Page 8 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
But I finally impose my sanity, my rational brain, and shut down my cock. My whole family will be here, including Gramps, and it’ll be my job to take care of him. Mom and Dad are bringing him tomorrow and we’re staying at a house I rented near Levi’s parents’ home. I’m here early to check it out and make sure it has everything we need.
“Your neighbor? Like I’m the girl next door?” She looks up at me, incredulous, defiant, and showing a little hurt that she fails to cover up. I’ll bet she has no idea how expressive her green eyes are. How kissable those lips look right now. How fucking gorgeous her face is. Her body. Her soul.
“You’re a friend.”
Poking a finger into my chest, she says, “Don’t even pretend that night didn’t happen, Ryan.” Her voice is shaky and I freeze, as if she’s turned me into a statue with her scolding. I’ve been dreading this confrontation. Expecting it, when I let myself think about it.
Taking her finger, I move her to a bench in a quiet alcove and sit her down.
“We agreed never to talk about it.” My words are quiet. “To forget it ever happened. That it was a mistake.”
“The mistake was yours, not mine. And we shouldn’t talk about it—to anyone else. But we both know it happened.”
My heart thuds like I’m waiting to be executed.
“And we both know why,” she says.
“Because I’m a douche.”
She shrugs. “Maybe you’re just an immature shithead who doesn’t know any better, hasn’t learned to appreciate women yet.”
“Oh, you’re wrong about that. I appreciate—”
“I’m talking about more than fucking a woman, Ryan. I mean appreciate everything about them. But you’re right. The one thing I’ve heard about you from every woman who should know is that you’re an expert in the fucking department.” She sighs, looking away, muttering, but I hear her. “Not that I’d know.”
Ouch. This is my biggest problem with that night. To this day I don’t know if I’m more of a douche for touching her at all, for giving her an orgasm, or for turning her away when she wanted more. She’s looking at me now and I know she’s reading my mind because she shakes her head.
“You’re right. Let’s not talk about that night. I was young. You were—”
“I’m sorry, Chelsea,” I say. “I should have left you alone.”
“Stop. Donotfucking apologize.” Her voice shakes and I see the glistening in her eyes. I have to be the biggest fucking fuck-up ever at dealing with real feelings, with real relationships with women. Not that I’ve ever had one, not truly.
“You’re a . . . a roué,” she says, like a girl pretending at being sophisticated, yet still convincing, with real passion behind her words. “What do you know?” She shrugs like I’m a subhuman imbecile, and maybe I am when it comes to this—real relationships with women. I have family and I have women I fuck. Nothing else. That’s how I relate.
Though in truth, I haven’t had a one-night stand since before the playoffs. Since I went home to stay with Gramps, who’s still not doing well. And I don’t miss it, the women with agendas that have nothing to do with a real relationship. But I don’t try and convince her I’m not a man-whore because I have no right. I owe her more than empty words.
I shrug, give her a grin. My reputation is what it is because I’ve cultivated it and earned it and now I have to live with it. If I earn my way to a new reputation it’ll be the old-fashioned way, not by complaining or pleading my case.
“I have a rep to keep up. Ladies’ man for those promotional deals for men’s cologne, right?” It’s the last thing I’m worried about but she chuckles and slaps my back.
“Glad we cleared all that up, O’Rourke. You stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine,” she says. “Now let’s go find the rest of the bridesmaids and your sister.”
She lets me loop my arm through hers and we head for the front door of Cru. It’s crowded and they tell us there’s a wait, but Chelsea isn’t up for that.
“You sure you want to keep Ryan O’Rourke, the Boston Brawlers’ star player, waiting?” She whips the baseball cap from my head and I give an obliging smile to the hostess who has now lost her power of speech.
“I’ll get you back for this,” I tell her under my breath. Her grin is infectious.
The hostess recovers herself and smiles the kind of smile I see on young women wherever I go. This is the kind of girl I avoid at all cost no matter how much they throw themselves at me. Sweet and genuine and deserving of more than I have for them.
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t—right this way Mr.— ”
“Ryan,” I say. Last thing I want to be called is Mr. O’Rourke as if I’m someone’s dad or the school principal. And I’m no one’s idea of school principal material. Someone’s dad? I scoff inside my head as we follow the hostess through the restaurant until Chelsea spots Maggie and the crowd of bridesmaids.
I prefer not to think about being a dad. It’s one of those abstract possibilities for some future universe that I’m not sure I’ll ever reach.
“Ryan! What the hell are you doing here?” Maggie yells at the top of her lungs and launches herself at me in a sloppy drunken hug. I can’t help laughing as I exchange a glance with Chelsea. One or both of us is going to have to take care of my sister and her best friend.
