Fighting To Score (The Baltimore Banners Book 12) Page 2

  Again.

  "Is that so?"

  There was something in Wyatt's voice that made her hesitate but only for a second. She juggled the tote bag and the two plastic grocery bags in her left hand, managed to catch the light switch with her elbow on the first try, then nudged the door closed with her foot.

  "Of course. What else would I be doing?"

  "I don't know. I thought maybe you and asshole might have plans, since he doesn't have a game or anything tonight."

  "Watch your mouth. And stop calling Shane an asshole." Would the recrimination distract Wyatt from asking about Shane? God, she hoped so. There had been too many questions lately—the same questions phrased a dozen different ways—and Chloe couldn't help but feel like she was digging herself in deeper every single time she answered one of them.

  How's Shane doing? Was that hit as bad as it looked? What do you do when he's on the road? Do you two have any plans tomorrow? How long are you planning on staying out there?

  How much longer could she be evasive with her answers? How much longer before everything came back to bite her on the butt? How much longer before her family figured out she was up to something?

  Not that she was really up to anything—she wasn't. You had to have a plan in order to be up to something and Chloe was, without a doubt, one hundred percent planless.

  "Does that mean you guys don't have any plans?"

  Chloe closed her eyes for a brief second, said a quick prayer for inspiration, then moved toward the tiny kitchen of the even tinier apartment. She dropped the bags onto the chipped butcherblock that passed for a countertop then started to shrug out of her heavy winter coat. She changed her mind and walked two steps to the thermostat. It was set at sixty-eight like always—but the registered temperature read fifty-two. She hit the little box with the side of her hand—not because it would help but simply because she could—then moved to the second-hand loveseat and dropped into it.

  Her feet were killing her from standing all day, she was tired and hungry, and all she wanted to do was change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt—and maybe another jacket—grab something to eat, then curl up in bed and go to sleep. But she couldn't, not yet. Not until she finished talking to Wyatt.

  Unless she blew him off. Again. No, she couldn't do that. She'd been doing it too frequently lately. Even her brother had limits. And right now, he was waiting for an answer.

  Chloe closed her eyes again, frowned as she tried to remember what he'd asked. Plans. He'd asked her if they had any plans.

  "No plans." At least, she didn't have any. She had no idea what Shane was doing. Probably hanging out in that gigantic house of his with a few of his buddies. Or maybe he was out somewhere, driving around in one of his flashy cars. Maybe he was out with—no, she wouldn't let her mind go there, although it would serve her right if he was.

  "And you're sure everything's okay?"

  There was a hint of concern—and maybe even a little suspicion—in Wyatt's voice. She sat up a little straighter and forced a little more cheer to her voice. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

  "Just wondering. You've been—I don't know. A little evasive."

  "Evasive? Me? You're imagining things."

  "Am I?"

  Chloe started to answer then stopped when she heard the soft knock on her door. Three quick raps, followed by two more. The door opened and her neighbor across the hall poked her head in. Chloe waved her in then quickly placed her finger to her lips in a silent bid for silence.

  Michele nodded and tiptoed inside, eased the door shut, then leaned against it with a comical expression of anticipation on her flushed face. Chloe rolled her eyes and motioned to the chair across from her.

  "Yes, you're imagining things. And you're starting to sound like Mom."

  "Yeah, well. Mom's worried."

  "There's nothing to worry about."

  "How long are you staying out there?"

  Was Wyatt digging for information? Of course he was. He'd been on a mission for the last week, trying to get details out of her—details she wasn't ready to share. Not yet. Not until she came up with a plan.

  At least, a better plan than her original one. That certainly hadn't worked out.

  "Not too much longer."

  "Care to be more specific?"

  "Not really, no." Chloe caught Michele's questioning look and mouthed Wyatt. Michele nodded, her mouth forming a large O before curling into a dreamy smile. Chloe had made the mistake of showing her friend one of Wyatt's pictures and she'd been obsessed ever since. Not that anything would ever come of it, not with Wyatt back home.

