Crashed by Elise Faber

Chapter One

Fanny

Wine.Solitude.

The perfect duo.

Stephanie “Fanny” Douglas was well-used to both.

She’d been single for roughly . . . well, for roughly an eternity. (Eternity, in this case meaning, a decade). Which meant that she’d moved beyond lonely, beyond being concerned with how much wine she consumed in the evenings during the week—a bottle every other night—and on to enjoying the simple pleasures where she could.

Alone.

Just as she preferred.

Her cell buzzed, and she glanced down at the text from her friend, Dani, gasping when she saw the picture of the gleaming diamond ring on her finger. Then smiling. Because she’d helped Dani’s boyfriend—fiancé now, she supposed—pick out the exquisite piece of jewelry.

Sparkling. Huge. Perfect.

Exactly as Dani warranted.

Because Dani was one of the good ones, and she deserved the good that Ethan brought into her life. Luckily, Ethan recognized the gift he’d been given when her shy, lovely friend had opened herself up to his love, and he treated her with care.

So, Fanny didn’t have to kill him.

Off the ice, that was.

Off it, killing the built, six-foot-several inches, two-hundred-and-something-pound forward would be difficult for her five-foot-three, one-hundred-and-thirty-pound self. She was softer than her figure skating competition days—though she was still tough with a competitive streak that had never faded—but even more muscle wouldn’t give her the ability to take down the professional hockey player.

But that was okay. Because if he hurt her friend, she could always kill him on the ice.

Fanny was the skating coach for the Gold—having made the jump from the Gold’s AHL affiliate (minor league team) a few seasons before—and being part of a team that wasn’t new, and had won the Cup twice now in their short tenure, meant they had the resources to hire people like her. She’d been running her own skating company before the Gold had brought her on to the payroll with the Rush, and while she still ran her business (clinics, private lessons for NHLers and other professional hockey players during the off-season, and other classes throughout the year for everyone from beginners to those hoping to make the big leagues), her main priority was picking apart the guys’ skating skills and improving on everything from edge work to weight distribution.

She loved it.

The guys were awesome.

And being able to threaten them with extra skating drills meant that she was feared and revered in equal parts.

Exactly as she liked. Muhaha.

Her phone buzzed again—a collection of emojis that had Fanny grinning, and she typed out an enthusiastic response (with emojis a plenty), sent it, then set her cell on the counter, her smile fading, the joy she had for her friend dissipating like fog receding from over the Golden Gate. “Don’t go there, Fanny,” she murmured as she blinked rapidly, the memories pulling at the edges of her mind, threatening to claw her apart, to bring her back down into a place she’d barely survived the first time.

But it was hard not to go back there.

Years ago, she’d had what Dani now had. The fairy tale, the once upon a time. True love that had been tested and rebuilt stronger. A man who adored her. The diamond ring, the loving fiancé, the wonderful, effervescent hope for a future and a happily ever after.

But it had all been taken away. Seized for good, even though she’d fought so, so hard to keep hold of it.

Ripped from her as she’d tried on wedding dresses.

“Fate can be a real asshole sometimes,” she muttered, moving to the counter and setting down her wineglass—her big wineglass. She was most definitely happy for her friend because she wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted everyone else to be miserable just because her happy ending hadn’t worked out.

Shit happened.

Unfortunately, a heap of that shit of life had landed on her shoulders. Twice.

She opened the fridge, pulled out the stopper on her bottle of wine, and poured a generous splash into her glass.

And then—remembering the lovely diamond ring that had once sat on her own finger—she poured another long splash.

“Come on, Fan,” she murmured, knowing she was talking to herself, having an entire conversation with herself, in fact, and that wasn’t good. But also knowing that it was a desperate bid to snap her out of her memories, so she was going with it. “You’re going to change into pajamas,” she continued, “put on a face mask, and watch the Saw franchise until you forget all about failed romances and remember that you have a very fulfilling life.”

She paused, considered that.

Then nodded once, proud of her very sound plan.

