Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

ELI

I’ve always been a sucker for discipline. In my career, following the rules can make the difference between scoring the winning goal and being benched for a game. Sure, I make mistakes sometimes. Get a little heated, have a little scrap on the ice.

But there’s a reason for my longevity as a hockey player. I’ve always kept my head in the game.

So when I agreed to Mackenzie’s three requests I meant it. The only problem is, I don’t have time to think about them because I get a panic call from Myles whose babysitter hasn’t turned up.

“Can’t Liam help?” I ask.

“Liam’s otherwise engaged.”

“How about Sophie?” Liam and his wife are Charlie’s godparents. She adores my nephew. I can’t see her giving up a chance to take care of him for a few hours.

“She’s also otherwise engaged.”

Ah. I remember Liam’s plans for Saturday afternoon. I guess they’ve stretched into the evening.

“It’ll take me an hour to get to your place,” I point out.

“That’s fine. I’ll change our reservations,” Myles says. “Please, Eli. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t desperate.”

There are so many replies I could make to that. But I like Myles and I love Charlie. And Ava’s near the top of my favorite people list.

“Do you need me to stay overnight?”

“Oh god, no,” Myles blurts. “Two hours max. We’ll go out for dinner and then you can make yourself scarce. Charlie will sleep the whole time. I’ll make sure he’s down before we go.”

“Okay,” I say. “But you owe me.”

“Of course I do,” Myles says smoothly. “And I promise. Charlie won’t cause you any problems at all.”

* * *

An hour and a half later, Charlie is causing problems.

Okay, not problems exactly. But as soon as Myles and Ava are out of the door, he’s crying. I go in to see him, looking cute as hell in his little sleep suit, his toddler face red from screaming.

“Hey bud,” I whisper. “What’s up?”

He reaches his hands out for me and I lift him up. His little arms curl around my neck.

“I see monsters,” he sobs.

“Your dad’s gone out.”

He doesn’t get the joke. Just keeps sobbing against my neck. I rub his back and murmur softly to him, telling him there’s nothing to be afraid of.

I don’t have a lot of experience with kids. Sure, I help coach some older ones with the help of Goran, but the little versions, the ones who believe in monsters, I’m not sure how to handle them.

“You want a drink?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“Something to eat?”

That gets his interest. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

His face crumples in concentration. Damn, he looks like Myles sometimes. “Pasta.”

I try not to laugh. “I meant a snack, buddy. Dinner time is over.”

“Want pasta.”

Damn, I walked right into that one. “How about a cookie?” I suggest. Because I know Ava has those. I might have helped myself to a few.

But there are at least two left in the packet.

Charlie nods and I carry him to the kitchen, putting him on the counter with a warning not to move. He takes my instruction seriously, sitting as still as a statue while I pull the almost-empty cookie jar from the cupboard.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” I tell him. “If I give this to you, we don’t mention it again. Uncle and nephew rules, okay?”

He nods, still looking serious.

“Because your mom will give me a lecture about not giving you cookies at nighttime.”

He nods again.

“And your dad will…” Ah, Myles will do nothing. I decide to stop talking and give the kid a cookie.

He takes his time eating it. I never noticed what tiny teeth he had before. They’re like a chipmunk’s, nibbling around the edges, his tongue licking the crumbs from his lips.

About ten hours later he finishes it and I carry him back to bed.

“Story?” he asks.

“It’s late. You need to sleep.”

“Story. Please.”

And damn if I don’t cave. I pull some picture book from his shelf and sit next to his crib, reading it out loud.

By the time I’ve finished, he’s asleep again. His eyelids so delicate I can see blue veins crossing them. He also has crumbs on his lips, but it’s too late to hide the evidence now. If I brush at them I’ll wake him up, so I’ll just have to hope he licks them away in his sleep.

Tiptoeing out of the room, I pull the door gently shut then walk over to the couch. I’m tired. I got up at stupid o’clock this morning to meet Myles and Liam for golf. And then I drove over to tell Wayne that I want to date his consultant, only to find out she’s his damn granddaughter.

And then she told me she was interested, too.

