Page 21 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
They do all right for themselves. Gary will do better. He’s smart and though he’s not NHL material—at least I don’tthinkhe is—he’s bent on being a civil engineer so he can design bridges and maybe boss around Glen and David someday. I think he’ll do it. In my family, I’m the one out in left field. Even Maggs works in construction, doing contract administration or some such.
“You wanted me along for this walk. The least you can do is talk to me,” Chelsea says.
“Sorry. Lost in thought.”
“Really? That’s not like you. I thought you were a here-and-now kind of guy.”
“I am.” I grip her hand tight and swing around to the lawn on the side of the massive house, away from the beach. The house I’m renting for my family is next door. Not far, but I don’t think of going there.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” she asks, half laughing, but it’s a nervous laugh.
“I don’t know. Away.” I take a last sip of my beer and realize I’ll need to carry the bottle around with me until we go back to the patio luncheon. Music starts up.
“Why, Ryan?” She speaks almost too softly, like she’s afraid to hear the answer, but it’s all right because I don’t have an answer. I shrug. We’re out of sight of the party. There’s a gazebo a few yards away and I tug her in that direction. It doesn’t occur to me that she might not follow, won’t go along with me. That’s the elite attitude cultivated by my experience for the past eight years getting the better of me. But I’m only momentarily surprised when she stops, tugging back, because this is Chelsea.
“It’s a nice place,” she says, “but I don’t think we ought to be disappearing alone together and I don’t think we ought to be sitting in a romantic gazebo together as if . . .” She trails off, studying me.
“Finish your thought.” I need her to say it, throw the cold water version of words in my face.
“Never mind.” She licks her lips and then blurts, “Hey, I hear you’re doing aSports Illustratedspread?”
“Yeah. And?” The whiplash of her change in subject has me muddled. My ever-interested cock contributes to my lack of understanding of what the hell she’s saying.
She shrugs and turns away. “I’d like to scoop the announcement on my show. In fact, I’d like to be at the photo shoot and take photos and video clips for the show.”
“Fuck.” I mutter the word, not even meaning to say it aloud as I let go of her hand like she’s shocked me. Maybe she has.
So far, I’ve behaved the perfect gentleman, cajoling both of us into having fun with a return to our childhood selves, like it used to be at family holidays before I went off to my hockey fame and fortune. My unspoiled self is vulnerable and she has to ruin it by asking me about theSI. layout. Well, she can spread the rumor and take a photo of me without my shirt for the show. Even after all kinds of mental angst I know I’ll give in to her, because what’s one more photo of me shirtless? And it’s more than a rumor about theSIlayout. It’s a done deal.
But anger and, worse, something like disappointment when I should know better, gets the better of me.
“Et tu?” I say, meaning it, accusing her of betraying the cocoon of our childhood selves I’ve built—at least in my own mind. She’s clearly not there with me. “You want a favor? Fine. Whatever the fuck you want. It’s yours. Take a piece of me quick while there’s still some of me left.” I know I’m being a dick, but I’m so fucking disappointed. It’s ridiculous, I know, but the roiling in me, the searing pain, makes me turn away and walk.
“Ryan—no. Forget it. I’m sorry.” She follows, tugs on my shoulder to turn me around, and I do. Her hair blows around her face, half covering her memorable green eyes, a strand caught in her mouth. Reflexively I lift my hand and swipe the hair aside, touching the unbearably soft skin of her face.
“It’s okay, Chelsea. If anyone deserves a favor it’s you. It’s just . . . hell if I know.”
“You don’t have to explain. I get it. You’re a successful star and everyone wants a piece of you, everyone wants a favor.”
“It would be nice to have friends who don’t want something from me, you know?” I shake my head, uncomfortable with thepoor meattitude I have no right to because I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. “But it’s different with family. I want to give them—you—whatever you need.”
“I’m not your family, Ryan. I have no right to impose—”
“I said yes, Chels. Take it and shut up. I’ll trust you to keep the photos tasteful.”
“Sure. Yes. I will.” She stands there watching me, measuring, not convinced that I mean it.
“Look, I know you work for a douche and your job is . . . not quite a broadcast journalism dream job, but I know you need to make a living like everyone else. And me,” I shrug, “I agreed to do theSIlayout, so I can deal with it. If I didn’t want the publicity, I could have said no.” I’m wishing like fuck Ihadsaid no right now, but I’m not a crybaby. Though saying yes to that kind of publicity is not something I intend to repeat.
It’s going to be a long uphill battle rehabilitating my image, but I have to start somewhere. I’ll have to start after the shoot, after theSIissue comes out in August, and move on from there.
“You’re being so decent about it and I kind of would rather you were an asshole because it would make my job a whole lot easier.” She smiles and loops her arm back in mine. We walk back around the corner toward the luncheon, which is in full swing now with the live musicians playing beachy salsa.
“How are we supposed to play volleyball competing with a live band for attention?” she asks.
“You need an audience to perform?” I say, glad to be teasing her.
She snorts. “I’d rather have no audience. In fact, I’d rather not play at all.”
