Break Away (The Baltimore Banners Book 5) (2 page)

"Taylor, I'm not sure—"

"Please? It would be so much fun."

"I don't even know when practices are." Emily threw the excuse out there, mentally cursing JP for putting her into a situation that would make her look like the bad guy. Disappointment flashed on Taylor's young face and Emily clenched her jaw. Damn him. "How about we look at the schedule and go from there? Will that work?"

Taylor nodded then ran off to join several of her teammates, showing off her newly autographed puck. Emily watched her for a few seconds then reached for the gear bag, slinging it over her shoulder with a soft grunt.

"I meant it about the practice. I'd be happy to give her some pointers." JP's voice was soft, almost hesitant. Emily moved to step by him, then paused.

"I'll let her mother know." She moved away, silently groaning when JP stepped in beside her. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up the act, how much longer she could pretend that his presence—that the memories—weren't tearing her up inside. She lengthened her strides, eager to get away from him.

"You could bring her to a game. I could get tickets—"

"JP, stop. Please." Emily turned, not quite looking at him. Didn't he know what he was doing to her? How could he act like nothing had happened, like there was no past between them?

Because that was how he was. Live for the day, seize the moment. Never worry about consequences. Emily could never forget that. Never.

"Just...stop. I can't. Okay? I just can't." She turned and walked away, only slightly surprised that he didn't follow. She waved to get Taylor's attention then pushed through the heavy glass doors into the chilly October air, squinting in the bright morning sun.

Today had been a fluke. Nothing more, nothing less. In a few days, she'd be able to rebury the memories, rebury the pain. In a few days, she'd be able to forget again.

And she had no doubt that it wouldn't take JP nearly as long to forget. It was the one thing he did so well.

JP slid around the ice, reaching for the puck, stretching until it rested against the flat of the blade. He dug in with a grunt and pushed himself faster, gaining speed, coming closer to the net. Brad Goodrich, their back-up goalie, positioned himself between the pipes, watching as JP raced closer.

JP cut to a stop and pulled back with the stick, sending the puck flying across the ice. It hit the pipes with a hollow ring of metal and bounced to the side, rolling safely away from the net.

"Fuck." JP muttered under his breath and skated off to the side, ignoring the steely gaze of the Banners' head coach. He had missed every single shot at practice so far this morning, a feat that did not bode well for tonight's game. JP just hoped it wasn't an omen.

He skated along the boards, his eyes searching the faces of the small crowd that had gathered at this morning's practice. No matter how hard he looked, he didn't see a woman with long hair the color of honey or eyes so bright a blue they reminded him of the clear sky on a crisp Fall morning. And he certainly didn't see a cute little girl with light brown hair and a crooked toothless smile in the crowd.

Something squeezed tight in his chest at the memory of that cute smile turned on him. Had he really thought—? Well, it didn't matter what he thought, he had been wrong. So wrong. That didn't stop the growing tightness in his chest. He reached up with one gloved hand and pushed against his sternum, taking a deep breath at the same time. He had acted like an ass last weekend, no doubt about it. But he had no idea how to fix it, if it could be fixed or if he should even try to fix—

He knocked into something so hard he stumbled backward and nearly fell on his ass, his arms whirling around him until he caught his balance. Mathias Herron stood in front of him, a quizzical look on his face as he grabbed JP's arm to hold him steady.

"Dude. Are you okay there, JP?"

"Yeah. Fine." He tugged his arm free and skated in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the small crowd once more. Disappointment filled him, the intense bitterness surprising him.

"Who are you looking for?" Mat scanned the crowd then looked back at JP, his brows raised. JP shrugged, shook his head.

"Nobody."

"Really? Because you ran right into me looking for nobody."

"Let it go." JP turned his back to the crowd, then muttered under his breath. "
Peu de merde
."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." The rookie didn't need to know he had just been called a little shit. Not that the insult was one of JP's strongest, and not that Mat was really a rookie any longer.

He slid forward in line, waiting for someone to shoot the puck toward him for the next drill. He'd make the next shot. He had to, because Sonny LeBlanc was watching him too closely. No telling what the coach might do if he kept fucking up this practice.

"Hey, look. Isn't that your girlfriend?"

