“I knew he might hate me,” Coen says as he winds down, his shoulders sagging as if exhausted. “But I knew it would ease my conscience if I told him the truth and apologized. It never happened, though. That fucking plane went down and with it, my chance to make things right.”

  I don’t know what to say. It’s an untenable situation for anyone.

  “I’m not sure I can really describe it, Tillie, but my survivor’s guilt is all mixed up with this guilt over doing that to Kyle and not being able to rectify it. They’re so entwined and with each of them eating away at me, I don’t know where one starts and the other ends. It’s like, if I just had to live with the fact that they all died, I could be okay, but knowing I did something so low and dirty to Kyle tears me up. I think about it every goddamn day, and it’s killing me. It’s why I can’t be with the team. It’s why I’m quitting hockey, because I don’t deserve to be a part of that family anymore.”

  My heart cracks wide open at the pain in his voice. “Coen…”

  “You don’t understand,” he continues, the words pouring out as his breathing becomes erratic. “Hockey was my salvation from a cold and unloving home. Hockey led me to a new family. It kept me together growing up, and in my adult life, there were no greater friends than the men who died on that plane. They were my family, and I fucking betrayed one of them.

  “And then they wanted to rebuild the team, and I’m supposed to build new bonds with these players, and I can’t. I can’t put myself out there. I can’t let them think I’d ever be a good friend or that they could trust me, because they can’t. I don’t fucking deserve it at all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Coen

  I hadn’t meant to spill my guts like that to Tillie, but she kept pushing. A rush of air whooshes out of me, and I am completely drained.

  This is the point where I expect her to cut her losses and run. Now that she knows the type of man she’s dealing with, she should head for the door a third time. I will let her walk away before she is truly hurt by me.

  But she doesn’t.

  She just stands there, facing me, empathy in those golden eyes. My body actually rebels at such a kind gift—empathy—and twists into knots. “Don’t look at me like that,” I growl.

  “Like what?” Her voice is gentle, an attempt to calm me.

  “Like you feel sorry for me.” Christ, I can’t stand feeling weak, and she’s making me feel that way.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you. But my heart hurts that you’re hurting. It was a mistake, Coen.” Tillie’s voice is filled with urgency because she’s a true empath, and she knows I’m at the bottom of the barrel. “And that mistake is not on the same scale as the amount of self-loathing I’m seeing. It’s not proportionate.”

  “I deserve the pain. But you don’t deserve to hurt on my behalf. You should go, Tillie. This thing between us is over.”

  She shakes her head, her blond curls falling over her shoulders. “It’s not over. Because you’ve involved me now, and I’m not walking away from a person who would trust me with his pain.”

  “That was a mistake,” I assure her. “Telling you. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  I start to push away from the rail, but she’s now the one stepping into my path. All five feet and maybe one inch of her, tipping her head back to glare at me. “Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to invite me over, have the gall to serve me shitty frozen hamburgers, act like an ass, feed a chipmunk nuts, and then trust me with that burden you’re carrying.”

  I’m stunned silent.

  “You haven’t shared that with anyone, have you? You’ve been carrying that around on your own for months and haven’t been able to work out how to deal with it, right?”

  What in the hell is she getting at? I shake my head.

  Tillie steps into me, her hands going to the waistband of my jeans. Her fingertips dip ever so slightly into the top, not in a sexual maneuver, but to anchor herself to me so I can’t walk away. She gives a tiny tug to get my attention, and my gaze meets hers.

  “You made me a surrogate, and I accept,” she says.

  I’m confused and my frown reflects that. “Come again?”

  “You told me your story because you couldn’t tell Kyle. The one person you wanted and needed to tell—to apologize, to make amends to—but couldn’t because he died.”

  “What’s your point?” I ask, feeling a bit hot under the collar because I sense she’s leading me into a trap.

  Tillie lifts one hand and rests it on my chest. “You expected Kyle to be furious and probably disgusted by what you did. You expected him to hate you. But you needed to tell him because it would at least let you unburden and do the right thing. That was taken away from you, and now you’re stuck with the inability to do penance, which might alleviate this horrible guilt. You told me that story because you think maybe I’ll be disgusted and hate you. I’m the surrogate, and if I hate you and walk away, then you’ll get the absolution you’re seeking. But I’m sorry to tell you… you’re not going to get that from me. I’m not walking away. I can see your remorse and pain, and there’s nothing you can say that will get me to run from you.”

  It’s like someone pulled the plug on a drain of ugly emotions I’d been swimming in. They swirl, round and round, washing over me. I want to punch my fist through a wall and at the same time, I want to pull Tillie into me. I stare into her eyes, unyielding, refusing to look away because she believes wholeheartedly what she just said.

  And then, all the ugliness starts to fade. I’m not sure if it’s the liberation of sharing the self-loathing or maybe that I gave her every reason to look upon me with revulsion, but it’s kindness and understanding I’m getting.

  Whatever the hell is happening at this moment, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and it breaks me out of my stupor. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in close for a hug.

  I just fucking need it right now.

