A Perfect Distraction(94)
The house was dark and still. His training bag lay next to the stairs.
Jake was here?
She called out, but there was no response. With growing apprehension, she realized where he’d be.
Maggie walked into the darkened den. As her hand reached for the light switch, a rough voice stopped her short.
“I’m honored. It’s the paparazzi’s darling—The Divine Miss H.”
* * *
“MAKER’S MARK. ROCKS.” Jake held up his glass. “Want one?”
Maggie pursed her lips. “It’s a little early for booze.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll get some tea.” The hurt in her brown eyes sent a fiery arrow into his gut.
His hungry gaze followed her out of the room.
What the hell was wrong with him? All he had to do was tell Maggie it was over. No need to be a jackass. Yet the harsh words had spewed from his mouth like lava from a volcano.
Why? He’d never had a problem closing out a relationship before. Usually glad to end things, he was always civil and able to move on without a backward glance. His heart had never caught the way it did every time he thought about a future without Maggie. He drained the glass and poured another.
With the glass halfway to his lips, he stilled. The problem with booze was it didn’t numb you quickly enough. Before you got to the happy oblivion it promised, you had to go through a nasty phase of total clarity and truth.
This was his moment of clarity. His truth was simple. He hadn’t been in love with those other women.
He was in love with Maggie.
A bubble of pure happiness welled up inside him.
Even as he savored the feeling, another truth hit, and damn if it wasn’t as cold and hard as the crystal tumbler he drank from.
That didn’t change anything.
Pain speared his chest, bursting the bubble and leaving shards of ice in its place. Time to head for oblivion.
To love.
Jake raised his glass in a mock toast, then tossed back the drink. Amber liquid burned its way down his throat.
Love sucked.
Maggie returned and perched on edge of the sofa, cradling her mug. “You haven’t been to practice?”
“Nope.”
“What about JB?”
“He’s out.”
“What’s going on, Jake?”
He hadn’t expected her to tackle him head-on. “What?”
“I’m not an idiot. One minute, you’re desperate to show the world we’re serious about each other. The next, you won’t answer my calls.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, sums up the sorry state of Jake Badoletti’s life.
Damn, his glass was empty. He poured another drink.
“You saw the U.K. coverage.” Her words were a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.”
“You assured me your plan would work.”
“I was wrong.” About so many things. About getting a second chance. About being able to change.
About deserving a woman like Maggie.
Her silence was damning. Finally she said, “That’s it?”
He shrugged, unable to share his thoughts.
“What happened to standing by me? Fighting with me?”
This conversation was killing him. He downed his drink. The bourbon soured his stomach but he didn’t care. “I need to focus on hockey right now.”
“I don’t see how the two things are related.”
“You watched the game?”
She nodded.
“You, me, this situation is a huge distraction I can’t afford.”
“You’re blaming your poor play on me?” She looked incredulous.
“I told you, I need to focus.” That line sounded as tired as he felt.
“So you’ll play better if we stop seeing each other?”
She made him sound like a temperamental child. She didn’t understand how much he’d agonized over his decision. The gut-wrenching torment that decision was causing.
“Yes.” He swallowed hard to shift the tightness in his throat, then forced the damning words out of his mouth. “I’m not interested in you anymore.”
“Really? Could have fooled me.” The wobble in her voice belied her cool expression.
“I don’t mean physically.” No way could he deny the attraction that sizzled between them. “It’s complicated.”
“Try me.” Her words were clipped. “I deserve the truth, Jake.”
A glint of copper caught his eye. Adam’s lucky penny lay on the table. The broken chain—Jake had ripped it off after the game—was reproachful.
She was right. He owed her the truth.
Jake reached past the internal turmoil, slowly being numbed by bourbon, and grabbed onto a festering kernel of self-disgust. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Maggie arched an eyebrow, her distress stark in her eyes. “A stupid cliché is the best you can do?”