I let my head fall back on the cushions, thinking about the way she looked today. She has this dignity, this strength. But she’s also vulnerable. When I was holding her today there was this look in her eyes that made me want her more.

This tenderness, this ache. I felt it, too.

And you made a promise.

I reach for my phone. There’s no time like the present to keep it. Sliding my thumb across the screen I open up Safari and type her name into the search box.

The first result is her LinkedIn profile. She has this kick-ass profile picture that’s somewhere between a schoolteacher and a movie star. I linger on it a bit too long before I scroll down to her experience. She went to high school in L.A., followed by college in New York, as she told me. Straight into a job at Warner Power, where she’s been climbing the ranks ever since.

She has an MBA. She’s intelligent, I knew that much. More so than me and I like it.

Reluctantly closing LinkedIn, I look through the other results. Her social media is locked down tight, if she has it at all. I’ll have to ask her. The rest of the links are articles about how she transformed companies, how she volunteers at the local women’s shelter, all stuff that makes her look better than ever.

And to be honest, there isn’t that much. She seemed so intent on me Googling her and I have no idea why. That’s when I remember she’s Greg’s daughter. So I delete the search and type Mackenzie Gauthier into the box.

The first few results are websites for Wayne and Greg. It’s an unusual name and they get all the top hits.

But then I scroll down and there are some older links. Like the stone age of the internet.

Most of the hits are from a video. I click on the first one and it takes me to some old-looking website. It hasn’t been updated in years, but it reminds me a bit of MySpace. The video is at the top and there are about a billion comments below, but I don’t bother reading them before I click on the little play symbol and the video loads.

A girl appears on the screen. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Mackenzie. She’s standing by the boards of an ice rink which I recognize right away. It’s home to the L.A. Kings. I haven’t played there a lot – I’ve always been in the Eastern divisions – but I’d know it anywhere.

The seats are absolutely full. The game must be over because there are only a few people in the middle of the rink, like there’s some kind of prize giving going on. There’s a voice blasting through the speakers but the sound is distorted and I can’t make out what they’re saying, but then I see Mackenzie start to skate onto the rink.

Okay, you couldn’t really describe what she’s doing as skating. It’s more of a walk-slide – panic thing. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she only takes a couple of steps out before she does an amazing slip, her legs flying up into the air, her skirt flying out, her body landing with a thump on the frozen rink.

The camera zooms in. Really, really close. Whoever did this must have been using professional equipment because I don’t remember phones having great cameras back then.

My chest tightens as I realize why the camera is so intent on zooming in on her legs. Her skirt is over her waist. Baring all.

She’s not wearing panties. Christ.

I quickly close the video and try to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Instead, I scroll down to see more results. So many gossip pages, so many forums. Are they all talking about Mackenzie? My stomach twists.

How can I not remember this? The results are from 2007. What was I doing then? I frown, trying to think. I was twenty-four. Mackenzie must have been twenty.

Then it comes to me. I was playing in Sweden that year. On a loan from the Razors. The gossip didn’t make it over the Atlantic.

I turn my phone off. I’ve seen enough. No wonder she changed her name. No wonder she doesn’t want people associating her with her family. One Google search and you’d know her intimately.

And now all I can think about was the way she looked at me when she asked me to do three things.

Like she expected to scare me away.

* * *

MACKENZIE

On the way home from visiting Gramps, I picked up a bottle of wine and an enormous bar of chocolate and I’ve been steadily demolishing them both throughout the night. As soon as I got into the apartment, I showered and changed into my pajamas – and yeah, I put Eli’s hoodie on, too.

It’s warm and it’s comfortable and I need all the comfort I can get.

I told him to Google me. Which means he’ll see that video.

He’ll probably read all the comments, too. And find out that I was supposed to skate onto the ice with the rest of my family to congratulate my dad on getting an award. I hadn’t wanted to do it. But he’d wanted us all there, and I was twenty years old. I felt I was old enough to skate over to meet him.

The lack of panties thing was something else entirely. Unknown to my parents, I was dating a hockey player a few years older than me. He’d asked me to go bare for him because it was sexy, and being the idiot I was, I did it.