Bringing her wine with her, since it was the first step of necessary oblivion (more wine first, gory horror flicks second), she made her way upstairs and into her bedroom, slipping into pajamas even though it was barely five in the evening.

Probably she should do something productive. Review tape of the guys, plan her next clinic, return emails from an inbox she never seemed to get ahead of nowadays.

But . . . she didn’t want to.

“Plan, Douglas,” she muttered. “Stick with the plan.”

Right.

Wine. Check. Pajamas. Check. Face mask. Next on the agenda.

She washed her face, reached for the very expensive jar, smeared on the cream, and then she belted on her robe, grabbed her glass, and headed back downstairs, plugging a food order into her cell for the fattiest, greasiest carb load she could find.

In forty-five minutes, she was going to be at a great place.

Nearing a heart attack.

But all the happier for it.

“Movie,” she whispered, cueing it up as she popped some popcorn—because if she was going for greasy and fatty, she needed that, too.

Pretty soon, she was on the couch, the slasher flick rolling, popcorn in her tummy, the buttery fingers of one hand gripping her wine, the other swiping fast and furious on TikTok while she giggled like a loon . . . and feeling so much better for it. There was no thought of unhappy endings, no heartbreak and pain.

Just actors on a screen playing a part. Just funny people making her laugh spouting about things she’d never even considered.

Plus, a nice buzz floating through her brain, softening the edges of the past, until she could almost pretend that she hadn’t ever had a diamond ring, or a fiancé, or a twice-broken heart. Just random dates from men who never lasted long, whose sole purpose was to keep the matchmakers of the Gold—because hockey players were the worst gossips and busybodies—at bay.

She wouldn’t think about the past, about Brandon—

The doorbell rang, just in the nick of time, chasing his name, the memories from her mind.

Thank God for that.

She paused the movie before jumping up and hurrying down the hall toward the front door, wine in one hand, still clutching her phone in the other, while doing her best to ignore the reminders of him that were chasing her like the hounds of hell. At least her food had arrived early. Stuffing her face would take her mind further off everything that had happened.

Fumbling with her cell, she flicked the lock, turned the handle, and pulled open the door, expecting to see a delivery person with a bag in hand.

Instead, she saw . . .

She blinked.

But . . . that was impossible.

The wine had gone to her head, because he could not be on her porch. She was hallucinating. That was it. Or drunk because the alcohol content of the pinot noir was higher than she’d expected. This was food, the delivery from—her eyes darted to her cell—Melissa, and that was all. A.L.L. All.

“Hey, baby.”

His voice was—God, it brushed along her nape, drifted down her spine, caressed her abdomen, reached inside her rib cage, and dug its claws into her heart, slicing deep.

“Brandon?” she whispered, all her denials of him flitting away as the figment of her imagination stepped forward, the shadows disappearing from his face.

“It’s me, Fan.” He swiped a finger down her face and lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply, the pale pink clay mixture staining his skin. “Still the same,” he murmured, those claws digging deeper, goose bumps prickling to life on her arms, lifting the hairs there, causing her knees to tremble. “God, I missed this.” A beat. “God, I missed you.”

Her lips parted, every cell inside her waiting for his next words, knowing they would change everything.

“I remember,” he murmured. “I remember everything.”

Her buttery fingers spasmed, and she lost her hold on her wine.

The goblet fell to the porch. Glass shattered. Red splattered all over her bare feet. The shards glittered like malformed diamonds in the evening light.

“No,” she whispered, her breath catching. “Oh, no. Not again.”

The silence between them was terrible.

Almost as terrible as the clawed memories tearing into her, ripping everything open, making her remember—the diagnosis, the treatments, him being so sick, her at his side, the surgery, him looking at her blankly, not knowing her . . . and then the cancer coming back and going through that all over again.

Nausea twisted her stomach and she gagged, thinking for a moment the popcorn she’d consumed was going to make a reappearance.

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t go through that all again. She couldn’t have this man be the most important thing in her life and then lose him.

