“I have to be what they want.”
Her confession gnaws at me. Drives an angry wedge between everything I instinctively feel about her and my conscience. How can I ever know what’s real? How can I show her I want more than the show she puts on for everyone else? That I’m more.
I force one of my hands away from her incredible body. Letting her go is like yanking free from an industrial suction. My hands clearly don’t agree with my brain on this, but every second I stare into her gorgeous face, I know—I know—if this were Camille or Lea or Zoe, if they were hurting and desperate, I’d expect more from the man they turned to. I’d expect everything, which is why instead of devouring Genevieve’s lips, I gently brush them with my thumb. Instead of stripping off that magnificent bikini top, I tug the strap until it’s comfortably back in place.
Her expression pinches in surprise, then disappointment, and I offer a smile to soften the rejection. But until it’s the girl in the mirror who wants me, I can’t accept. I won’t.
“Camille is amazing,” I say gently, searching her face. “I hope you get to meet her one day.”
“I hope so too,” she whispers back.
We move to the hot tub, which sounded dangerous at first, but proved to be a good compromise once we settled into the warm water. Seated on the wide bench, I lean against the wall, Genevieve tucked between my legs with her back to my chest. Just to be safe, I stretch out my arms along the perimeter of the spa while she nestles against me.
We sit in silence for a while, enjoying each other and the tranquility in a way I’ve never experienced with a woman before. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to talk or explain anything, even though after the rocky start to our day, words should be pounding to come out. Maybe it’s because she seems relaxed as well, her body soft in a way it wasn’t a moment ago. Her fingertips run in lazy circles over my knee, and I finally give in to a light brush of mine on the side of her neck. Sighing, she leans into the touch, and again I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since she’s been connected with someone.
“Is your knee okay? You were limping a little on the way to the hot tub.”
I continue to trace her skin, smooth and visible now that she’s secured her long hair in a messy pile on her head. She’s so beautiful she looks like a fabrication. A construction designed for a magazine editorial, untouchable and on display for the enjoyment of others.
“Fine. Just a little sore from squatting by the pool after I came back over,” I say.
Her grip constricts on my knee, but I can’t see her face to read it. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Squatting or coming back?”
“Both.”
I shudder at the pain in her voice and reach around her to tighten her to my chest. She breathes out a long exhale and snuggles closer.
“You bring colors, Oliver. Did you know that?”
A chuckle sieves from my throat. “I bring color? Really.”
Her hair scrapes my cheek as she nods. “Yes. When I’m around you… I don’t know. Everything isn’t gray anymore. I feel like I can breathe.”
My stomach turns; my ribs feel compressed. She means it as a compliment, I think, but that’s a hard world to imagine and a heavy burden to carry. I’m even more desperate to find the girl in the mirror so she can color her own existence. I’ve glimpsed the gray and it’s no place for a person to live.
I stare past her at the stunning landscape surrounding the pool. It looks like a tropical paradise, every plant and stone trimmed and fitted to perfection like the rest of her estate. Like her. Like I’m guessing everything in her life has been for as long as she can remember.
“I’ve trained my entire life to get to the NHL,” I begin after a long pause. “It wasn’t just a dream; it was a driving force for me. My entire existence revolved around hockey. My present was my future. I sacrificed, I fought, suffered broken ribs, broken fingers, broken teeth… you name it, I’ve given it up to get here. And just like that…” I snap my fingers. We stare at my knee and the pain surges back like it happened yesterday. The pop of ligaments fresh in my ears, the white-hot spear of agony. The sudden blackhole of awareness that it could all be gone.
“My world wasn’t gray that night,” I continue quietly. “It went completely dark.”
She tenses in my arms, and I pull her close. “You must have been so scared,” she whispers.
“Fucking terrified.” I drag in a ragged breath, inhaling a heavy draught of her shampoo. “I was nothing without hockey. It was like having twenty-three years of my life ripped away from me. Everything I was. Everything I had to live for. Part of me hoped I wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia. You know how I got back up?”
“Surgery?”
I laugh, loving the sweet smile she tosses back at me. “That too. But even the best surgeon couldn’t help my broken spirit. Mentally, I was as shattered as my knee.”
“So what did you do?”
“Not me. It took someone else. One night shortly after the injury, when the pain was unbearable and my mental state was worse, Camille called. I tried to hang up on her. Everyone else gave me space, probably afraid of me. But she refused. Kept calling until I stayed on the line long enough for her to say one thing.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes. My jaw tightens at the memory.
“What did she say?” Genevieve’s voice is so faint, so desperate for answers.
“She said, ‘you’re not a hockey player, Oliver. You’re my brother. And you don’t need a good knee to be my brother.’” I clear my throat and brace for the fight. My knee. Her soul. It’s all the same battle isn’t it? A fight for color beyond what we can see in the dark. “You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend. And you don’t need to be anything to be my friend.”
CHAPTER 4
Hello, friend. How I’ve missed
Your honest echo I hold so dear.
Hello, foe. How I resist
Your graceless way of drawing fear.
Hello, demon. Glad I’ve found you.
The angel takes my breath away.
She pretends, while you’re hell-bent on preserving true decay.
GENEVIEVE
I’m already counting the seconds until I can see Oliver again. I hated when he left yesterday but we both have demanding lives that are currently unsynchronized. We also never had sex. He didn’t even kiss me, though he clearly wanted to. There were times it seemed to physically pain him not to give in, but for some reason he fought our powerful attraction. I don’t know why because I would have moved heaven and earth for a taste of him, and I’m pretty sure he knew it. Even now, I burn at the memory of his hard body against me. The heat of him—his scent, virile and clean, still lingering in the recesses of my awareness. It was so bad, I had to take care of “urges” after he left, all while picturing him doing the same. When that wasn’t enough, I picked up my guitar for the first time in a while.
True to his word, Oliver didn’t play games either. I woke up to a text this morning, direct and sweet: Had a great time. Hope to see you again soon.