Second Shot: A Men With Wood Novel Read online

  “Guys are starting to spread rumors about you, bro. And I’m starting to wonder if they’re not true. Haven’t seen you with a chick since I joined the team.”

  “Fuck off, Branson.” I toss my dirty towel at his face, and head to the showers.

  Turning the water on, I step under the frigid stream, not adjusting the temperature, allowing the iciness to bite at my skin.

  The kid is right. I’ve heard the guys talk. Wondering what my problem has been lately.

  But it doesn’t matter how many pairs of tits they try and push in my face, there’s only one girl I can’t stop thinking about – Brynne.

  I fucked up, big time.

  That night, a year ago, I knew she’d been drinking, and I knew how vulnerable she was. But I’d wanted her. Hell, I’ve always wanted her. For years I’d fought against the temptation to touch her, kiss her. Knowing I’d never have her. What it would mean to my career. My relationship with her family if I ever let myself have even a single taste.

  I loved the woman more than was rational or sane. And she hated me in return.

  Not that I hadn’t given her reasons. I’d spent the past ten years making sure those beautiful brown eyes never looked my way.

  Brynne was in the kitchen the first time I saw her. Sitting at the table, legs curled up under her, light brown hair hanging over half her face, nose deep in a textbook and scribbling furiously on a notepad beside it.

  “Dork, say hi to Kane,” Sam flicked her ear as he passed, before opening the fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer, then handing me one. “He’s going to be staying with us for a couple months.”

  Because I was still underage, Coach had made a deal with my foster parents to bring me into his house while I trained with the Annihilators’ farm team. It was a good gig, and I wasn’t about to screw it up.

  Hockey was my life. The only thing that made me feel alive. Like I wasn’t the fuck-up I’d always believed I was. On the ice, I was a god. And if the signing bonus the Annihilators were offering me was any indication of the money I’d be making, I was about to become one rich-ass mother fucker.

  This house, and everything in it, could be mine one day. No more living off macaroni and cheese and ramen noodles. I was flying. Soaring to the top. And nothing was going to stop me.

  “Hey,” the girl mumbled, not looking up from her book.

  “Don’t mind her, she’s anti-social. Aren’t you, loser?” Sam teased.

  Her head jerked up and she gave him a pointed glare. “Some of us actually want to graduate high school.”

  I felt something smack into my chest – lust.

  She was prettier than I’d first thought. Soft, full lips, clear skin, free of make-up. She was a junior, I knew that from Sam. But there was something about the way she held herself that made her seem older.

  “Who needs a high school diploma?” Sam placed his empty bottle on the counter, and pulled out another one from the fridge. “Look at that Microsoft guy. He didn’t graduate and he’s like a multi-billionaire.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He dropped out of university, not high school. And trust me, you’re no Bill Gates.”

  Sam chuckled and took a deep swig of his beer.

  That’s when her gaze finally rested on me. I’d been waiting for it. The draw. The flash of excitement when she finally saw me.

  I was used to girls throwing themselves at me, used to the heated looks and shameless flirting. I’d leaned back against the counter, flexing my biceps as I brought the bottle to my lips, and gave her a cocky what-do-you-think look?

  As expected, her gaze travelled down my torso, then back up to my face, and for a second I thought I saw a flicker of appreciation. But if it was there, it didn’t last long.

  Her lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed, before she’d dropped them back to the book she’d been studying from.

  I should have left her alone, but I wasn’t used to being dissed, and it was a blow to my ego.

  “Whatcha reading?” I asked, turning a chair around and straddling it with my forearms resting on the back, and my bottle of beer dangling from my hand.

  With a heavy sigh, she looked up at me. “Art history.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “She’s fucking incredible,” Sam said, walking over to us and messing up her hair. “Aren’t you, dork?”

  The first hint of a smile tugged at her lips when she’d looked up at her brother, and it brightened her whole face.

  I was wrong. The girl wasn’t just pretty, she was fucking gorgeous.

  She shrugged, cheeks infused with color.

  “She’s going to be the next Picasso, or what’s that woman artist you’re always going on about?”

  “Frida Kahlo.”

  “Right. Your stuff is way better than hers,” Sam said, unconcealed pride in his voice despite the way he teased her. “At least, it doesn’t resemble a preschooler’s art project.”

  Again, she’d rolled her eyes, but when she glared at him, there was affection in it, not like the cold judgement when her gaze took me in.

  Even now, a decade later, I don’t know why I was so desperate for her approval. But I was.

  “You’ll have to show me some of your work.” Maybe I came on a little strong, leaning forward and giving her a dimpled grin that usually got me to second base with any chick, because the next thing I knew, she was pushing her chair back and slamming her textbook shut.

  “I’ll study in my room.” She’d scurried from the room, but not before I’d gotten a good view of her perfect ass.

  Sam slapped the back of my head and chuckled.

  “What was that for?” I rubbed my neck, grinning, knowing full well why he’d hit me.

  “Don’t check out my sister, dude. So not cool.”

  I laughed, and made a promise I had no intention of keeping. “Won’t happen again.”

  That she clearly hated my guts from the second she met me made things easier.

