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We stare at each other in a silent stalemate, telling me he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say. It’s a short distance across the table, but it feels like there are a hundred miles between us right now. Sure, he surprised me. We’ve never discussed marriage before. But the truth is, I’ve never considered a walk down the aisle with Eliott. I never dreamed about the possibility or pictured a white dress and bouquet in my head. I’m not sure if it’s because I can’t see myself marrying anybody or if I can’t see myself marrying him. Eliott’s a great guy with a promising future ahead. He’s everything any parent would choose for their child. But I don’t think of forever when I think of him and me. I don’t know if I’ve ever admitted that to myself before this actual moment.
I look away. My phone rings inside my purse. I ignore it, letting it go to voice mail. But it rings again. And again.
“I’m sorry …” I apologize while pulling my phone out. I glance at the screen, but don’t recognize the number. I answer it anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Emerson Evans?” a deep, authoritative voice asks.
I hesitate. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Miss Evans … this is Sergeant Williams. I’m with the police department.”
I’m quiet as my forehead wrinkles in confusion. What is a police officer doing, calling me?
“There’s been an accident,” he continues carefully, like I’m breakable. “It’s your sister … Eve Evans …”
I stop breathing.
CHAPTER TEN
SAM
ONE MONTH LATER
I walk into the arena. The cold hits me in the face, though it’s warmer inside than outside. They weren’t kidding when they warned me about Chicago weather. Take the temperature and automatically drop it at least another ten to twenty degrees from the wind chill. The weather is even more shocking since I’ve been living in California for the past three years. They don’t have winter there, not really. Not like this. When it hits seventy in Anaheim, everyone wears beanies and sweaters.
I stop to look at the banners hanging from the ceiling. The Hawks logo is displayed in the center of the ice. The colors are different, but the smell and feel of the arena is the same as it was in Anaheim. And I’ve played here a time or two in a different uniform. We never won, but I’ve competed in this building before.
“Sam Anderson,” a voice echoes inside the empty arena.
I turn to see one of the assistant coaches walking toward me.
“Ron Tremble.”
I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say, along with the handshake.
His grip is firm before he drops his hold. “We’re excited to have you here.”
“I’m excited to be here,” I say. And I am.
I’ve played for the past three seasons on the West Coast for a hockey team that was struggling and continues to struggle. The owners had a shortsighted view of the sport, in my opinion. And the organization continues to have issues. I never really found my groove there. I didn’t get along with a couple of my teammates, and even the ones I did like, we never gelled on the ice. It wasn’t easy the way it was when I was in high school and college. And I get that hockey is a business at the pro level. But it should still be fun, right? I want it to be. Then, there was the little incident with the GM’s daughter …
“Let me take you to Jim Coates’s office. He’s waiting for you.”
Jim Coates is the head coach of the Hawks. He has been for the past two years when the team made a coaching change. He’s known for being a hard-ass, but a fair one. And he was a hell of a player in his day. He played for fifteen seasons for various teams before retiring and shifting into the coaching role.
I nod and start following Ron out of the arena and down a few hallways. We end up at a set of private elevators. He extracts a key fob, which opens the elevator doors. He hits the button for the top floor.
The doors open, and we walk down another hallway to a set of offices. The wall is decorated with blown-up posters of current players, including one of Ollie. He’s had a good stint here so far. In fact, he leads in points for the central division.
We enter a large wooden door, and Ron smiles at an executive assistant sitting behind a large desk. They exchange some pleasantries with the familiarity of people who know each other well, and she greets me before ushering us into a corner office.
Three of the four walls are made entirely of windows. Natural light filters through them, brightening the room. The sun shining makes it look like it’s warmer outside than it is. Jim Coates is perched on a couch located at one end of the room, watching game tape. I recognize the game. It’s from last night against New York. The Hawks lost 3–2. He turns when he hears us enter and pauses the footage. He rises. He’s taller than he looks on television, but he still isn’t taller than me. We shake hands.
“Have a seat.” He motions toward the chair in front of his desk. Ron sits next to me.
“How was your flight?” Coach Coates asks.
“It was good.”