JP turned his head, following the direction of Mat's finger pointing at the crowd. Had she changed her mind? Had Emily decided to show up after all?

"What? Where?" JP didn't see her, didn't understand how he could miss her.

"The redhead over there. What's her name? Denise."

JP groaned and looked away, glad he hadn't seen the woman, glad he hadn't mistakenly made eye contact. Regret at his own stupidity filled him. "Her? No,
connard
, not my girlfriend. She's not anyone's girlfriend."

Not unless you counted every single guy on the team. JP didn't say what he was thinking out loud. Who the hell was he to talk or judge anyway? Not when he fell into that same category.

Pain shot through his ankle, quick, dull. JP grunted and looked down, saw the puck careening away after hitting him in the ankle. A split-second later, a shrill whistle pierced the air.

"Larocque. Get your ass over here." Sonny's bellow echoed across the ice, bounced off the high metal ceiling, and settled with a sharp finality at the base of JP's skull. He swore under his breath and skated across the ice.

"Yes Coach?"

"What the fuck is your problem Larocque? Are you even here? Am I talking to your incompetent twin?"

"No Coach."

Sonny stared at him, a muscle twitching in his square jaw, the scar that ran down across his face flashing a dull red. He leaned to the side and spit, his eyes never leaving JP's face. JP swallowed and looked away from the steel gray eyes that threatened to impale him.

"Laps. Now. And then I want to see you put that fucking puck between those fucking pipes."

"Yes Coach."

JP turned and pushed off, picking up speed as he moved around the ice. One lap. Two. Again and again until muscles burned and sweat poured down his face. He stopped at the far end of the ice then skated forward, reaching with his stick as a puck flew toward him. He took off, cradling the puck with the blade until he was close enough to shoot. The hollow sound of metal ringing echoed around him and he held his breath, not letting it out until he saw the puck bounce into the net.

Not a great shot. Not at all. But at least it went in. JP circled the net then raced along the ice, feeling Sonny's eyes on him the entire time as the drills continued.

The long shrill of the whistle finally signaled the end of practice. JP skated off the ice, ignoring the calls of some of the fans. He wasn't in the mood, not right now.

Not when the one person he had hoped to see wasn't there.

"You want to tell me what's going on?"

JP glanced over at his teammate, Randy Michaels, saw the man's brows lower in concern. He shook his head and looked away, then pulled his shower kit and towel from the locker before slamming the door shut. "Nothing, my friend. Why do you ask?"

"Because you've been distracted all week. Who were you looking for?"

"Nobody."

Randy said something under his breath, too low for JP to catch. He didn't bother asking him to repeat it, not when he had no interest in hearing whatever his friend had to say. He moved to the shower and stripped down, closed his eyes and stepped under the steaming water.

"I'm going to The Maypole for lunch. Want to join me?" Randy's voice floated through the fog of steam, hollow, distant. JP wiped a hand across his face and shook his head. The Maypole was the successful restaurant owned by Randy's sister and her friends, including Randy's girlfriend, Alyssa. And normally JP would jump at the chance. The restaurant was a themed sports bar, geared towards women—and the clientele offered numerous opportunities for single men who appreciated fine scenery. JP had met several of his flings there.

"Not in the mood, my friend."

Randy didn't say anything for a long minute, his surprise evident in his silence. "Suit yourself. Just thought you'd want a break before the game. It's Friday, so I'm sure there's going to be a nice crowd there. Just what you're looking for, isn't it?"

JP opened his eyes, wincing as soap momentarily burned and blurred his vision. He ducked his head under the warm spray then looked over at Randy. "What did you say?"

"I said that's what you're looking—"

"No. The other. What day is it?"

"Friday." Randy looked over at him, a scowl on his face. "Are you sure there's nothing going on you want to talk about?"

"Absolutely." JP grinned then finished rinsing off. Friday. Of course. No wonder Emily wasn't here. It was a weekday, surely she worked. And surely her niece was in school. That explained why they weren't here, why his invitation to come watch practice had gone ignored.

