3

Once we have everything in the bag, he glances over his shoulder and then walks us toward the resort. Sand from my flip-flops smacks me in the back of my legs and sticks to my lotioned-up body. I know the perfect place to try again. It’s more secluded, private enough that nobody would be able to see us even though we’d still be outside.

As we’re approaching a little alcove with its own shower, I take Cannon’s hand and pull him inside. When we’re out of view, I slip my hand inside his swim trunks and wrap my fingers around his dick.

He lets his guard down for a split second, groaning, as I pump him up and down.

But, as soon as he hears voices approaching, he grabs my arm. “Piper, enough. We have to stop.”

“What if I don’t want to stop?”

He pulls my hand out of his bottoms and stares down at me. I’m still wrapped around his torso when he searches my eyes and says, “What’s gotten into you?”

Herein lies the problem. Cannon’s meticulous and proper, driven by calculation. How else would a lawyer win court cases? And I’ve always been the good girl who follows the rules and doesn’t take chances. I suppose I’ll always have those qualities somewhere inside me, but I don’t need reasons for my husband to touch me. Isn’t it enough that I just want him? That I need him to show me how much he craves me, too?

Maybe. Maybe not.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I got carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry, Pipes. But I can’t share you with the entire beach.”

Shame washes over me, and my cheeks redden, like I’ve chased too much of the sun. I’ve made a fool of myself, trying to throw my body at my own husband.

What was I thinking?

That I’m not enough for him.

That he doesn’t want me anymore.

That he wants someone else even though I haven’t found any proof of that.

Cannon steps out from the alcove, and I follow him. I’m adjusting my suit when a group of rowdy guys walks by, whistling because they think we just had sex in the shower.

My husband looks embarrassed, the exact opposite of how I’d feel if it were true. None of the comments or cheers bother me.

But Cannon said no, and now, I think I might have messed up.

I thought the warm island air would be enough to clear my head, but it’s the same air I choke on back in Florida. Nothing about Belize has made my thoughts clearer, more absolute, and I have no idea what it’ll take to make the ache in my chest go away.

Cannon, the man I’m committed to, walks in front of me with his head down. He’s the hardest working man I know, spending more time solving other people’s problems to have any of his own. But we do have problems. Problems that need to be addressed because I can’t keep living in a world where I question every move he makes, wondering if there’s someone else or if he just doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

I need answers.

I need to know where I stand.

Most of all, I need him.

But Cannon is so preoccupied. His world revolves around the courtroom. I don’t know how to make him see me. Or if he even wants to.

Cannon used to be my everything—my life, my heart, my home. But, when I look at him, all I see is sandy-blond hair and tan skin that belonged to the boy I fell for, not the man he’s become.

I promised myself, I’d never let our relationship die. Now, I realize that’s not something I have control over.

If we want our marriage to work, if we love each other, something has to change.

No matter how many times I post on social media about all the wining and dining we’re doing in Belize, all the water sports that’d make any person jealous, it doesn’t change the distance between us.

On paper, we’re a match made in heaven. But, if we’re perfect for each other, why are we becoming strangers?

 

West

“That should be everything,” one of the movers says to me, handing me a piece of paper that shows the inventory of what they’ve packed up from our place.

Tilly and I stand in the lobby of our building, watching one of the guys pull a dolly from the freight elevator and load a set of boxes into an eighteen-wheeler. Once he’s outside, I check the list. Hundreds of items are on the sheet—each numbered, categorized by room.

The only things I have left of my career are boxes labeled eighty-nine through one hundred two. They hold my awards, highlight clips, the last jersey and helmet I wore during the game against Calgary. The same ones I was in when I had my career-ending injury. I tried to throw the jersey and helmet away, but Tilly stuck them back in before the boxes were sealed and numbered.

“We’ll see you in Florida,” the same guy says to us. He waits for a nod before he walks out.

Then, my wife turns toward me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Are you ready to do this?”

Ready to give up hockey and leave Boston forever?

Nah, I’m not fucking ready. Not even close.

I’m only twenty-eight. It wasn’t supposed to end this soon. It shouldn’t be over because of an injury. It should be over because I was ready to give it up. But I’m not. I have so much fight left in me.

Shit, I want to fight.

I want to walk into TD Garden, lace up my skates, and hear the fans scream when I step onto the ice. I want to feel the sweat in my gloves and the stick between the thick leather and listen to the sound of the puck slapping against the toe.

But I can’t have any of that.

So, I have to get the hell out of here.

“Yeah,” I say, “let’s go.”

Tilly leads me to the front of the building where a car is waiting to take us to the airport. She steps out first, and I follow behind her. Once the glass door shuts, the crowds on both sides of us close in.

“What the—”