  Thank God. She had enough issues to deal with right now, she didn't need to add her brother to the list. He was annoying enough on the phone.

  "How can you think you're not being evasive when you keep giving me answers like that?"

  "Wyatt, I'm not being evasive."

  "Fine."

  "Fine."

  "Then I'm coming out there."

  "What?" Panic launched Chloe to her feet. "Wyatt, don't be ridiculous. You can't come out here."

  "Yeah? Why not?"

  "Because. I mean, there's no need to. And—and we're busy. Shane's busy, I mean. You know, with games and practice and his travel and..." Chloe paced in a small circle, her mind spinning as she searched for more reasons why her brother couldn't come out here.

  "So. Shane's busy, hm?"

  "Yeah. I mean, you know how it is." Chloe winced as soon as the words left her mouth. No, Wyatt didn't know how it was, not really. He no longer played hockey, had lost his chance at making the pros after the accident five years ago.

  She stammered, searching for words to cover her thoughtless comment, but Wyatt spoke over her, cutting her off.

  "Yeah, Shane's busy. Sure. He's probably standing in his kitchen tossing back a cold one but whatever. I get that he might be busy but how about you? No time for your big brother?"

  There was a sarcasm in Wyatt's voice that she didn't understand—and that sent up at least a dozen red flags in her mind. It was never a good sign when Wyatt pulled out the big brother card, especially since he was only a few minutes older than she was. "Don't even try that with me. Listen, I need to get going. I've got things to do—"

  "Hang on a sec."

  "Wyatt—" There was an odd noise in the background, almost like he had dropped the phone. Then she heard voices, muted and oddly muffled. Was he watching television, or was he out somewhere with one of his friends?

  Chloe rolled her eyes then looked over at Michele with an apologetic shrug. Michele waved her off then went back to playing on her own phone and pretending she wasn't really listening to Chloe's conversation.

  Not that there was any real conversation to listen to, not right now. Chloe sat back down and blew out a quick sigh as Wyatt continued his muffled conversation with whoever he was with. "Wyatt. I don't have all night so stop playing games—"

  "Wyatt isn't the one playing games, Chloe."

  Shane.

  There was no mistaking that voice. She heard it every night in her dreams, fell asleep to the memories of that voice whispering in her ear. Deep. Smooth. Warm.

  And, right now, filled with more than a hint of anger and bewilderment.

  Chloe would have fallen if she hadn't been sitting—and even that wasn't a guarantee that she still wouldn't fall. How could Shane be on Wyatt's phone? It wasn't possible—

  Unless Wyatt was here, in Baltimore. And if he was—oh, this wasn't going to be good at all.

  "Shane. I didn't expect—"

  "No, I guess you didn't. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

  Chapter Three

  "Girl, you are so screwed."

  Chloe curled her legs under her and pulled the crocheted afghan tighter around her shoulders. She wanted to argue with Michele and tell her it wasn't that bad but she couldn't. First, it was that bad. And second, she was screwed—but not in the way she wanted to be.

  She pushed all thoughts of Shane from her mind—specifically, all thoughts of his hard, sweaty body stretched out on top of her. Easier said than done because that's all she'd been doing for the last few weeks: thinking about Shane. Remembering their time together. How they fit together. The way he made her feel, all hot and tingly and needy and starved. One look from Shane was enough to curl her toes and make her come unglued.

  Pun fully intended.

  But it wasn't enough. God, how she wished it was, though. How she wished those five years of separation had never happened, how she wished they were still as close now as they had been all those years ago. It would easy—so very easy—to just fall back into the relationship and act like nothing had changed.

  But things had changed. It had been five years, of course things had changed. Chloe had changed. Shane had changed. They would have changed even without the repercussions from the accident and what had happened to Wyatt—to all three of them.

