A cute brown-haired reporter is on the TV next, a microphone in her hand. “It was a tight game and you could tell the Lions had heart, but losing a key player was just too much. It’s a huge disappointment for the team.” She levels the camera with a serious look. “We aren’t sure if this is related, but questions are being raised, especially since Morgan wasn’t able to finish out a home game against Minnesota-Duluth earlier in the season. A statement from the team said that incident was the flu, but rumors are swirling that tonight it might be something more serious. Some are claiming Zack collapsed.”
I click the TV off and feel the weight of everyone’s gaze.
“Is he okay, Sugar?” This is from Julia.
I look around at each of them, and I know we each have secret hurts, but Z’s is not mine to share. “I don’t know.”
Was it one of his panic attacks?
I’m dashing across the room to find my phone. Please, let him be okay. I have my phone out and I’m calling him.
“Hey,” he says, and my eyes close as I step into the bathroom for privacy. His voice is low and I figure he’s on the bus, teammates everywhere. “You saw the news?”
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
A long sigh comes through the speaker. “I couldn’t hold it together, Sugar. Maybe I could have made it…” His unsteady voice tugs at everything inside me. I picture him leaned back against his seat, eyes closed. “I passed out and Coach wouldn’t let me play.”
“What can I do?”
He sighs again. I can hear his deep breaths through the phone and I want to hold him.
“I need you. Just…go to my house and wait for me. Please.”
“Done.”
33
Sugar
A while later, after bidding the party in my room farewell, I’m heading to the Krispy Kreme drive-through and getting donuts for the guys. I’m eating one when I pull up to his house and park on the street. Wrangling the box up to the back deck, there’s a bounce in my step at the thought of seeing Z, and I’m hoping I can cheer him up. There’s a knot of worry in my chest about what happened at the game, but he says he’s more centered when I’m around, and I want to be here for him.
I let myself into the house with a key he told me was hidden under a dead plant. It’s about ten at night as I open the back door.
Long John Silver flashes by and gives me a mean meow.
I flip on the lights. “Bad cat,” I say back at her, but my voice is sweet. She hasn’t quite decided if she likes me yet, and I figure it’s because Z and I aren’t here enough for her to warm up to me.
She looks over her shoulder, gives me a glare, and then stalks off to his bedroom.
But that isn’t the only cat in the room.
I flinch when Veronica comes around the corner from the den. Dammit. I must have missed her car parked somewhere along the street.
She frowns. “What are you doing here?”
In full makeup and dressed in jeans and a cropped black and gold HU hockey jersey with Reece’s number that looks custom-made, she looks a hell of a lot better than I do in my braid, grey joggers, and black sweater. I have zilch makeup on—Z doesn’t care for it anyway—except for a swipe of Make Me Hot red lipstick, which I wore especially for him.
“Why are you here?”
Her expression is stark. “I’m here to feed the cat—like I always do when the guys are out of town.” She prances around the kitchen in her stilettos and turns to face me at the counter. I eye the knives next to her. I don’t think she’d go for one, but there’s so much anger that oozes from her that sometimes I wonder. I get that she’s the queen of the jersey chasers, but she isn’t in charge of me.
“Z asked me to wait for him.”
She raises a brow. “Do you have any clue how many girls meet him here at this house?”
I cross my arms. “None since me.” And I happen to know Z isn’t the womanizer people like to say he is. I know him. Sure he has the healthy sexual appetite of a twenty-one-year-old male—hell, I love that about him—but she likes to exaggerate this idea of a horde of females being all over him. And I get it. He’s the number one draft pick and he’s beautiful and women want that, but over these past weeks, I’ve seen another side of him. The softness blended with the dark, the man who saves cats and puts up with his brother’s hateful girlfriend. Is she even his girlfriend? I don’t know.
She gloats. “Oh, I’ll give you that. You are the one right now, but if you only knew…”
I take a step toward her, and I’m taller, looming over her. “You’ve been itching to tell me the dirt on Z since the moment we met, but the truth is, I know him.”
“You know about Willow?” I nod and her gaze rakes over me. Then she smiles. “Did he ever tell you what she looked like?”
I frown. He hasn’t, but in my head I see her as a young, pretty high school girl who idolized him. I haven’t asked too many questions about her appearance because, well, it felt intrusive. “She was beautiful.”
She sneers. “She was way more than just beautiful.”
My nerves clang at the insinuating tone she uses.
“You should see your face right now.”
“I’m going to his room for better company.” I walk down the hall.
“If you really want to know what Z sees in you, just open his nightstand drawer,” she calls out from behind me as she follows.
“I don’t go through people’s private things.” But I do recall the look on his face when he looked at his nightstand a few days back.
Before I can shut the door, she comes into his room, circling around me until she’s standing next to his bed. She sits on the navy duvet, her hand stroking over his pillow, and I want to jump on her, but I grit my teeth instead.
“What do you want, Veronica?”
She looks around the space and laughs. “That night at the Kappa party when he first saw you, it was like you were a ghost, and then he just had to have you.”
Ghost?
“So?” I feign boredom.
“Just open the drawer. See what’s there and all will be revealed and you can quit being the stupid dumb blonde who thinks the hockey player is falling for her.”
A tingle of dread crawls along my spine. “No.”
“Fine. Let me do the honors.” She leans over with a flippant attitude and pulls the drawer out, her expression lighting up at whatever she sees, and I guess this isn’t the first time she’s been through his things. She pulls out a small gold box and dumps the contents on his bed. Dozens of folded yellow pieces of paper fall out along with a lone photograph that floats around and lands near the end of the bed, closest to me. I don’t look at it.
“Afraid?” She smiles.
“No. I assume those are the letters he writes to Willow for therapy.”
She shakes her head. “It’s sick how he’s fooled you.”
My resolve cracks, but I trust him. Don’t I?
“Still not curious about those letters?” she asks, running her hands through them.
“No.”
“Chicken.” With a sigh, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, she plucks one of the letters out of the pile and unfolds it. “Oh, look, this one’s dated a week ago. Let’s see what he says to her.” She clears her throat and begins to read.
“Willow,
Another nightmare. Remember that time we went camping for the weekend with only a tent, a few bottles of water, and a pizza? Reece was determined to spend the entire night, but somehow you talked him into us ditching the whole idea and taking off for Denny’s and you ordered an everything omelet without anything in it but cheese. I still laugh about that night. I’m lost here in the real world, yet you’re the one who’s dead. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry for doing you wrong. If you were here, my whole life would be different. I love you. Forever, Z.”
Her eyes flash up at me. “Wow. He loves her forever, and you’re just the poor substitute.” She grins. “And if she were here, there’d be no you in his life. I find that hilarious.”
“He writes those for a reason,” I say, maintaining control, but my hands are wrapped around my stomach. I love you. Forever. I hang on to the dresser for support. “You shouldn’t go through his private things,” I manage to say, but my voice is wispy. Weak.
“Maybe.” She rummages through the pile and pulls out the photograph. “See anything interesting?”
I know I shouldn’t, but I take it from her.
First, I notice how handsome both Z and Reece are, their faces leaner than they are now, vibrant with youth and vitality. The girl…she’s small next to them, petite and gorgeous with long hair that’s flowing over her shoulders, the color a shimmering white-blonde.
I finger my own hair, taking in her face, the way it curves, the shape of her eyebrows and how they frame her face. That sick feeling inside me grows, spreading.
“It’s eerie, right?” Veronica says softly, watching my face. “You could be her sister.”
I tear my eyes from the picture and my hands tremble. “We aren’t sisters.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Veronica says, her face triumphant. “How does it feel to be the B team?”