Holding_Playmaker Duet Page 4

  Nico sighed heavily before saying, “Knowing Asher…Do you think she’s trying to shield you from something?”

  “Shield me from what, pray tell?” I cocked my jaw to the side, still not looking over at my friend. “I fucking love her, want to marry her, but apparently, she wants nothing to do with me anymore.” I couldn’t believe that was true, but the longer I went without talking to her, seeing her, it was sinking in that when she told me to leave, she likely truly meant the words.

  She couldn’t.

  Couldn’t mean them.

  She knew I loved her. She had to know that nothing she went through, would pull me away from her, from loving her.

  “Want me to make a pre-game meal?” Nico finally said, changing the subject.

  This time he wasn’t being an ass.

  “If you broke into my house, then yes, fucker. You can,” I mumbled, closing my eyes.

  I heard as he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Heard your girl was a slut.”

  The game had barely started, and already this guy was getting on my last fucking nerve. I ground my molars together, not ready to give Brown the satisfaction he was looking for. I kept my eyes ahead of me, waiting for the puck to drop.

  Was that honestly the best he had? A sly remark about my girl? That was what I chirped about in middle school. Girls, moms…

  I shook my head, my eyes still on the center. It was too early in the game for me to start throwing punches. We didn’t exactly have beef with Florida, so dropping gloves this quickly with no significant hits or scoring wouldn’t exactly earn me big points with my coach, not when I just earned my spot back on the first line.

  It was all about timing.

  “Heard she spread her legs for her father,” Brown continued, a telltale smirk in his voice.

  Snap.

  Just like that.

  I’m not entirely sure how it happened. One moment I couldn’t give two shits, and the next, I had Brown on the ice, my gloves were who the fuck knew where, and my fist was landing in his face again and again and again, as my other hand pressed into his neck.

  He didn’t fight back, he didn’t block my blows.

  No, the fucker laughed. His mouth and nose bloodied as he laughed at his own fucking joke.

  I was pulled off of him, a zebra on either side of me, holding my arms. I wrestled one free, pointing a steady finger at the dumbass who had the audacity to spew about a situation he knew nothing about.

  “You don’t know shit,” I sneered.

  I managed to avoid my family for the last hour.

  The game ended thirty minutes ago, and I was holed up in my bedroom once again. Nico was out with the team. We ended up winning.

  I’d been pulled from the game, which fucking sucked, because I needed something to keep my mind off Asher. But now, that fucker Brown’s words echoing in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  About her unsure at seventeen.

  Laughing at eighteen.

  Laying with me at nineteen.

  Her fears, her secrets, her goals, her aspirations. How far she’d come, only for it all to be knocked down to the fucking ground.

  The texts from well-meaning family members became calls, which became FaceTime requests. Eventually, even my laptop was lighting up with dual FaceTime and Skype messages, but still, I avoided them all. I didn’t care to hear their opinions. I didn’t need their scolding or concern.

  There was one number that I kept hoping would come through, but she was still ignoring me, still pushing me away.

  It killed me.

  It killed me to know that some asshole, some shitty situation, took the light from Asher’s eyes and drove her away from me.

  In the end, it didn’t matter that she pushed, that she avoided, that she ignored me. I still wanted to be her rock. I wanted her to feel she could find someone to trust, and that that someone could be me.

  To drown out the noise coming from every-fucking-where, I turned on the TV. The channel was set to NHL Live and the two hosts were talking about some animated graphic that went viral in the matter of moments.

  I sat back and sighed, needing the distraction.

  Until they showed the graphic.

  It was one of those gif images that fans turned into memes, and it was me being pulled away, pointing at Brown. My “You don’t know shit” was certainly well enunciated, as each word was more than clear to see as a viewer.

  “Fuck.” I closed my eyes tight.

  Avery, in her agent hat, was going to have a field day with this.

  It wouldn’t be long until her number started joining the masses.

  “What do you think this was about?” the one host, Eddie, was asking.