  I kept my distance, or teased her mercilessly. Making sure she never looked at me like anything more than the trouble she clearly thought I was.

  And she hadn’t.

  Or, at least, I thought she hadn’t.

  Not until she’d shown up at my apartment, eyes reflecting the same agonizing desire I’d been fighting all these years.

  God, I wanted her.

  But we were cursed from the start. And even if we hadn’t been, I’d done enough to make sure she’d never fully trust me. Never see me for anything other than the bastard responsible for her brother’s death.

  “Madden.” Blake Starowics, the Annihilators’ first-string goalie and one of my closest friends, pops his head around the wall and slaps his hand on the tiles. “Coach wants to see you in his office.”

  Fuck.

  I knew it was coming. The summons.

  Teeth clenched, I turn the shower off and return to the change room, dressing slower than normal.

  Most of the guys are gone.

  Everyone but Blake and Sebastian.

  I can feel their eyes on me, the tension radiating off them, the concerned glances they exchange.

  “What?” I turn around, glaring between them.

  They’ve been with the team as long as I have. Blake, one year more. And if I consider anyone my friend, it’s these two. But right now, I know exactly what they’re thinking, and the last thing I need is the fucking pity I see in their eyes.

  “You okay?” Blake asks, leaning his elbows on his knees, his chin on his fisted hands.

  “Shoulder’s bugging me.” I turn my back on them.

  “Not what I meant.”

  Yeah, I know what he meant.

  It’s the two-year anniversary of Sam’s death, and he’s wondering if I’m going to self-implode.

  Some days, I wonder the same thing.

  You need to talk to someone, he’d said recently. You’re an emotional time-bomb.

  He’s right. I am. Without the game to unleash my frustration and anger, I
don’t know how I would have gotten through the past couple of years.

  I exhale heavily. “I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit,” Sebastian mutters, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “You haven’t been fine in a long time. You got to let it go, man. What happened with Sam wasn’t-”

  “Don’t.” I jerk my head around and pierce him with a warning glance. “Not today.”

  Sebastian sighs and places his hands up in a position of surrender. “All right. I’m just saying. No one blames you for what happened, except you.”

  And Brynne.

  Because unlike everyone else, she knows the truth – I’m a fucking terrible friend.

  Blake shakes his head as if reading my thoughts. “Come out with us tonight. Have a few drinks with the guys.”

  “Next time.” I grab my bag and toss it over my shoulder.

  I can hear their concerned mumblings as I leave the change room and head down the corridor towards Coach’s office.

  Pinching my eyes shut, I take a long, steadying breath before rapping my knuckles against his door.

  “It’s open.” The words are hard, edged with a slur, and as soon as I open the door I see the opened bottle of whisky on his desk.

  This won’t be good.

  Coach stands by the window, staring blankly out, swirling what’s left of his drink in his right hand. Broad shoulders slouch forward, and when he turns I flinch at the haunted look in his eyes.

  “You wanted to see me?” I force the words out, wishing I was anywhere but here.

  He gives a hard nod, then moves back to his desk and pulls out a second glass, pouring the amber liquid into it before handing it to me.

  I take a sip, silence stretching between us. Unsaid words filling the void.

  Guilt isn’t the only thing we share, but it’s the one thing that connects us more than anything else. Even more than hockey. Because as shitty of a friend as I was to Sam, Steve Jacobs was an even shittier father.

  It’s no wonder that Brynne hates us both.

  After what seems like an eternity, he finally speaks. “Have you heard from Brynne?”

  My gaze jerks up, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are glazed from the mixture of alcohol and whatever thoughts consume him.

  For as long as I’ve known them, their relationship has always been volatile, strained, even before Sam died.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “I just thought…today…” His jaw twitches as he looks down into his glass. He shakes his head and stumbles to his chair, sitting down heavily. “I hoped she might have contacted you.”

  I’d hoped the same thing. Every fucking day for the past year.

  He closes his eyes, leaning his head back. The man is only in his mid-fifties, but right now he looks at least ten years older. Silver threads through his once black hair, and deep lines that weren’t there two years ago are etched into his face. But it’s his eyes, sunken with dark circles, that really age him.

  “You know what today is?” he slurs.

  Of course I do.

  “Yeah.”

  A strangling noise sounds in his throat, and I have to swallow back my own grief that threatens to choke me.

  More silence.

  His eyes remain closed, and long, strained minutes pass.

  Eventually, his breathing becomes heavy and labored, and I’m pretty sure he’s passed out.

  Good.

  Whatever gets him through this shitty day. I have similar plans of my own. A date with a bottle of scotch.

  I place my glass on the desk and stand.

  “Son.” The word is slurred, but there’s an agony, a desperation in that one word that slices through my heart. Because as much of an asshole the man was to his own kids, he’s been like a father to me.

  I wonder what he’d think of me if he ever found out what happened between Brynne and I?

  There was always an unspoken rule.

  She was off limits.

  As cold and callous as he acted towards her, everyone but Brynne knew she was the fucking world to him.

  “Yeah, Coach?”