Not when she’d been so thoroughly broken after the second time.

“Fanny,” Brandon said, stepping toward her, cupping her jaw, and she gagged again. He’d touched her face, swiped off some of the mask, but she’d still been hoping he was some drunken apparition. She couldn’t pretend, not when she felt his fingers, slightly roughened at the tips, stroking along her throat, gently encircling her wrist. “Look at me, baby,” he said quietly. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

The soft command loosened the stranglehold on her abdomen, eased the queasiness.

She breathed.

She didn’t lose the popcorn.

“There you go,” he said, smoothing back her hair. “It’s okay.”

Fanny didn’t think that would be the case, not in any way, shape, or form. But still, she found herself leaning into him and when that wasn’t close enough, she started to step forward.

“No,” he said, slightly sharp, nudging her back, and she realized she’d nearly trodden over the shards of glass.

Her throat worked, tried for words.

Failed to summon those words.

“I . . . um . . .”

Fanny blinked at the strange voice, saw the girl with the paper bag of food. Ah, there was Melissa.

“I have a delivery for Stephanie?”

“That’s me,” Fan managed, and Brandon stepped back, took the bag from the girl, and plunked it into Fanny’s hands. “Thank you,” he said, tone polite but dismissive.

“Are you okay?” Melissa asked, looking between the two of them, the broken glass on the porch. “Do you need me to . . .”

Fanny finally unfroze, mostly because Melissa was great.

She nodded at the girl, heart squeezing at the concern the other younger woman was displaying. Solidarity, and all that. “Thank you for asking,” she said, releasing a slow breath. “But I’m really okay.”

“You sure?”

Brandon stiffened as her eyes went from him to Fanny again. “I am.”

Melissa nodded, disappearing back down the driveway. Fanny heard the soft thunk of a door closing, the faint rumble of an engine starting up. A moment later, it was quiet again.

“Can I come in?”

Her pieced-together heart pulsed—hope and old pain all twining together, but she didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in. Not yet. Not—

“You remember . . . me? Us?” she asked, staring up into his deep brown eyes, trying to discern the truth. Because the last time she’d seen him, his long-term memory had been affected by the surgery that had saved his life. He had looked at her like she was a stranger.

“I remember.”

But for how long?

Because when she said she’d had her heart broken twice, she meant twice. First in their teens, when his memory had been affected—though it hadn’t been as bad, and they’d managed to help him remember after just a week. Then in their twenties, a seizure and car accident revealing the tumor was back, and while the surgery had gotten rid of the cancer, it had also taken all of the love he’d had for her.

“How?” she breathed.

His gaze flicked beyond her. “Can I come in?”

Fanny’s eyes slid closed. “Brandon,” she whispered.

“I remember,” he repeated.

“But for how long?” she said, out loud this time.

His inhale of breath was sharp, harsh amongst the quiet of the night, and she knew that he couldn’t tell her. No one could promise he wouldn’t get sick again, that she wouldn’t be forgotten and broken and forced to pick up the pieces once more.

“Fan,” he said, stepping toward her, the glass crunching under his shoes. “Can I come in? Please?”

She stumbled back a step, shook her head, her “No,” more of a shaking exhale than an actual refusal.

He heard anyway.

And he stopped.

Because he was the kind of man who listened, who was respectful of boundaries. Who wouldn’t force himself in where he wasn’t welcome.

“Fan,” he hissed, not moving, and the agony on his face had the claws inside her lashing out, striking deep enough to hurt.

Tears began falling, slipping out of the corners of her eyes. “No,” she said again. Stronger this time.

Brandon didn’t move.

She shut the door.

Fanny openedthe front door of her house in the early hours of the following morning, having barely slept. The greasy food left to go bad; the wine and glass allowed to stain and litter the concrete of her porch.

Memories had tormented her all night long, had made it impossible for her to not see Brandon when her lids slid closed.

On the ice, playing travel hockey.

On the sidelines, cheering her on as she competed at increasingly bigger competitions.