  “Well, Eddie, the Prescotts have had quite the last few weeks, so I’m willing to bet it has something to do with that. And then the rumors about Porter Prescott’s fiancée and what happened to her during the incident involving Avery Prescott, one can only imag—”

  I couldn’t listen to any more of this shit.

  What the fuck did they all know? Sure, most of the allegations about what happened during that time were true, but not a damn thing had been confirmed.

  Unless…

  If Ryan leaked about their past, I’d fucking kill him. I didn’t care if he was with Myke, I didn’t care if Asher forgave him; he didn’t need to go spreading that shit.

  I picked up my phone to call Myke when my computer went at it again, the annoying ring of an incoming call on Skype filling the now silent living area.

  “God fucking dammit,” I said with a groan, standing up from my couch to move into the kitchen, where my laptop was sitting on the counter. My body was sore, but I was free of any bruising because the fucker Brown didn’t fight back.

  “Hey, Mom,” I managed to say more cordially than I was feeling, opening up her call. I couldn’t avoid my mother, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Porter.” My name was said on such a sad fucking note, I would have thought she was disappointed in me. But I could see every other facet of her sadness in her eyes. “What happened?”

  So like my mom. Never mind the fact that she could see it with her own eyes, and could certainly read my lips if she wanted to, but she was asking me.

  “He was talking shit about Asher.” I lifted my brows, daring her to come up with something to shoot my words down. “She may not want anything to do with me right now, but I am not going to listen to that.”

  I couldn’t listen to it.

  My head, my heart, my fucking soul couldn’t listen to it.

  “I held her while she broke down. I have watched that strong, beautiful woman crumble and become someone I don’t recognize. I will not listen to some ignorant asshole talk about something he knows shit about.”

  My mom rubbed at her eyes. Hell, I made her cry.

  “Mom, don’t cry.”

  “My heart breaks for her, and it aches for you, Porter.”

  I had nothing to say, so I pursed my lips and nodded, dropping my eyes to the keyboard of my laptop.

  “She’ll come around, Porter. I have to believe it.”

  I lifted my eyes and gave a sad smile.

  I had to believe it too.

  They say your life flashes before your eyes right before death.

  No, I wasn’t dying. But this was certainly the icing on the proverbial cake.

  One moment, I was racing for the puck, and the next I was being pounded into the boards. Between my body angle and the hit though, I felt the pop before the searing pain snaked up and down my leg.

  The moment I went down, my life flashed before my eyes.

  Playing hockey with my brothers when I was hardly five years old.

  Asher’s smile.

  Getting into so much damned trouble as a teen.

  Asher’s smile.

  My accident and eventual school change.

  Asher’s smile.

  Meeting Asher.

  Loving Ashe
r.

  Holding my nieces and nephews.

  Hugging Bri as tight as her little body could handle.

  Asher holding me as I bawled the night Bri died.

  Holding Asher as she broke down.

  Asher pushing me away.

  And away.

  And away.

  So yeah, I was fucking fine.

  But I could certainly be fucking better.

  “It’s always a fun time when all three Prescotts are on the ice, wouldn’t you agree, Troy?”

  “Yeah, we don’t get to see it often, with the Enforcers and Rockets being in different conferences. What is it, Mike; maybe once a year?”

  “If that!”

  “The youngest brother, Porter, always has a mouth on him but it doesn’t seem to work for him when playing San Diego.”

  “And they’re lining up now for the face-off. Looks like it’ll be Caleb in the center. Charleston’s moving Porter to a wing. I’d love to see those two go head to head.”

  “I’m sure Kent Hitch’s theory is that Porter can read Caleb’s movements, thus retrieving the puck, even if Caleb were to win it.”

  “And to prove that point… There it is. The oldest Prescott won the face-off, but the puck still found its way to the youngest Prescott. Caleb’s game has been a little off the last few months, but he’s almost back to his top shape.”