  She doesn’t disappoint, turning her cheek to rest on my chest and circling my back with her arms. She squeezes me hard, as if to emphasize her support.

  It’s the first bit of affection I’ve allowed myself for Tillie that wasn’t rooted in sexual desire. It’s pure, and I’ve not felt anything like it before.

  But because her soft body is pressed against mine, and I’m feeling all kinds of fuzzy things for her right now, my body—that specific part motivated by sexual gratification—reacts to her proximity.

  I pull back only enough to cup her cheeks and bend down to kiss her. I make it instantly hot and claiming, and I let it sweep me away.

  Tillie sighs, her fingers clutching my T-shirt to hold me close.

  Searing lust rages through me, and it’s not just a matter of wanting to be inside her.

  I need it.

  I need to make the deepest connection I can have with her so I know she’s truly not disgusted by what she’s learned about me.

  I fucking need the affirmation, and although part of that makes me feel like a pussy to need such a thing from this woman, I know if she doesn’t give it to me, I’m going to be more fucked in the head than ever before.

  Tearing my mouth from hers, I whisper, “I need you, Tillie.”

  “You have me,” she whispers back.

  And that’s all I need.

  I sweep her into my arms, stopping at the grill as I walk by to turn it off.

  She clings to me, her arms around my neck. “Does this mean we don’t have to eat those crappy burgers?”

  I snort as I walk into the house. “No, we don’t have to eat those crappy burgers. I’ll take you out to eat after.”

  After I drown myself in her sufficiently to drive away any lingering thoughts that she might bolt now that she knows the true me.

  In my bedroom, I make short work of removing our clothes, but I’m not in a hurry to fuck her. I have a condom at the ready, but I take my time letting my lips and tongue roam every part of her lush body.

  It’s only after she’s writhing, cursing, and begging do I spread her legs and drive home.

  Yes, home.

  That’s exactly what she feels like, and while I should question and even be wary of such a sentiment, I’m too goddamned lost in the moment to try to understand what’s happening.

  I drive into her over and over again, memorizing the tight grip of her body, the sounds she makes with every thrust, and finally the way she cries out my name as she bucks wildly against me with her orgasm.

  Trying to draw me in deeper.

  But I’m already in deep—with my cock, and apparently now with a private part of me that I’ve shared only with her. I don’t want it to be this way, but I can’t avoid it.

  She’s special to me now, but I don’t know what that means.

  The only thing I’m sure of is that when my own orgasm rips through me, I know I’ve got some serious soul-searching to do if I want to keep this going.

  “Jesus,” I gasp as I collapse on top of Tillie. Her chest heaves against mine, our bodies slick with sweat.

  Her fingers play in my hair as I drag my lips across her shoulder. She shivers, and I lift my head to look down at her.

  I brace myself to see something bad, but she smiles.

  “Feel better?” she asks.

  She’s not talking about the phenomenal sex we just had but about my unburdening on her.

  “I feel lighter,” I admit.

  “Can I ask you something about hockey?”

  “Sure.”

  “This whole thing with Kyle and your inability to talk to him before the crash… that’s why you walked away?”

  I have to think about it. How much is the crash itself, and how much is the betrayal? “The crash was jarring. It knocked me and everyone off-balance. But the thing with Kyle is what caused me to spiral. The feeling that I was undeserving of being part of that team was so intense, I couldn’t see anything else. I was afraid I would hurt my other teammates. In fact, I was certain of it. I was convinced I was a horrible person, and I just wanted to remove myself from it all.”

  “The arrest in New York and the attack on that ref?”

  I nod. “I was so angry at everything, most of all myself. I wanted to hurt other people so they would hurt as much as I did.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to help you?” she asks, censure in her tone.

  My laugh is brittle as I consider her question. “Everyone tried to fucking help me. The team’s owner, the general manager, my teammates. Especially my teammates. Every time they would reach out a hand, I’d smack it away. I didn’t deserve such unfettered loyalty from them when I wasn’t able to give it in return.”

  “Not true,” Tillie exclaims. “You can’t think that one mistake changes your entire being. You can’t take twenty-six years of living and expect fifteen minutes of a bad choice to erase your inherent nature. You’ve got to cut yourself some slack, Coen.”

  I roll us to our sides as I consider that. “Maybe what I need to do is tell my teammates what I did. Maybe if they would forgive me, then—”

  “Stop,” Tillie hisses, and I jerk back to look at her. She’s clearly pissed. “They can’t forgive you because you didn’t do anything to them. Your actions involved Kyle and Kyle alone. Your inability to apologize to him doesn’t shift that burden to anyone else. Not to me and most certainly not to your teammates.”

  “So I shouldn’t tell them?”

  “What’s the point, Coen?” she asks. “How can that possibly help you? I think you’re just looking for punishment. I’m not giving it to you, so maybe you’ll seek it elsewhere?”

  “But I feel like I have to do something,” I grumble in frustration. Because although I feel unburdened to some extent, the guilt is still there. I’m having a hard time understanding what to do with it.