  As tempting as it was to simply pick up where things had left off, to pretend the last five years had never happened, Chloe couldn't do it. She wouldn't do it. It wouldn't be fair to either one of them, not if they were really going to have a chance at being together. They needed to get to know one another again, needed to learn who each other was now.

  Part of her was afraid of doing just that, though. Shane wasn't the man she remembered from all those years ago. He wasn't even the same man who had come back home for Christmas. He'd been so like his old self that the realization he may have changed hadn't even hit her then. It wasn't until she'd come out here a week later to spend New Year's with him that she first noticed some of the differences.

  Just subtle differences at first. Like his choice in vehicles—both of them. Gone was the old beater he had fixed up with his uncle. Now he had a flashy sports car that cost more than six-figures, and an oversized luxury SUV that was almost as big as this tiny apartment.

  And his house...the four-bedroom monstrosity was a sprawling work of architectural art—and an advertisement for modern living. An open floorplan. Black granite and tile. Black stainless steel. Gray leather. Abstract art. A gym. A game room. And yes, even a home theater in the lower level, complete with leather recliners and a surround-sound system. It didn't even come close to resembling the rustic lodge he had often dreamed about building when he'd finally made it.

  Shane was playing in the big leagues now, she understood that. She knew he had a contract worth millions and she understood that, too. But his lifestyle now was nothing like what it had been when they were younger. And if his tastes had changed so drastically in the last five years, what else had changed?

  Part of her worried that the woman she was now—and the man Shane had become—had nothing in common. If she was meeting Shane for the first time, would she be interested in getting to know him?

  Chloe was afraid of looking too deep into that question. Physically, yes. Shane would always be attractive to her, with his unruly hair falling below his collar and those dark eyes fringed in sinfully long lashes. With the rugged imperfection of his square jaw and rough-hewn face—not a model's features, but a warrior's features, all sculpted lines and sharp edges. With that barest hint of attitude that made you wonder if he was as hard as he pretended to be. Tall, muscular, his body that of a strong athlete used to pushing himself to the limits and beyond. Physically, Shane would always do it for her.

  But what about everything else?

  More importantly, would the man Shane was now be interested in getting to know her? She wasn't a model or an actress or a socialite. She didn't look anything like some of the women she'd seen him with in the past on social media. She didn't go to bars or nightclubs, had never had a very active social life, not compared to Shane's social life now. And after seeing that one post—

  No, she refused to think about that. They weren't together, not then and not now. It shouldn't matter.

  It shouldn't hurt.

  She pushed the memory away and focused on one problem at a time: if they were meeting each other for the very first time now, would anything ever come of it?

  Chloe wasn't sure—and that frightened her.

  Shane wouldn't see it that way, she already knew that. He'd argue and get pissed and tell her she was imagining things, that he was still the same Shane he'd always been. Maybe, deep-down, he really was. Or maybe, like her, he had changed but still possessed the basic essence of who he was, who he'd always been.

  Chloe hoped, more than anything, that was the case. She wanted them to have another chance—

  But not before they got to know each other again.

  "Are you just going to sit there all night and brood and pout?"

  Chloe looked up from the lukewarm mug of tea in her hands. "I'm not brooding or pouting. I'm thinking."

  "Of course you are. That's why you're sitting over there frowning so hard you've already added three wrinkles to your forehead."

  "I have not—"

  Michele cut her off with a quick wave of her hand. "You have, but whatever. I don't care about that. What I care about are all the details on this hockey boyfriend that you've neglected to tell me about."

  "Shane isn't my boyfriend. Not really."

  "Yeah?" Michele leaned forward, the corner of the fleece blanket falling from her shoulder. She tugged it back in place with a growl of frustration and kept on talking. "It certainly sounded like there was something going on from the conversation you two were having."

  "I thought you weren't listening."

  "I wasn't. Not on purpose, anyway. But it's a small apartment so I couldn't help overhearing."