Parfait imbécile
. Why hadn't he considered that? He truly had been an idiot, not even thinking about anyone else's schedule when he had sent the tickets and the invitation to the practice. It hadn't been hard finding Emily's address, though it had been tempting to go over and deliver the tickets to tonight's game personally. But he thought that might scare Emily away. She had looked so...lost...when he had seen her last weekend. Surprised and maybe even a little sad.

So he had used a delivery service for the tickets. Four of them, for Emily and Taylor and Taylor's parents. The seats were against the glass, right on the ice. JP thought the little girl would enjoy that. And he was honest enough to admit that he wanted a chance for Emily to watch him, up close.

Too bad he hadn't given any thought to the day of the week. If he had, he wouldn't have been so distracted at practice.

He turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, quickly drying off. His mood was suddenly lighter, a silly smile on his face. Randy looked over at him, still scowling, but he didn't say anything.

JP clapped him on the shoulder then walked away, resisting the urge to hum under his breath. He would see Emily tonight. And maybe, after the game, she'd agree to go out for a drink. Or maybe a quick bite to eat. And then they could catch-up. And maybe, just maybe, he could talk her into going home with him.

The day was suddenly looking much better.

The sound of a slamming door upstairs echoed around them. Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the argument about to take place.

She should have never said anything. Not to Taylor, and certainly not to Monica. She should have followed her initial instinct and just thrown the tickets into the trash. Better yet, she should have shredded them at work, where nobody would have seen them.

But she hadn't. Emily had held on to the tickets for two days after they were delivered, arguing with herself about what to do. In the end, she had decided against throwing them out. They were tickets to a game. Nothing more, nothing less. She knew Taylor would love to go, would love to have the opportunity to sit so close and see a live game.

And that's all it would be: a game. A harmless, innocent game. She wouldn't have to see JP, and she certainly wouldn't be expected to talk to him. It was a game, for crying out loud. They'd be in seats, part of an audience of thousands. Tens of thousands. What was the harm in that?

"I cannot believe you thought I'd be okay with this." Monica's voice was flat, icy. Emily finally looked at her sister, not surprised to see the anger shadowing her slate blue eyes. Monica's eyes were always shadowed lately: with anger, with resentment, with bitterness. Brackets of displeasure framed her pursed mouth, turning her ever-present scowl into something harder, less forgiving.

Emily tucked her hair behind her ear and let out a deep breath. "Monica, it's a game. A simple hockey game. Something Taylor would really enjoy."

"How can you say that? After where the tickets came from?"

That was Emily's second mistake. Once deciding to keep the tickets, she should have never mentioned where she got them. If she hadn't said anything, nobody would have known. Monica would have never found out.

But Taylor had been so excited, jumping up and down when she saw them. And she had innocently asked if "John Peer" had sent them. That was all Monica had needed to hear before firmly shaking her head and letting Taylor—and Emily—know that she forbade Taylor from going to the game.

Emily moved to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, her eyes searching the shelves without really seeing anything. All she was aware of was the bite of Monica's glare as her sister stared at her back. Emily shook her head and pulled out the pitcher of ice tea, then reached into a cabinet for a glass.

"It's a game, Monica. You're overreacting."

"I'm overreacting? I can't believe you, of all people, can say that to me. After what that man did to you?"

Emily's hand shook and tea splashed over the rim of the glass, a small brown puddle forming on the counter. She placed the pitcher on the counter and grabbed a paper towel, hoping Monica didn't notice the slight trembling in her hand as she wiped the puddle.

"It was five years ago, Monica." She balled the wet towel and tossed it into the trashcan. "And it has nothing to do with taking Taylor to the game tonight."

"I said no."

Emily braced her hands against the counter and took a deep breath, holding it to a count of ten before facing her sister. Monica leaned against the kitchen wall, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. Her dark blond hair was cut into a short bob, close to her neck. Right now, she had it slicked back, the ends carefully arranged away from her face. It made her look harsher, older than she really was. Anger rolled off her. Anger and bitterness.

Would her sister ever let go of the bitterness? Emily sympathized, knew what Monica had gone through, knew how bad the marriage had been and how much the divorce had cost her, physically, mentally, emotionally. She knew what her sister was still going through, two years after the fact. But she also knew what Taylor was going through, how the last few years had affected her niece. Why couldn't Monica see that? She refused to believe her sister didn't care.

