“Ovarian cancer,” she’d said in a big, breathy rush.
“What?” He didn’t think it was possible that she’d just used the word “cancer.” She wasn’t quite thirty.
“It’s bad, Mike,” she’d said quietly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Her tone made his gut turn sideways.
But even after that, it had taken another couple months for him to understand how it would all play out.
O’Doul was waiting for him to finish the story. But now he didn’t really feel like it. Too painful. “So, uh, nobody knew how sick Shelly was when I left Lauren.”
“Except for Lauren, right?” O’Doul asked.
He shook his head slowly.
O’Doul’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell her Shelly was terminal? That’s insane.”
“Is it? I had to take a wrecking ball to all our plans either way. I didn’t want to make her feel sorry for me.”
“You wanted her to . . . hate you instead?”
Yes. “Not exactly. But I had a choice—I could either be a martyr or an asshole. I thought it would be easier to get over the asshole than the martyr. And I wanted what was best for her.”
O’Doul lifted his fingertips to his temples and rubbed. “That’s complicated, man. Makes my head hurt just thinking about it.”
“Yeah? How do you think mine feels?”
“I can’t even imagine.”
He eyed the door at the front of the plane again. Still closed.
Shit.
SEVEN
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
MARCH 2014
Mike lay panting in his bed, limbs splayed all over Lauren. He braced himself on an elbow so he wouldn’t crush her, but he couldn’t bring himself to move any farther away from her very naked, very well-fucked body.
A half hour ago he’d come home from the season’s last big road trip. His suitcase was sitting just inside the bedroom door where he’d dropped it. On top of it rested a bunch of hydrangeas he’d picked up on his way home from LaGuardia.
He hadn’t let Lauren put them in water yet. He’d pounced on her for a preliminary round of fast, energetic sex. Even if his body was spent, he couldn’t stop admiring her beneath him. He pushed a lock of golden hair off her forehead and kissed the ivory skin he’d revealed. “What are you thinking about, baby?”
“Spreadsheets,” she answered quickly.
“What?” he yelped, rolling to the side, taking her body with him. “Jesus fuck. Am I slipping? Spreadsheets, after that?”
Her laugh was a giggle. “Can I explain myself before you get offended?”
“Go for it.” He cupped her perfect ass in his hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.
“I’ve been surfing the real estate listings in the city, right?”
“Right.” They were supposed to look at a few later this week.
“Well. After that spectacular welcome I just received, I started wondering about all the fun we could have in our new place.”
He made a noise of approval. “Okay. I like the sound of that. But what about the spreadsheets?”
“There are two places that look particularly good to me. One of them has a fireplace in the living room, which has some serious potential.”
“Ah,” he said, stroking his fingers up her back. “Like, bear skin rug sort of potential?”
“I’m not doing it on a dead bear. Maybe a wool rug, though.”
He laughed, and it shook both of them, so he wrapped his arms around her to hold on tight. “Okay. Tell me about the other one.”
“The other place has a terrace. That’s a real luxury for Manhattan. I could even grow a few hydrangeas.”
“Do I get a vote? Because I’m going to pick fireplace fucking. We can buy hydrangeas at the flower shop.”
“The terrace has a hot tub.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” she mimicked, giving his arm a squeeze. “I thought you’d like that. For your weary muscles.”
He liked all of it—every whim she might dream up. They’d been together a year and a half already, and things were only getting better. The new team owner had stunned Lauren by offering her a job in Manhattan, and stunned everyone by moving the team to Brooklyn.
The next chapter of their lives would happen in the city. He was giving up his rental house and Lauren would finally move off her parents’ property. “So where do the spreadsheets come in?”
“I’m building one to help me with the rent versus buy calculation,” she explained. “I need to estimate the tax savings for each property and do a cost/benefit analysis. I still think we might want to rent for a while. Just until things settle down on the team.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine.” He didn’t have any idea if that was true, but he didn’t want Lauren to worry. Worrying was a waste of time, and it prevented people from living in the moment. That was no good.
By definition a goalie needed to be very good at pushing aside the hum of anxiety in his life. Another man might panic when the new team owner started making a lot of changes. Mike had a bad feeling about his ex’s health problems, too.
His entire existence was up in the air, except for Lauren. She was his rock.
“Where shall we go for dinner?” he asked her suddenly.
Her smooth hand massaged his shoulder with a firm grip. “I thought you were taking Elsa out to that pizza place?”
He stretched lazily on the sheets that Lauren had picked out for the bed. The rental house was better furnished these days, with furniture in all the important rooms. The bedding was silky against his skin, but not as silky as Lauren. “The pizza is terrible where I’m headed. Even Elsa thinks so. But she likes to try her hand at that claw game. You know that thing?”
“Sure. All those stuffies look easy to grab, but you can never do it.”
“Yup. Elsa loves pouring dollars into that sucker. And after a while she’s like—Daddy, win this! But I can’t. I think it’s rigged.” He ran a hand over Lauren’s perfect hip. “So I could take you out for a late dinner, after I take Elsa home. Seafood?”
“Sounds nice.” She rolled in to hug him. “Or I could cook.”
“You don’t have to. I could grill a couple of steaks.” That was one of two things he could cook.
“I’ll cook.” She snuggled a little closer into his embrace. “Who knows what kind of kitchen our apartment will have? Might as well take advantage of that monster Wolf range you’ve got downstairs.”
He tugged her up onto his body. “We’re not going to have a shitty kitchen, Lo. I’m not going to cheap out on our place.”
“Hey—I’m not worried. But I’ve overheard the wives who have been house-hunting in Brooklyn. They keep complaining about the kitchens,” she said. “But it’s not the end of the world. I’m looking forward to having a dozen restaurants within walking distance.”
“That does sound fun,” he said, running a finger down her perfect nose. “You and I have more flexibility with finding a place, anyway. The guys keep talking about schools and crap. But we don’t care about those.”
“True.” She put her head down on his chest and said nothing further on the topic.