  "Mm-hmm." Chloe took a sip of the tea, frowned, then leaned forward to place the mug on the small coffee table. "Don't read into things you think you heard."

  "I won't read into anything if you share the details."

  "There are no details."

  "Liar."

  "I'm not lying—there really aren't details. Shane and I used to date when we were growing up. A lifetime ago."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. That was it."

  "But you were just together."

  "Not really, no."

  "Um, sorry but—didn't you say when I was at your place for New Year's? Because I distinctly remember hearing you say that."

  "That doesn't mean we were together."

  "Really? Why else would you fly halfway across the country to spend New Year's with someone? Nobody does that unless they, you know, actually want to be with that same someone."

  "Michele, you're reading—"

  "And then you moved out here, to this sprawling, stylish abode in the middle of this exclusive neighborhood." Michele spread her arms wide to encompass the tiny apartment. "So that was, what? A whim? Nope, not buying it."

  "I just needed a change of pace."

  "And I'm still not buying it." Michele pulled her phone out, tapped the screen a few times, then looked over. "What's his name again?"

  "Why?"

  "So I can look him up, that's why. Duh."

  "No. Forget it." Chloe stood and grabbed her mug, then moved the three steps to the kitchen. "Do you want any more tea?"

  "No, I'm good. And ohmyGod, is this him?"

  "What?" Chloe spun around, her heart leaping into her throat at Michele's small screech. Her friend was staring at the phone, her mouth hanging slightly open, her eyes wide. "Michele, don't—"

  "Holy crap, he is hot. Like, seriously hot." She looked up, her head tilted to the side as she stared at Chloe for a long minute. "What medication are you on?"

  Chloe blinked, struggling to keep up with the speed of Michele's thoughts, even though she already knew she wouldn't be able to. Chloe may have only known the other woman for a month but she had quickly learned that Michele's thoughts bounced from one subject to the next to the next and back again with no rhyme or reason. Trying to follow them was like trying to catch air: impossible.

  "I'm not on any medication. Why—"

  "You must be because you are definitely mentally unhinged for tossing this guy to the side."

  Chloe rolled her eyes then placed a fresh teabag in the mug and refilled it with hot water. "I didn't toss him to the side."

  "But you kicked him out of your bed, right?"

  "Michele—"

  "Which is even worse in my book. I mean, wow. Just look at him." She spun the phone around for Chloe to see then quickly turned it back. "Hot. There's no other word for it."

  Michele was wrong: at least a dozen different words came to mind when she thought of Shane. She wasn't about to tell her friend that, though. "How did you even find him that fast?"

  "Well, let's see. I know his name is Shane. He plays hockey. There's only one hockey team in Baltimore and that's the Banners. One quick search and voila—at least two dozen pages and a ton of pictures of one Shane Masters, left wing for the Baltimore Banners. Whatever that means." Michele studied the phone for a few minutes then sighed and tossed it to the side. "He really is hot. He even has that dark, broody look about him. Like there's some tragic secret from the past that makes you want to just hold him and tell him everything's going to be okay."

  Chloe choked on the swallow of tea. She covered her mouth with her hand, coughed a few times, then stared at Michele with watery eyes.

  "How—" She cleared her throat and started over. "You picked all that up from a simple picture?"

  "No, of course not. I got it from listening to you."

  "But I never—"

  "You didn't have to. I just put two and two together."

  "And came up with sixty-three. Talk about jumping to conclusions."

  "No conclusions. Although he does kind of have those deep, haunted eyes. But enough about him and your stupidity. When are you going to introduce me to your brother?"

  "I don't think—"

  "I'm not asking you to think. I'm asking you to introduce me to your brother."

  "Wyatt isn't—"

  "Nope, don't tell me. I don't want my fantasies destroyed before I meet him." Michele stood and quickly folded the small fleece blanket then tossed it over the back of the chair. "You said you were meeting him tomorrow night, right?"