Hawke

My mind spins. Surely she would have gone to school, even if she followed me through the NHL, right?

“Vale’s heart was broken when you two split, but she grew up. She grew up fast and she was focused. She became a new woman, and I’m thinking you like those changes, if the way you look at her is any indication. You may not see it, and she may never admit it, but the way in which your relationship failed was the best thing to ever happen to the two of you.”

That simply can’t be true. What we had was good and solid, right?

Or do the facts speak for themselves and whisper a truth I haven’t considered before? That perhaps neither one of us had the maturity to appreciate the other. What we had wasn’t really the one, great true love we thought it to be.

That’s another thought I quickly push out of my head. I don’t let it take up residence because if I lend any validity to this claim, it means I need to let her betrayal go completely. I need to chalk it up to the wisdom of the Fates and be happy with the ways in which we’ve grown.

And this is something I don’t know that I can do.

While I love being around Vale, and I appreciate more than anything having her back in my life, there’s still a small part of me that remains firmly protected, with the assumption that she’ll bail on me again. Hell, she’s talking about going back to Sydney with her dad. It’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For her to abandon what we have again.

Chapter 24

Vale

We’re cruising down I-540, listening to Smashing Pumpkins. It’s a cool November evening, the stars are hanging low with a bright, full moon, and endorphins composed of pleasure, happiness, and excitement race through me.

Balling my hands into tiny fists, I lean forward and hammer them on the dashboard, my voice squeaking with near-jubilant hysteria. “The tumor shrank!”

“The tumor shrank,” Hawke confirms with a laugh and a fist punch to the air in victory.

My dad’s MRI was this morning, and while normally it would take a few days to get the results, Dave Campbell does enjoy rock star status at Duke. Dr. Furhman sat in the control room with the two radiologists and three other oncologists who waited breathlessly while sections of my dad’s brain were photographed. By the time the table was sliding out of the big, round drum that made up the amazing science of magnetic resonance imaging, Dr. Furhman was waiting there with a grin a mile wide.

Ten percent shrinkage.

Beyond miraculous.

The virus had done its job and now my dad’s body was fighting—and apparently winning—against the glioblastoma.

I had taken the day off to go with my dad, and after we hugged and jumped around the room with his hospital gown flapping, I immediately texted Hawke. He was at the arena, getting in a light workout as the Cold Fury was playing an evening game against the Dallas Mustangs. He had made me promise to let him know as soon as I heard something.

We have shrinkage, I had quickly sent to him.

His response was immediate, indicating he had been hovering, just waiting for my message. Never a good word to use with a man except in these circumstances. YES!!!!

I laughed, my hands still shaking with the disbelief of this good news, and started to text him back when my phone rang. A picture of Hawke and me came up on my screen. It was taken just last week at The Fox and Hound by Avery. I had been sitting on Hawke’s lap while we all sat around, had drinks, and reconnected with one another. His bearded cheek pressed to mine, our arms wrapped around each other. Happy, happy smiles on our faces.

I answered with barely contained glee. “Shrinkage!”

“Amazing,” he said.

He asked for details.

I told him what I knew.

He asked to talk to my dad, so I shoved the phone into the curtain of the tiny room where dad was getting dressed and listened to the one-sided conversation he had with Hawke. It made my heart about burst.

When I got back on the phone with him, his message was simple. “Be waiting for me in the players’ parking lot tonight after the game. And dress warm.”

So I did. After my dad and I went out for a celebratory early meal, we went back to our apartment and watched the game on TV. I even let my dad have a beer—he deserved it—and we cheered and yelled for the Cold Fury. I cheered especially hard for Hawke, especially when he got into a fight with a Mustang defenseman who thought he could try to trip the great and powerful Hawke Therrien. The minute the gloves dropped, I was screaming at Hawke through the TV to kick his ass. He did and it was well worth the five-minute major he got.

Watching that man is glorious. I have such pride in what he does, how far he’s come. He looked amazing on the ice, and looked even better when he walked across the lot toward me as I waited outside my car. He merely crooked a finger when he was halfway and I went to meet him. His hand went behind my head, his mouth to mine, and he kissed me hello.

“Great game,” I whispered as he pulled back.

“Fuck that,” he said with a smile. “Today we celebrate the shrinkage.”

So we got in his car after he threw his gear bag in the trunk. I saw a small cooler in there and raised an eyebrow in question, but he merely said, “It’s a surprise.”

So I waited.

Hawke intrigues me by taking the Aviation Parkway exit toward the airport. It’s late and there’s little traffic. His right hand comes off the steering wheel and he places it over mine resting in my lap. Giving it a squeeze, he asks, “Dying of curiosity?”

“A little,” I say primly, but I’m truly puzzled.

“You hate surprises,” he says.

“No I don’t,” I tell him quickly. “I used to hate surprises, but now I find they appeal to me.”

“Liar,” he says in a low rumbling voice that makes my blood hum.

As the airport looms up ahead in the distance, the terminals glowing and the traffic control tower blinking its steady red lights, Hawke turns on his turn signal. To the left and right of the parkway sit large man-made ponds surrounded by green hills and tall, willowy pine trees. He slows and turns onto a dirt road that I had never noticed before, not that I’ve been this way much. Just the handful of times I’ve traveled with the team by plane.

He never says a word and neither do I as we bounce along for about two hundred yards, around a bend that shields us from the road, and come out into a small clearing by the water. Low-growing azaleas, holly, and camellia bushes surround a small grassy area by the water’s edge, the glow from the airport reflected therein.

“This is beautiful,” I whisper as Hawke brings his car to a halt, puts it in park, and kills the engine. With the headlights extinguished, the darkness engulfs us and I feel truly secluded.

Hawke gets out of the car and I follow. I watch as he pulls the cooler from the trunk along with two blankets. It’s crisp outside, maybe hovering in the midfifties, but not something that would require a coat. A Nova Scotian wouldn’t dare think of wearing a coat in this mild weather, so I’m good with my jeans and sweater.

“A picnic?” I ask curiously as Hawke spreads one blanket on the grass and kneels on it. He tosses the other down and opens the cooler.

“Sort of,” he says with a grin as he pulls out a bottle of champagne. “Well, just the alcohol, but I figured toasting Dave’s success was in order tonight. Don’t you think?”

“Totally agree,” I say as I drop to my knees on the blanket beside him.