphor, but feel a grin nevertheless pulling at my lips. “I’d venture to say that you’re the one still peeing in your crate.”

“I have a lot to learn.”

“That’s an understatement.”

With a quick tug, he pulls the purse from my grasp. “Good thing you’re the type of woman for the job, eh?”

Damn you, heart, stop pounding like that. Swallowing past my nerves, I ask, “What kind of woman is that?”

His teeth flash white with a grin. “A badass. Now, do you want breakfast or not?”

He thinks I’m a badass.

I shouldn’t find that as thrilling as I do. I’m supposed to hate him. Really hate him. But our quick banter reminds me of our friendship back in Detroit, and as much as I should tell him to drive straight to Manhattan, I find myself weakening. Just a little. Maybe.

Then again, breakfast means making pleasant conversation with him, something that neither of us has done exceptionally well with each other since reuniting in Mr. Collins’s office. Since then, my days have been spent doing damage control by calling the publications that Andre has ignored like the plague for the last few months. Some places, like Sports Illustrated, were amenable to opening the doors again. Some places, like GQ, hung up on me after I mentioned Andre’s name.

With twenty-one days left, I’m quickly realizing that the damage Andre has done to his reputation might not be fixed within the course of a month. Not without a whole lot of groveling and heartfelt apologies.

Since neither groveling nor heartfelt apologies are his thing, we’re left with one option: Fame.

Hopefully, today’s gig will help on that front. What am I saying? We need it to help in every way that matters. Breakfast will probably do us some good—we can talk business, stuff like that. Only business.

The sound of the trunk slamming breaks me from my thoughts. “You good with that?” Andre asks.

“Am I good with what?”

“IHOP.”

I haven’t been to an IHOP in years. “Is there one close by?”

He claps his hand over the driver’s door, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s giving me an are-you-serious expression. “Right up the road. We can grab some pancakes and some of those home fries you like so much, and then hit the highway.”

At that opportune moment, my stomach lets loose an unmistakable growl, and I swear; even though I can’t see him, I practically hear him grin in victory.

“Get in the car, Zoe,” he murmurs. “You know you want to.”

I get in the car.

Within twenty minutes, we’re seated at a booth in the back of the restaurant, which I suppose doesn’t really matter, because we are one of only two parties. The group at the other table is definitely wasted. They howl as they eat, utensils flaring through the air, laughter cracking out like a hyena’s bark.

Andre and I, on the other hand, seem to have lost whatever mojo we had outside of my house and sit across from each other in near silence.

It’s not as uncomfortable as it sounds . . .

Just kidding—the silence is brutal. On a scale of one to ten, our current communication problems are at least a five hundred.

Which is so not how it used to be.

Does he remember the amount of times we hit up restaurants throughout Detroit? Except that, then, conversation flowed like finely poured wine. If anything, we used to have too much to say, so much so that there were a handful of times when restaurant staff had to kick us out because it was closing time.

The night hardly ever ended at the establishment’s front doors. We continued the conversation by one of our cars—usually mine—so that he could make sure I got in safely before I headed home.

My fingers flatten out a thin, white napkin.

Andre plays with the handle of his chipped mug.

God, what a miserable pair we make.

I open my mouth to speak, and funnily enough, he does the same, so that our words tumble over each other.

I wave to him. “Go ahead. You first.”

Shaking his head, Andre readjusts his ball cap. “Ladies first.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a sly remark, but I hold it back, swallowing it down and shoving it deep where it won’t threaten to reemerge again. I fold the napkin in half and then in fourths. “I spoke with Sports Illustrated yesterday,” I say slowly, even as I wonder if I should hold off on business until after his first cup of coffee. “They’re interested in rescheduling a feature piece sometime in the next two weeks.”

His mouth quirks, but it isn’t a humorous smile. If anything, it looks a little worn, a little frayed. “Somehow managed to swing it within your trial period?”

My cheeks heat at his words, and I return to my napkin, folding it and folding it and folding it, until it’s a triangular-shaped football. “I may have told them that it was urgent.”

His laugh is short, though not necessarily unkind.

I try again. “They agreed to it, by the way.” I shove the napkin to the interior part of the table, against the arrangement of plastic maple syrup bottles. “Why did you flake out on them in the first place?”

Just then, a server approaches our table to take our order. While Andre goes overboard with coffee, OJ, a stack of blueberry pancakes, and two orders of bacon, I opt for a bowl of oatmeal and a single pancake. Tea, not coffee.

Andre snorts as the waiter takes our order back to the kitchen, and it’s so sarcastic, that I clap my palms on the table and demand, “What?”

“Oatmeal?” He reaches for a syrup bottle and drags it close. “Zoe, we both know that you can out-eat me, if you wanted.”

It’s true, and we both know it. But my stomach is a bundle of nerves, thanks to him, and I don’t think I could handle more than what I ordered. “Maybe I don’t want to,” I tell him stiffly, unwilling to admit the truth.

And the truth is a muddled space between want and dislike.

I don’t like him, not anymore, but my body can’t help but notice his. Notice the way his hair is perfectly disheveled, and the way he’s taken a razor to his face and erased the permanent five o’ clock shadow he’s always got going on. His jaw is sharp, masculine, and I feel the most irrational urge to slide my palm over his face, just to feel the smooth skin.

Yep, I’m officially off my rocker.

The server brings us our drinks, saving both of us the trouble of making more awkward, stilted conversation.

Not that the reprieve lasts long.

