Page 173 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

“I didn’t…” He pauses again, looking at me with so much longing it’s almost enough to make me forget. Almost. “I didn’t mean to. That first night we met, I thought you’d take one look at me like I did you and know. I thought you’d remember me.” Pain flickers through his eyes.

I think back to the night in question. It was my birthday, and we’d gone out to watch a game. Then we stalked the team after and followed them to a club. It was the night Bea got pregnant. The night I got to dance with hockey players. The night I got to meet some of the men I’ve followed for years.

“B-but, you’re Calvin Keller.”

Finally, he pushes to his feet, pulls his beanie from his head, and drags his fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t recognize me, and…and it wasn’t the time or place to bring it up.”

“And then what about all the times since?” I ask, thinking of the evenings we’ve spent together, the nights we’ve been apart, messaging constantly. “What was wrong with any of those times?”

He shakes his head, his eyes holding mine, silently begging for me to understand. “I⁠—”

“You what, Calvin? You been lying to me for weeks. No. Months. That was months ago. And not once did you think you should maybe mention that we already know each other?” Hurt lashes at my insides.

I thought…I thought we were being open and honest with each other.

I thought. Fuck. I thought that maybe this was it.

“I wanted to.”

Fire shoots through me.

“That’s not good enough,” I snap.

He drags his hand down his face. “I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He takes a step forward, and I instantly take one back.

“Shit,” he hisses.

“I can’t believe this. I thought…I was falling in…”

His expression falls as my words trail off. Seeing his regret doesn’t make any of this okay.

“Sienna, darlin’.”

I hold my hand up, stopping him from moving closer as that single word wraps around me.

Darlin’.

I close my eyes, remembering the few times that twelve-year-old boy called me that.

How didn’t I realize?

Shame and embarrassment roll through me.

For years, he’s been Calvin Keller, the fuckboy hockey player whose photo has been slashed all over the media. Even if I suspected, I never would have believed he was the boy I met that summer at his family’s ranch.

The Smythsons’ Ranch.

“I-I can’t do this,” I say, turning my back on him.

“Sienna, please. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

I take a few steps forward, fighting the tears that are burning the backs of my eyes, before glancing back.

“I can’t do this.”

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