It doesn’t matter that it was almost sixteen years ago. Or that I’m a grown woman who’s built a career she loves. When I think of that video, I’m back there in that arena, wanting the guy to love me.

Wanting my family to love me, too.

But instead I had to deal with having my face, and other parts, splashed all over the internet. Not to mention those damn magazines you used to get at the front of the aisle.

Mostly, I don’t think about it anymore. It’s in the past, where it needs to stay. But now and then I see the video getting shared again.

It’s low level gossip. We’re not the Kardashians and it’s not a sex-tape. But it still mortifies me. And if people find out at work, they’ll look at me differently.

Maybe Eli will, too.

I pour another glass of wine and swallow a big mouthful, telling myself that everything’s going to be okay. If Eli’s put off by the video, then this wasn’t supposed to be.

So why does my chest hurt? Why do I want to throw myself on my bed and let the comforter muffle my screams?

The door buzzes, and I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven. I walk to the intercom to see a grainy image of Eli Salinger on the video screen. And my heart does a little leap.

“Hi,” I mumble. Because I can only assume he’s here about the video.

“Can I come up?” he asks through the speaker.

It must be raining outside. His hair is wet and so is his jacket and I know he’s here to tell me that it’s too much. He doesn’t want me anymore.

I press the button to open the door. “I’m on the second floor.”

By the time I slide open all the locks and check my hair in the mirror to make sure it’s not sticking out ten different ways, he’s here. I open the door and he’s standing there, his eyes soft as they meet mine.

He’s definitely seen it. He knows. I wrap my arms around my waist, ready to get it over with and get back to my chocolate.

I should have bought more wine.

“Nice hoodie,” he says.

I look down at my ridiculous attire. I’m wearing short pajamas because my legs always get overheated in bed. But my feet don’t so they’re clad in fluffy socks. On top is his hoodie and although my hair is neat, it’s tied back in a high ponytail like I’m trying out for a role in Grease.

“Come in.” I step aside. “Can I get you a towel?”

He rubs his wet hair. “It’s fine. It only just started when I got out of the car.” He looks at my coffee table. Half-drunk wine and half-eaten chocolates. I must look like a loser.

I take a deep breath. “Okay then, hit me with it.”

“With what?”

“You’ve seen the video, right?”

He nods.

I curl my fingers into my palms, ready for the brush off. “There are jokes. Viral ones. Ice beavers invading the rink have been mentioned,” I tell him. “Beavertown looks colder than I remember is another. I think that one made Letterman.”

“Mac…”

The way he says my name is like a caress.

“You know the worst ones though?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “All the people that accused me of having some kind of relationship with my dad because I fell over and bared it all. That made me feel sick.”

He says nothing. Just looks at me. I feel raw and exposed.

“I don’t usually go around showing my body off. My boyfriend told me it would be hot.” I blink. “Actually, I don’t think he was technically my boyfriend. I thought he was then, but he wasn’t.” There’s no point in explaining it. It was a long time ago and I was stupidly naïve. Just stupid, actually.

But I’ve grown up and moved on. Mostly.

Eli’s lips part. He breathes out. Still saying nothing.

So I keep on rambling. “I guess I’m lucky it happened then. Before Twitter and Instagram were a thing. Before people went viral in a matter of seconds.” I try to smile but my cheeks won’t play ball. “Anyway, so now you know. I’m an idiot who can’t skate for shit and everybody knows what I look like with no clothes on.”

“You were wearing clothes.”

I will not cry. Not over something that’s old history.

“And I don’t know what you look like,” he tells me.

“Of course you do. You saw the video.”

“When I realized what was happening, I turned it off. I barely saw anything.”

“Why?” I don’t understand.

“Because if you want me to see you, you’ll show me. I don’t get off watching somebody get humiliated.”

“You really didn’t watch it all?” I ask, my voice small. Because there were some pretty intense close up shots. The Hair of Beavertown. That was another favorite.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

There’s a little spark of hope in my heart. And a feeling that Eli is a good, good man. A man I want to wrap my body around.

And that’s when I launch myself at him.