Brushing back her hair and kissing her—her first—after she’d won Nationals.

Missing an important final so that he could watch her compete for gold.

Flowers and gentle touches, a room full of candles and giving her a narrow silver bracelet before they’d both lost their virginity.

The headaches. Passing out. The diagnosis. The surgery. The treatment. The—

She closed her eyes, focused on breathing in and out, but that didn’t exactly help. Not after last night, not after Brandon had stroked her gently and told her to, “Breathe,” in that husky voice of his. Because then she was thinking of his lush curls, those deep brown eyes, his strong shoulders, and roughened fingertips. He was the same and yet completely different.

A man.

Not a boy in the beginnings of adulthood.

And thank God the glass had stopped her from launching herself into his arms. He was a good person. She was glad he’d gotten better and that he looked so fit and healthy.

But she wasn’t going there again.

Speaking of glass, she stepped forward, bringing the broom and dustpan with her. Then froze, eyes scouring the porch.

The glass was gone, not even the smallest sliver glittering in the overhead lights.

And the wine had been cleaned up, only a faint stain on her doormat telling her the entire interaction hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.

“Brandon,” she whispered, knowing instantly that he’d cleaned it.

Either that, or the magical wine fairies.

Snorting and feeling a little better now that her sarcasm had made a comeback, Fanny turned for the house and made short work of stowing the broom and dustpan before heading back out to her car.

Coffee.

Carbs.

Skating.

Another trifecta that had gotten her through the last decade.

Luckily, there was a Molly’s around the corner, so she’d be able to obtain the first two easily enough, and the third was already on the agenda for the day.

She was running a power skating class that morning.

With seven-to-ten-year-olds. Heaven help her.

They’d be busy and talkative, and her head would be spinning by the time she was done, but she’d take the almost headache caused by her charges instead of the one that came from Brandon showing up on her front porch and making her remember.

“Carbs,” she whispered. “Caffeine. STAT.”

With that, she got into her car, hightailed it over to Molly’s, managing to make it to the front door just as the Open sign flicked on, and snagging two apple cinnamon muffins—still warm and smelling absolutely delicious—along with a chocolate croissant—because when she said carbs, she meant carbs. Molly took one look at her and wordlessly made the large coffee Fanny had ordered an extra-large.

“Thanks,” she said.

Molly just squeezed her hand before turning to help the next customer who’d come in.

Fanny stepped out onto the sidewalk, sucking down coffee and burning her mouth, but the caffeine rush was so worth it, and when she got to her car, she peeled back the wrapper of one of the muffins, consuming it so fast that she felt a bit like a snake. Just unhinge her jaw and let it slide down her throat.

“And now isn’t that a pleasant thought?” she muttered, navigating out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, downing the other muffin without the least bit of guilt. She hadn’t gotten her grease fest the night before. The least she owed herself was apple cinnamon deliciousness.

Along with chocolate croissant deliciousness.

Because that was also gone by the time she reached the rink.

Same as the coffee.

But at least she felt awake and somewhat better by the time she had her feet in her skates, the laces tied, the cold air biting at her nose and cheeks.

Home. This had always been and always would be home.

Cones and spray paint. Her clipboard, gloves, and beanie. The ice broken up with barriers and . . . kids. Talking and laughing, stumbling their way onto the ice, falling and getting up and tumbling into each other with a casual perseverance that reminded her of herself when she’d been their age. Well, that and the fact that they were so much closer to the ice than she was.

It hurt less when they fell that shorter distance.

Not that she was all that much taller, even now.

But a coach had to have her excuses, didn’t she? Especially when the twins skittered toward her, nearly taking her out in their exuberance to show her all the hockey checks they’d learned in the two weeks since she’d seen them.

Grinning, she gently shoved them back, those claws in her mind finally slipping free. She could breathe. She could laugh. She could . . . torture.

Muahaha.

Lifting her whistle to her lips, she blew a sharp trill to call the kids in.

And then she got down to torturing.