"Don't you think Taylor deserves a chance to have some fun?"

"How dare you!" Monica straightened, fire flashing in her eyes and staining her cheeks as she stepped closer to Emily. "How dare you say something like that to me!"

"I didn't mean it that way and you know it." She didn't, and she wouldn't apologize to her sister just because she harbored a misplaced guilty conscience.

"I work my ass off. Regular shifts, overtime shifts. Because her father doesn't care enough—"

"Lower your voice." Emily hissed the warning, not wanting Monica's voice to carry upstairs. Her sister stopped, balled her fists at her side, and let out a deep breath. That quickly, the fight and anger left her, replaced with a look of sadness and regret that tugged at Emily's heart.

"Monica, she doesn't ask for a lot. She doesn't do a lot. She's a sweet kid, you know that."

"I know that. I'm her mother."

Emily ignored the defensiveness in Monica's voice. She knew her sister struggled to find the right balance, knew she hadn't quite found it yet. And she did try, Emily knew that. But she also knew that her sister's bitterness still held the upper hand.

"Let me take her to the game, Monica. It's just a game."

"I just don't see how you can forget what he did to you."

A flash of pain centered in Emily's chest, hot, searing. Forget? How could Monica think she'd ever forget? She had lost a piece of herself five years ago. More than just a piece. No, she'd never forget.

But she had moved on, that gaping hole always a part of her—but not ruling her life. She couldn't let it, not if she meant to keep living. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

"It's a game," she repeated. "It has nothing to do with what happened five years ago."

"But
he
sent the tickets. Can you honestly say that doesn't mean anything?"

"Yes, I can." And she could, especially after fighting with that same thought all week. Because that's all they were: tickets. She would take Taylor, watch the game, and come home. "It's not like I plan to see him, talk to him."

"Taylor said you talked to him last weekend, after her game."

"Only because I had to. She talked to him more than I did."

"I don't want him near my daughter." Emily nodded but said nothing, knowing that Monica was close to giving in. Her sister didn't need to know that he had invited them to today's practice. And she certainly didn't need to know that he had thought—well, she still wasn't entirely sure he had thought Taylor was Emily's daughter—
his
daughter. That was something Emily refused to think about, knowing what else it meant. No, Monica certainly didn't need to know that.

Her sister released a loud sigh, then moved to the steps leading upstairs. "Taylor, come here please."

Emily took several long, deep breaths, waiting as Taylor's hesitant steps shuffled against the hardwood stairs. She reached the bottom, her head hung forward, her hair hanging in her face.

Monica kneeled in front of her, the sleeves of the sweater she wore over her scrubs pulling up her arms as she hugged her daughter. "I changed my mind. You can go tonight with your aunt."

Taylor's head came up, a hesitant smile lighting her face. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes. I..." Monica hesitated, tossing a look over her shoulder at Emily. "I shouldn't have said no. I was upset about something else."

Taylor bounced up and down, then wrapped her skinny arms around Monica's neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! This is going to be so much fun!"

Monica straightened, a strained smile on her face as she looked down at her daughter. "Just remember you said that tomorrow morning, when you have to get up so early. Don't you have a game yourself?"

Taylor nodded then jumped up and down a few more times. "I'll get up, honest."

And Emily knew her niece was telling the truth. The seven-year-old had an unending supply of energy, something she envied.

"I wish you could go, Mom. You'd have so much fun."

Monica stiffened, her smile freezing on her strained face. Emily waited, wondering if she would say anything. But Monica just shrugged and pulled her daughter in for another hug. "I have to work, sweetie. But I'm going to try to go to your game tomorrow. I'm sure that will be even more fun."

Taylor nodded then raced up the stairs, her squeals of excitement floating back down to them. They stood there in silence, listening to the happy sounds for several long minutes. Monica finally moved away from the stairs and stepped closer to Emily, her shadowed eyes holding a glint of warning.

"I don't want her talking to that man, Emily. I mean it."

Emily nodded, knowing her sister wouldn't believe her if she told her there was no chance of them even seeing JP. It was a game, nothing more, nothing less.

Emily gave her sister's arm a reassuring squeeze. "I know. It's just a game, Monica. Nothing to worry about."