In the elevator, I checked my outfit. I’d thrown on jeans and a flannel shirt in case I’d gathered the balls to call her first and she was willing to see me. Now, I looked like a lumberjack, and I undid the buttons at the wrists. Rolled them to my elbows. Unrolled them. Rerolled them.
Lizzie sent me into a tailspin every time we were together.
Settling on the rolled up to just beneath my elbows look, I swiped my palms down my beard. It was currently a dark, puffy mess and itched like hell. I grew it out every year during the end of the season but shaving it as soon as playoffs were over was the best sensation. I scratched at my neck as the doors opened and stepped into the lobby. I’d had enough nerves returning to Chicago to face my old team that I’d spent all week trying to concentrate on playing well against them and not on the woman who drove me crazy.
But now all I had were thoughts of Lizzie. Memories. Desires. By the time I reached the hotel’s restaurant and bar, I was an equal mixture of so damn happy to see her I could kiss her and so damn pissed at her I wanted to throttle her.
Which, in all honesty, were typical reactions I had when it came to her.
I finally spied her, her blonde hair poking out over one of the booths. I’d know her anywhere, even in the smallest glimpse. It helped the bar was mostly filled with couples dressed to the nines in sparkling cocktail dresses and bespoke suits.
I took a moment to settle myself.
What in the hell did I want from this meeting? Were we any closer to being on the same page? Or were we still reading two different books?
She was as gorgeous as ever. Her blonde hair was wavy, hung down past her breasts and her eyes, such a pale but still vivid amber that made me thirsty—and not because they were the color of my favorite whiskey—blinked up at me as I reached the table.
Like every time I first saw her, she stole my breath and shot a jolt of heat straight to my dick. I rocked back on my heels, hands shoved into my jeans pockets to stop from reaching for her.
“Hey.”
She blinked, and for a moment I saw a glimpse of fear. My stomach churned before she wiped it away. “Hey. It’s good to see you?”
Was it? Because she didn’t sound so certain herself.
I didn’t ask. That she didn’t stand and hug me didn’t bode well for what was about to happen.
She rubbed her hands together before gesturing to the other side of the table. “Sit. Please?”
I did, sliding to the center of the booth and dropped my phone on the table.
“You look good, Lizzie,” I said. “How are you?”
“Good.” She nodded and took a drink from a glass that looked like beer, but Lizzie didn’t drink beer. She ignored the water sitting next to it. If there was a drink option on the table, she’d go for anything other than a beer. “I’m good. Work is good. Busy as always and you know… I’m good.”
The nerves I’d felt in the elevator spiked. Lizzie didn’t ramble, at least, never with me before. I sat back in the booth and draped an arm over the back, tried to get comfortable, but that was impossible. Being around Lizzie turned me into a live wire. One wrong touch and my body could explode.
“You’re playing well. I watched your game tonight. How was it? Playing against Chicago?”
It was tough. Mentally and physically. The Storm knew me better than anyone and knew how I moved. I hadn’t been able to relax a single second of the games we’d played, but that wasn’t why Lizzie called me and just like I couldn’t relax playing my former team, I couldn’t relax with her.
A server strolled up, a young guy with short, cropped black hair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have what she’s having.” I pointed to her beverage and watched as she bit her bottom lip. “Looks good. What is it?”
“Um.” She rolled her lips together. “Ginger ale.”
A faint pink rose on the apples of her cheeks, and she glanced at the waiter. Ginger ale? Fuck that.
Yeah…no. This conversation was going to need more than a soda that tasted like piss.
“Strike that,” I told him. “I’ll take a lager. Anything light you have on tap.” The tension at the table made me wish I could have something stronger, but we weren’t supposed to be drinking on away games.
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as he walked away, a heavy silence fell between us. I could have gone first. Could have pushed more. I could have thrown myself on my sword once again, but this was Lizzie’s show. I knew her well enough to know that while she sat across from me, nervously rubbing her hands together and tucking hair behind her ears, fiddling with her gold hoop earrings, she’d been practicing some speech of hers long before she called me.
Hell, she’d already been downstairs when she made that call.
So yeah, she was the one who left with a note and didn’t return my calls. I could feign contentment while I waited. She took another sip of her ginger ale, and for someone who hated carbonated soda, that alone piqued my curiosity.
She set the glass down, ran her pale pink painted fingertip down the edge, dredging up condensation, and brushed it on the napkin.
Her head tilted to one side and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are you happy?” A faint pink hue stained her cheeks, and I sat up straighter in the booth. “You know… with…” She paused and cleared her throat. “With Vegas?”
Holy hot damn.
She wasn’t asking about the team.
She’d seen the pictures.
If she wanted to know about Nadia, she’d have to ask. She hadn’t made things easy for me for years, and while I didn’t enjoy being a dick to her, I needed more than this. I needed to know her intent before I opened myself up.
The server returned, slid a circle coaster onto the table and set my beer on top. “Thanks,” I told him, and brought it to my mouth.
“I can’t complain about Vegas, but I haven’t lived through a summer there, either. Winter’s nice, though. But that’s not why you called and we both know it. Talk to me.” When she didn’t immediately start, I leaned in. “Why are you here?”
She puffed out a breath through her full, gorgeous pink painted lips, and I steeled myself for whatever she was about to say. A vise gripped my chest and squeezed painfully around my ribs.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call when I got home. And I’m sorry I left the way I did. I didn’t want… I didn’t want the goodbye we would have had that morning to be harder than necessary.” She stalled, and I swore I saw a lump in her throat as she struggled for words. The part of me that loved her wanted to leap across the table and hold her, slide my hand through her hair the way she loved and promise her she could tell me anything. The part of me that was so damn hurt by her kept my ass in the booth. “I got sick when I got home. I couldn’t talk for days and then… well, I’m sorry.”
She blinked at me. Long blonde lashes fluttered across her cheeks and her eyes dimmed. “I’m so sorry for all of it. I knew we needed to talk, but some things happened after I got better and I needed time.”
She’d been sick. It explained the first few days like she said. But it’d been months now. “You could have told me that. Or texted me instead of ghosting me.”