1
This sucked worse than lightning drills. He’d known it would. But knowing it and living it were always different.
Tate Donovan stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his dress slacks, wishing he were on the ice sprinting a succession of laps between the rink wall and the various blue and red lines until he puked.
Around him, Tate’s teammates and their girlfriends or wives or dates had gathered at Dock 5 in downtown Washington, DC, to celebrate the engagement of Rough Riders’ captain, Beckett Cross, and his fiancé, Eden. Also spilling into the warehouse-turned-chic urban event space for the formal dinner were loads and loads of Beckett’s family and friends. Eden was estranged from her own family, but the Crosses had taken her in as one of their own, including Beckett’s six-year-old daughter, Lily—also Tate’s goddaughter.
Lily streaked by in a flash of sparkly purple, making Tate crack his first smile all day.
Isaac Hendrix, Rough Riders right wing, stepped up next to Tate at the bar and ordered another beer, his head swiveling to watch Lily speed past. “She hasn’t stopped running since Beckett put her down when they walked through the door.”
Tate managed a laugh, but his chest ached from an invisible stricture known as PTSD. A unique and wicked strain of PTSD—marriage-and-wedding-related stress. But Lily took the edge off. “Man, she’s going to crash tonight.”
“She’s always been a happy kid, but since Eden and Beckett got together, she’s had an extra spark.”
Tate felt the blade of a knife in his gut, but he kept his fake smile in place and nodded.
He’d always hoped he’d be well on his way to fatherhood by now. But here he was, freaking thirty-one and couldn’t drum up the interest to date anyone. At this rate, he was going to be the oldest father in his kid’s class. If he ever got around to having a kid.
“And speaking of spark,” Hendrix continued, lifting his beer toward a seating area. “Mia and Rafe seem to be lightin’ it up every time I see them.”
Tate glanced that direction and found his sister sitting on his best friend’s lap, her arms around his neck, her forehead against his. Mia and Rafe, not only Tate’s friend since childhood but also a teammate, had been going strong for almost two months. Tate had hated the idea at first. With time, he’d come around to the realization that they made each other ridiculously happy. And Mia’s love for Rafe had brought her to DC, closer to Tate. But that love was also very new and very strong and, for the time being, very exclusionary, reminding Tate he’d lost his two best friends. After losing his wife.
None of which, in the big picture, was as big a deal as it felt in the moment—like a bomb ready to implode in his gut. He’d been dealing with everything fine. Until this. Until tonight. The celebration just pulled the ugliness he’d managed to bury back to the surface. And with it came all the pain, all the anger, all the disillusion.
To snuff the fuse on that bomb, Tate took another deep swallow of liquor and changed the subject.
“Can you believe this place?” He glanced around at the large round tables covered in white linen tablecloths dotting the unfinished cement floor. Strings of fat, bare bulbs had been hung along the exposed beams. Lush white floral arrangements with ornate light fixtures adorned every table, along with formal dinnerware. “Never imagined they could make a big old warehouse look this good.”
“Amazing,” Hendrix said. “Hey, you doin’ okay? I know the divorce was hard on you and all.”
Tate wanted to lie, wanted to tell everyone he was absolutely fine. That he never thought about Lisa fucking other guys in their house, in their bed, while he was on the road getting slammed around on the ice. That he never thought about what those other guys had been doing to his wife when she’d told him she’d been watching the game on television. Or when she’d been talking to Tate on the phone after a game before he fell into a hotel bed, in pain and alone, missing her. Sure as shit never took one hell of a hit to his self-confidence wondering if he fell so short in bed, he’d driven her to find satisfaction elsewhere.
Before his mind could even veer toward the thought of whether or not he’d fucked her after arriving home right after some other guy had just left their house after fucking her…
Oh, too late…
He forced his attention to the family and friends around him. To all the good in his life. To all the people who’d stood by him through the ugly ordeal, and took a deep breath.
“It’s not fun, but I can’t escape reality. People still get married. Have kids. Move on with life. And I love you guys. I want you all to be happy. I’ll find a way to deal with it.”
Tate finished his drink. This might work tonight, but it wasn’t going to work for the long haul. And he was going to have to find a way to cope relatively soon, because he’d agreed to be Beckett’s best man, which meant Tate was going to find himself at a damned altar again. The fact that he wasn’t the one getting married didn’t matter. Just the thought made him go light-headed with anxiety.
He set his glass on the bar. A flash of light caught his eye, and Tate looked toward the entrance. The front of the building was all glass, and as the woman wandered in and out of the lights illuminating the stairs, silver winked through the space.
Tate didn’t need to look at the woman to know she’d be just as beautiful as all the others here tonight. He was one of only a handful of guys who hadn’t brought a d
ate, which meant there were a lot of puck bunnies in attendance.
That thought made Tate ask the bartender for more whiskey.
“Wonder what that’s about.” Hendrix’s comment pulled Tate’s gaze toward the entrance again. Sparkles chatted up the kid they had working security at the door, son of the Rough Riders’ owner.
Tate scraped a cynical laugh from his throat. “Can’t she see he’s under age? Christ, these women. They’ll hit on anything with two legs that even smells remotely like money.”
Matthew had a baby face, but at six-foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds with his father’s stony expression, even Tate knew he looked older than his sixteen years.
“She’s damned hot,” Hendrix said. “Probably lookin’ to crash and score.”
Tate refocused on the woman. On her light hair, pretty face, the way she filled out that dress. “Probably.”