  “You do have to do something,” Tillie says, going up on one elbow and looking down at me. “You have to forgive yourself. That’s it. That’s the only thing left you need to do, and then you need to claim your life again.”

  My eyes drop to a wavy lock of hair over her shoulder. I reach up and rub it between my fingers.

  Forgive myself?

  Reclaim my life?

  Is that even possible?

  Do I want that, or could I be content staying here?

  Yesterday, I knew what the answers were to all those questions.

  Today, I can’t answer a single one of them.

  “I’ve got to go to Pittsburgh. Want to come?”

  “To pack up the rest of your things?” she asks.

  That was the original plan, but now I’m not sure. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

  “When would you go and for how long?”

  I shrug. “Tomorrow or the next day. It would only be for a day or two.”

  Tillie’s gaze slides away from me, and she nibbles on her lower lip as she considers. When she looks back at me, her smile is apologetic. “I love Pittsburgh and I’d really love to go, but I’ve got too much going on. Some pieces I need to finish, and I have lessons on Saturday.”

  Yeah, I’m disappointed. I’m not sure if I asked her to come as a security blanket or because I hate being away from her for even a few days.

  “No worries,” I assure her, ignoring the impulse to try to persuade her to come.

  It’s going to be a quick trip, anyway.

  In and out to pack up the rest of my clothes and some personal items from the condo. I’ve got movers coming to move the furniture, which will go into storage until I decide if I want to switch any of it out with the stuff here.

  That’s what I need to do… go back and close out the remnants of my life there. It’s the commitment I made so that I could move forward.

  Except, as I lie here in bed next to Tillie, after I just unloaded something horrible about myself, and she didn’t run for the hills, after she told me to forgive myself, I have to wonder if perhaps I’m throwing away my life when I don’t need to.

  It’s a hard concept to grasp because I’ve spent months mired in anger and self-hatred for what I did. I’ve had countless hours of ruminating over all the great things in life I no longer deserve because I betrayed Kyle, and therefore cannot be a trustworthy friend and teammate to the new guys. On top of that, every time I think about hockey in any way, I almost buckle under the guilt of being alive when my teammates are dead.

  And yet… I wonder.

  CHAPTER 22

  Coen

  This is not where I thought I’d be during my trip to Pittsburgh. The plan was to slide in mid-morning and spend the day packing clothes and other personal items. Everything else I’d leave to professional movers. I was going to order takeout from my favorite restaurant and eat it on my couch while watching TV.

  Next day, I’d hit the road back to Coudersport and hopefully see Tillie that evening.

  But here I am, sitting in front of the Igloo, a year-round skating facility with three ice rinks.

  “You’re here to drop off some stuff for Stone and nothing more,” I say out loud, just to make sure I don’t succumb to pressure to do anything else.

  I consider my reflection in the rearview mirror before letting my eyes drift to the hockey stick in my extended cab seat alongside my gear.

  It’s fucking Stone’s fault. I texted him last night to let him know I was coming in for a short trip to pack up and asked for a place we could meet so I could hand over some of his brother’s belongings I found at the cabin. It wasn’t much—some books and clothes—but I figured they might have sentimental value to him.

  His return text caused both angst and intrigue. Screwing around at the Igloo tomorrow with the guys. Meet me there at eleven. Bring your gear if you want to play.

  Christ, my fingers itched to text back and tell him that wasn’t good for me. I didn’t want to go anywhere near an ice rink.

  Screwing around with the guys meant they were playing hockey. Probably a small pickup game, and I had no idea who “the guys” were, only that it could be any number of teammates I’d managed to piss off and let down throughout the last part of the season.

  Yet here I am.

  Sitting outside the complex.

  With my gear in the back seat.

  It’s just a pickup game, I tell myself. Nothing but exercise. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Two days ago, I would’ve told myself I don’t deserve the joy of gliding along the ice. I most certainly don’t deserve to share time with friends—or rather, men who could become my friends if I’d let them. I’m not worthy of it.

  But Tillie’s voice keeps echoing in my head. You have to forgive yourself. You need to claim your life again.

  If I dared step a skate onto that ice, it means I’m willing to try to let go of my guilt. It means I am willing to accept my own personal absolution. I might be ready to do that.

  But can I reclaim my old life? Have I burned the tenuous bridges that were in place when, time and time again, I was an ass to everyone on the team?

  I don’t know, and I’m not going to hope for such a thing. But right now… at this moment… I am going to play a bit of hockey, just to see how it feels.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my gear and head into the facility. I steel myself to be recognized. This is a popular place, given they have three different rinks.

  I pull open the glass door, moving past the skate rental booth, and veer right to Rink C where Stone said they’d be. I don’t look around, but I feel eyes on me. I even hear my name murmured as I pass people.

  It’s not easy, but I ignore it all. I’m afraid if I make eye contact, fans will want to connect in a friendly way or some asshole is going to give me a piece of their mind about the suspension.

  Not that it wouldn’t be deserved.

  As the ice comes into view, I see my teammates skating around. They’re already engaged in a game of three-on-three using only half the rink and without a goalie in net. Just a lot of skating, trick passes through the legs and such. General goofing off.