  “He and his wife are heading a Hockey Fights Childhood Cancer game in November. I know the public is pretty excited for it. I’m curious if we’ll see Porter at the event. Charleston does not play that day. Back to the ice, and Porter Prescott passes it to Nico D’Amaco, and now Porter is set up near the net. D’Amaco passes it over to Hills, who snaps it wide to Porter. There’s a scuffle behind the net as Porter and Winski battle it out. Winski frees the puck, clearing it back to Rockets’ defending zone. We have a line change, with Caleb Prescott heading in to the bench. Porter Prescott makes his way to the boards. That kid won’t stop! He’s got a fire lit today, Mike.”

  “You’re telling me, Troy. He’s chasing the puck and…Oh! That looks like it hurt. Johnson just slammed him into the boards.”

  “No love lost there, Mike.”

  “Rockets continue possession of the puck, but it’s not looking like Porter’s getting up…”

  I watched it from the bench in slow motion.

  Watched as Johnson slammed Porter into the boards. Kid needed it. Sometimes he needed to be knocked down a peg or two.

  He’d been in a foul fucking mood the last few weeks. So, the girl he was supposed to marry decided not to. Boo-fucking-hoo. I didn’t see Asher leaving the family any time soon and either they’d fix the fuck what was going on with them, or they wouldn’t.

  I wasn’t trying to discount what Asher had been through.

  But Porter needed to grow the fuck up.

  Try losing a fucking kid.

  I bit my tongue to keep the never-ending tears at bay. Bri was still too fresh of a loss, especially when watching baby Braelyn grow up. Another baby with brown hair.

  My redheaded girl, my little lady Bri, was going to be our only redhead.

  Brae was seven months now.

  Her smile was the same one Bri wore.

  I shook my head and kept my eye on the puck but Winski skated into the bench and tapped my shoulder. “Ports isn’t getting up.”

  I looked back down the ice, behind the Charleston goal and sure enough, my kid brother still lay there. I frowned.

  The puck was still in a battle in front of the Charleston net but surely someone would catch—

  And there it was. The whistle.

  It may have only been a matter of seconds, hockey was fast like that.

  “Get up, Ports,” I mumbled, leaning into the boards. Soon, Charleston’s medic was on the ice and everyone was moving to their benches. Jonny skated in, standing on the other side of the boards from me.

  “What happened?” he asked, his eyes on Porter. “I know Johnson hit him but I didn’t see anything else.”

  “I didn’t see the hit,” I told him. Winski nudged my shoulder and jutted his chin up to the Jumbotron. The hit was played in slow motion.

  It was clean, but the angle…

  I winced as I watched Porter’s knee go out from under him.

  “Is he awake?” Jonny asked, leaning his body away from the boards to try and get a better view.

  Not caring if it was frowned upon, I jumped the boards, “Let’s go see,” and skated my way to where Charleston’s staff was leaning over Porter, having moved him to his back. I didn’t realize Jonny was behind me until he angrily told someone to “piss off,” that he and I would be over here if we wanted to.

  “Is he ok? He awake?” I asked.

  The medic looked over his shoulder at me, his hands pressing around Porter’s left kneecap. “I’m thinking it’s either a sprain or tear in his knee. He’s awake, just—”

  “I’m fucking fine,” my kid brother groaned from the ice.

  “You look it, kid,” Jonny answered.

  “Fuck off.”

  That was so like Porter.

  “Glad this is going well,” I mumbled. Kid would be fine.

  But it was looking like he’d be out the season.

  “I have to leave,” Ryleigh was telling me into the phone. I was sitting in the studio, editing my last shoot, when she called. I started picking up shoots again last week. I still wasn’t one hundred percent, but I was feeling more like myself.

  …Even though Ryan proposed to Myke over the weekend.

  Over the last few days, I had to come to terms with any ill feelings I had toward Ryan.

  Or, I had to leave.

  And even though I hadn’t seen Porter, hadn’t spoken to Porter, I wasn’t ready to leave.