Andre downs half of his coffee, then clasps his hands around the mug. His gaze is still hidden by the shadow of his hat, but from the firm set of his mouth, I know he’s staring me down. I can sense the weight of it. “So, Sports Illustrated said yes. Who said no?”

I fidget uncomfortably on my side of the booth. “Well . . . ”

“Zoe, don’t bullshit me.”

I heave a big sigh. “Pretty much everyone.”

“Everyone?” One hand leaves his coffee mug to remove his hat. Without asking if it’s okay, he rests it atop my purse, which I had placed on the table. Then, he turns back to me, his brow lifted in disbelief. “‘Everyone’ is a pretty broad claim. What about USA Hockey?”

I shake my head. “Said no.”

He lifts his coffee mug to his mouth and blows the steam away, as though buying himself time. Over the rim, he asks, “Breakout?”

“No.”

His thumb slips down the handle, caressing the white porcelain. It’s hard not to imagine that thumb skimming down the ridges of my spine. I slam the brake on those thoughts, and mentally shove them into a metal box with a Never Open Again label.

“Okay, so non-hockey magazines.” He lowers the mug to the table a little too forcefully, and the tea in my cup sloshes over the rim. I steal back my football-shaped napkin, unraveling it so that I can wipe up the mess. “Time Magazine reached out a few months ago.”

“I already called. I spoke to two editors, but after being stood up by you, and then the way you’ve treated some of their reporters in the past . . . they aren’t interested.”

“Fuck.”

He says it with no prelude, but I can sense his shock. A year ago, I may have even slid onto his side of the booth to put an arm round his shoulder in comfort. In this moment, however, I still myself by holding onto the edges of the booth. Lowering my voice, I ask, “What happened this last year, Andre?”

Once again, the IHOP gods save Andre from having to confess. Our server chooses that exact moment to swing by our table with our feast. Or, Andre’s feast, and my small portion.

At the sight of his plate of bacon, I regret my life decisions and shove a spoon into my soupy oatmeal.

He must catch my bacon-ogling, though, because he holds up a crispy piece. “If I give you this, I’ll answer your question and then you have to promise not to pry anymore.”

My gaze lands on the bacon, and I swear I begin to salivate. “Is this another condition?” I ask, swirling my spoon around in the oatmeal bowl. “Like when you told me last week that we won’t be having sex again?”

As if on cue, the bacon gives up on being stiff, and cracks down the middle to dangle limply in the air.

A laugh breaks free from my chest, just before I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, God,” I whisper from behind my splayed fingers, “it’s a sign.”

Dark eyes narrow on me, even as Andre drops the bacon on his plate like he’s embarrassed to be holding a wilted slice. “A sign of what?”

“Our lives.”

Uncontrollable laughter takes hold of my body, because, holy cow, it’s so incredibly accurate. Like the piece of bacon, both Andre and I have been broken this last year. I mean, if you really want to look at it, we’re both still trying to pick up the pieces of our ill-timed shagging at the Red Wings’ facility.

There’s a beat of breath before Andre, no doubt sensing the irony, gives in. His shoulders don’t bounce the same way that mine do, but the corners of his eyes crease, and his mouth ticks up from its permanent frown.

When he’s smiling, his features move from broodingly attractive to downright sexy.

Before I can halt the words, I blurt out, “You should smile more. It looks good on you.”

His laughter slowly edges into silence. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear him, he says, “Maybe I don’t feel like smiling. You thought of that, Zoe?”

And just like that, we’ve come back full circle. “Tell me what you were going to say. Before the server came around with our food.”

I watch him dig into his blueberry pancakes, and I take the not-so-subtle hint. Okay, so, his year is off-limits. I can get behind that, though it does feel a little unfair that he should dangle questions in front of me and then snatch them away. Then again, we aren’t exactly friends any longer, so I probably shouldn’t feel slighted.

Fun fact: I totally do, though.

So, it comes as a surprise when two pieces of bacon land on my plate. Neither piece is the broken, half-dangly one.

My gaze cuts to his face. “Thank you?”

“This is going to be my last season.”

That’s all he says. That’s it. And yet I feel the weight of his depression migrate onto my shoulders. I stare at him openly, trying my best to make the words mean something in my head. “What do you mean, this is going to be your last season?”

With a sigh, he pushes his plate away and folds his arms over his chest. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t pry.”

“No, you told me that I shouldn’t pry, but that was before you dropped that bomb on me.” I snag one of the bacon slices he’s given me, and pop it into my mouth. Chewing, thinking, I decide I need more time and opt to eat the second slice now instead of saving it. “Why will this be your last season?”

“Zoe, no prying.”

“Does this have to do with the sex thing?” I ask, because there’s no way I can’t at this point. He’s made such a big stink out of it that it can only mean one thing . . . “Did you pick up a life-altering STD or something?”

The ridiculous comment pulls a laugh from him. “I don’t have herpes.”

“I’d hope not,” I say primly.

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“It would sort of matter,” I tell him, waving my hand back-and-forth in a so-so motion. “I have to say, this doesn’t make your actions any better. You’ve still been a dick.”

“I’ve always been a dick.”

“Well, this last year you’ve really upped the ante.”

“I try my best.”

He says it with such a blasé tone that I roll my eyes. “Maybe you should try your worst?”

He mimics me and rolls his eyes too. “I’ve been at my worst, Zoe, and I can tell you that this me isn’t nearly as bad.”

I want to press him for more, but the expression on his face stops me. Sometimes it’s best to find a speck of patience—not that I have any.