  His eyes open briefly. “If you hear from her, you’ll let me know?”

  I give a brisk nod, knowing I’m the last person she’d call.

  Chapter 2

  Brynne

  In the passenger seat of Felix’s new Mercedes Benz, I rub my palms across the rough fabric of my jeans and let out a slow, steadying breath as the car pulls to a stop in the cemetery parking lot.

  My fist tightens around the flowers I brought. A bouquet of color conflicting with my mood, and the gray clouds that hang heavy above us.

  Beside me, Felix turns the ignition off. He drags his hand through the dark, trimmed beard he’s had since I met him at an art exhibit he’d hosted on campus during my freshman year. Over cheap Merlot and a heated debate about the differences between neo-impressionism and post-impressionism, we’d become quick friends. One of the few friends I’d kept in contact with the past couple of years.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie, hating how pathetic my voice sounds.

  I’m tired. And not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I’m exhausted, my secret a burden that’s become almost too difficult to bear.

  Glancing over my shoulder, a small, sad smile tugs at my lips when I catch the profile of my son’s face. He’s still so tiny. Little fingers curl into tight fists, and his bow-like lips pucker in a sucking motion in his sleep.

  He looks like Kane. My chest squeezes like it always does when I see the resemblance, because it’s a reminder that I can’t keep him to myself. One day soon, I need to stop being a coward and tell him.

  I’ve tried. Several times. But fear had paralyzed me.

  Fear of facing him again.

  Fear that he’d want to be part of Noah’s life.

  Fear that he wouldn’t.

  Fear that, like Sam, I’d lose Noah, too.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Felix asks, placing his large hand over mine, dark eyes filled with concern.

  Felix is good looking in that clean-cut, GQ-like way, but he’s never been more than a friend. And right now, that’s all I need. All I have time for. Not to mention that the small part of my heart that I actually let feel something was consumed years ago by a boy who could never love me back. A boy who would taint and destroy the only person who ever really cared about me.

  “I’m fine.” I give his fingers a small squeeze, then pull away, breaking the intimacy he’s created. “Thanks for driving.”

  “Anytime. Anything you and Noah need, I’m here for you.”

  He’s proven it. Driving me to doctors’ appointments, lending me money when I was late on rent, even getting me an exhibition night at Gwen Siders’ next month.

  That’s if I can finish something that doesn’t make people flinch and recoil into themselves when they see it.

  It isn’t that my paintings are bad. Technically, they’re flawless. But even I know that they’re lacking something.

  Mechanical and cold, one reviewer had said. Holding nothing of the artist’s essence.

  I’d laughed bitterly at that, because they were wrong. It wasn’t that my heart and soul weren’t poured out on the canvas - it’s that they were.

  Mechanical.

  Cold.

  Two words that describe me perfectly.

  I’d turned off my emotions years ago. The only thing that had made me feel was Kane.

  And now Noah.

  I could run from Kane. But not from the child we’d created. And the emotions he stirred inside me were, at times, scary as hell.

  Because I loved him.

  And one thing I’ve learned in life is that the things you love are always taken from you.

  “You want me to come with you?” Felix asks, when I don’t get out of the car.

  “No. I need to do this alone.”

  He nods, then places his hand behind the seat, stretching out as he glanc
es backwards at Noah. “We’ll just hang out here.”

  I try to return his smile, but my face feels strained, and even the motion of opening the car door takes every ounce of my strength.

  It rained earlier, and the grass is still damp, squelching under my feet as I make my way through the maze of headstones.

  It’s been a year since I’ve been here. Too long.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat when I find the two headstones that have JACOBS printed across the top.

  Audrey Jacobs.

  Beloved wife and mother.

  “Hi, Mom.” I place my hand on the cool stone as I crouch down and place the flowers I brought in the metal stand. There’s a small engraved picture of her above her name that’s been smoothed out from the elements. I trace my fingers over the soft lines of her face. A face that looks so much like mine. It’s odd to think that she wasn’t much older than I am now when she died.

  I never felt any deep sadness when my father used to bring us as kids. Maybe it was because I was too young to remember her. Too young to really feel her loss. But with Sam, I feel his loss in the very center of my being, like a hot knife stabbing my chest every time I think about all the things he’ll never experience.

  Like meeting his nephew for the first time.

  I inhale shakily and stand, tears pricking at the back of my eyes as I read my brother’s name, and the pathetic epitaph my father picked out.

  Adored son.

  Forever remembered.

  The bite of bitterness sinks into me, warring with the suffocating pain of loss.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my chest and shivering as a cool breeze blows around me. “I did that art exchange we always talked about. It was supposed to be six months in Rome and six in France, but…” I swallow hard and blink back tears. “I only made it to Rome.”

  I was there five months when I realized I was pregnant. It was Felix that mentioned it when he’d come to visit. He’d made a joke that I’d either been enjoying the pasta and pizza a little too much, or I was pregnant.

  I’d laughed about it, until I’d tried to remember the last time I’d had my period.

  “I can’t be.” I’d denied it fiercely, even as the truth blared like a siren in my head. “I’ve had sex once in the last year, there’s no way…”