  Not yet.

  I bit my lip.

  Maybe not ever.

  I had almost convinced myself that even if I couldn’t have him, even if I had to watch someone else fall for him, watch as he fell for someone else…this was where I belonged.

  Yesterday, Ryan and Myke met with me at the guesthouse and Ryan told me everything. Now, Myke knew everything.

  Just not that you enjoyed it.

  Ryan never meant to bring James to us. Ryan never expected that on his journey to find me, he would meet and fall in love with Myke. And he did love her. I saw it with my own eyes.

  He only came to talk me into testifying against his father. Not long after I left, James and Tracy divorced. James’s last victim was his stepdaughter, and the knowledge had made me violently ill.

  Now that there had been another case, my statement would be even more damning.

  And in the end, because of me, James was dead and the case would never see the light of day.

  I was okay with that. But my heart hurt for the other girl.

  “Are you there?” Ryleigh’s voice brought me back.

  “Yes, sorry. What was it you needed?” I saved the image I was working on and pushed away from the desk.

  “I have to leave. Emergency birth shoot.” I could see between the lines. It was one of Ryleigh’s “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” shoots, a charity photography service where photographers donated their time and services for birth shoots of stillborn babies and babies that wouldn’t live long.

  I loved doing newborns, but I had a hard time with the idea of the charity shoots. I knew for a fact Ryleigh cried after those shoots—I’d gone with her a time or two—and the pictures always came out so beautifully but…

  I couldn’t bring myself to do them myself.

  “Porter should be released within an hour.”

  I clenched my jaw, bunching the muscles. She wanted me to pick up Porter. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

  I hadn’t even watched a game.

  I knew he’d been hurt two weeks ago—an ACL and MCL tear in his left knee, I was told—but I refused to watch the playback. Ryleigh and Avery didn’t say much about it, other than h
e’d elected to have his surgery up in Wisconsin. I honestly thought it was more to appease his mom, than anything else.

  “Ryleigh…”

  “Noah’s out of town, Avery’s in San Diego with Caleb and Jonny, Myke—”

  I sighed. “Okay. Alright. Sure, yeah, I’ll pick him up.”

  “Your ride is here,” Nicole, my post-op nurse, said as she walked into my room.

  She stood a little too close as she helped me to stand, my crutches in her free hand as her other cupped my elbow. I wanted to growl at her that I was fine and could stand on my damn own, but being a bastard wouldn’t do me any good.

  When Mom first brought up me having the surgery at home, I jumped at the chance. But in the two weeks I’d been home before surgery, I still hadn’t seen Asher and now I was just fucking pissed.

  If I was going to be home and not see her, I might as well be down in South Carolina. Granted, Nico probably wouldn’t watch Caine for me if I were there but shit, I’d rather deal with the disaster that came with a nearly three-foot puppy and a bum knee.

  Still standing too fucking close, Nicole helped to adjust my crutches under my arms before kneeling, her hands on my brace and checking the tightness, while her face was too damn close to my dick.

  I rolled my eyes heavenward and chewed on the inside of my cheek. I was done with the overly friendly nurses, the too friendly pats and slides of their hands down my arms.

  The fucking pressing on my bare stomach to check for intestinal and liver shit.

  I just wanted to tell them to get their damn hands off me, but the entire time I just dealt with it.

  When she stood again, she stumbled into me, and I had to grit my teeth against both the press and the pain in my knee.

  She giggled lightly and blushed. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I can be so clumsy.”

  “I’m good,” I said through my teeth, glancing up at the clock.

  “Alright, well, here are you discharge instructions. Would you like me to carry them?” Nicole held out a small stack of papers.

  I leaned into a crutch—no fucking way was I going in a wheelchair—and held out my hand. “I’ll take them.” She looked disappointed but handed them over. Crumbling a side in my hand against the crutch, I organized myself and when she moved out of the way, moved toward the door.