The Langfield Brothers: Box Set

53. Aiden

FIFTY-THREE

AIDEN

From the moment we woke up, I knew this would be a bad day.

“Don’t go.”

“Aiden,” Lennox whispers, studying me in the dark. “You have morning skate. You won’t be here anyway.”

I sigh. She’s not wrong, but from the instant she got the message from her family’s lawyer, saying he needed to meet with her, I’ve been suffocating. The lead weight in my chest is making it impossible to get out of bed.

They’re going to tell her she doesn’t need to get married to have access to her trust. She’s going to call off the wedding.

Will I lose her completely? Will she decide that since the marriage is no longer necessary, she’d rather we go our separate ways? Originally, we agreed to a temporary union. That’s it. So why would she stay with me now that she doesn’t have to?

Unless she wants to.

Just as the light is brought into my thoughts, darkness settles again.

Why would she want to? She didn’t want to get married. She was doing this to gain access to her trust. That’s it. Sure, she’s enjoyed the last few months. Lennox makes everything fun. She took a bad situation and was determined to enjoy it. But I can’t forget her one rule. Don’t catch feelings. The rule she knows I’ve completely ignored, because I’ve told her as much.

But she hasn’t told me she’s fallen for me.

I’ve tried to be everything Lennox could ever want, but I’m out of time. If she hasn’t fallen yet, then why would she marry me?

“Of course,” I rasp, forcing a smile.

“And just think,” she says in that light, happy tone that makes even my dark mornings brighter, “tomorrow, I’ll be your wife, and then we can lay in bed together all weekend.”

I cling to that idea—and to the belief that once she has options, she’ll still choose me—and pull her in for a kiss I pray won’t be our last.

When the front door closes behind her, I’m hit with a sense of finality that weighs me down. I need to get up, take a shower, and head to the arena. The music, the team, the feel of my skates against the ice, the sound of it, will ground me and pull me out of this gray funk that I’m drowning in.

I slide my phone off my nightstand, ready to put on my game day jams, refusing to wallow, and stumble upon a text from a number I don’t recognize.

Unknown: Thought you should know you aren’t as irreplaceable as you thought.

Below is a screenshot of a text message. My stomach sinks as I begin to read, and as I go on, it twists and cramps and rolls.

Unknown:

Fuck.

I don’t make it to morning skate. It isn’t until a loud banging startles me that I realize how badly I’ve fucked up.

It’s like wading through mud as I pull myself out of bed and shuffle to the door.

War pushes in without waiting to be invited. “Are you sick?”

With a long breath out, I stumble to the kitchen. I need to have a game-day smoothie and turn this day around. “I’m fine.”

“You didn’t show up for morning skate. Coach is livid.”

I peer into the fridge, searching for ingredients. “You mean my brother is livid.”

Behind me, War scoffs. “I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you, but whatever it is, get over it.”

Shame washes over me. Fuck. Straightening, I roll my shoulders. “Sorry. I will. I just—I needed a few hours.”

“Get your head on straight or sit tonight. Choice is yours.”

“Okay, Captain,” I grit out.

“Stop that shit. I’m here as your friend. If something is wrong?—”

“Nothing is wrong.” I focus on breathing evenly, doing everything I can to ignore the stabbing pain in my chest. “Like I said, just needed a few hours.”

War stares at me, really fucking stares at me, for so long that I almost break down and spill my guts. But just as I’m working up the nerve, he nods and heads for the door.

“Head in the game, Lep,” he shouts over his shoulder. “We need our lucky charm tonight.”

The weight of that title hits me, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs. When the door snicks shut, I crumple to the floor, taking the light with me as I go.

The noise level inside the arena is almost as intense as the pounding in my head.

Lennox texted me that she wouldn’t be back before I had to leave for the game, but that she had big news.

I already know the news, and the dread of it all keeps me from looking for her in the suite where she usually sits with Sara. I waited to hit the ice until the last possible moment, and while I was doing that, I got reamed out by my brother for missing morning skate.

“Being a Langfield doesn’t give you the right to pull that shit. Do it again, and I’ll bench you and put Keegan in.”

I nodded. What the fuck else was I supposed to do? They all know I’m off, but it’s nothing new, I guess. For the last few weeks, I’ve been slower. Sloppier. Like I’m skating through a fog.

It makes no fucking sense. I have everything I’ve ever wanted. I should be happier. That thought only sends me spiraling further.

I take my place at center ice, stick in hand, attention locked on the puck gripped tightly in the ref’s fingers, ignoring the entire line in front of me, including Pochenko, New York’s center, who hasn’t stopped mouthing off since he skated up to the line.

“Figured I’d be facing off against Keegan. This should be easy.”

Ignoring him, I wait for the whistle, and the moment the puck drops, I’m slapping it toward War.

I barely keep my balance when Pochenko shoulder checks me even though I no longer have the puck. With a grunt, I push the asshole away, determined to focus on the game and not the tingling in my fingers.

“Whoop, there it is!” War hollers, signaling our next move.

I lunge to get in position, but when the puck flies my way, I’m three seconds short, and Vincent Lukov takes control of the biscuit.

“Your brothers should have benched ya,” he jeers as he skates by me.

Dots dance in front of my eyes. They only clear when the buzzer signaling a goal for New York rings through the arena.

I’m trying to blink back to reality when War appears in front of me and practically drags me to the boards. “Second line’s coming in. What are you doing?”

In a jerky motion, I jump out of the way so the game can continue.

A water bottle hovers in front of me, so I snatch it and pour it over my face. Despite the frigid temperatures in the arena, I feel like I’ve been in the Sahara for days.

I flex my fingers beneath my gloves, desperate to regain sensation in my extremities, and will myself to focus on the game.

“You okay?” Hall asks from my left.

I nod, though I keep my attention on the ice.

The next period is much the same, though near the end, I’m on a breakaway one second, and in the next, I’m on the other side of the rink, having no memory of scoring a goal.

War and Hall jump on me, jostling me so roughly I nearly tumble to the ice. The crowd is screaming, chanting, though I can’t make out their words.

Gavin slaps me on the back as I come in for the change-out. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Finally, energy surges through me, and breathing comes a bit easier.

Keegan and Camden weave down the ice, and using a technique I taught him last week, Keegan sails the puck into New York’s net. We’re on our feet, screaming, and then it’s back to the center for faceoff.

“Heard about the trade rumors,” Pochenko taunts.

“Fuck you, Potato,” War sneers. “Lep, head in the game.”

“Yeah, listen to your captain,” Lukov sings.

I shake my head, tuning them all out, and blink away the black spots dancing in front of me again.

When the ref drops the puck and I scoop it out from beneath Pochenko’s stick, my toes dig into my skates, powering me forward.

“Slide to the left,” Hall calls.

Following Hall’s command, I send the puck to War on my right and quickly duck as War sends it flying over my head to Hall, who’s now on a breakaway. We’re all rushing down the ice, Lukov on my toes, constantly going for my skates with his stick.

I almost stumble, but I right myself, and with my chest burning, I rush forward again.

“Where’s the fucking penalty, ref?” War shouts from my side.

“Can’t stay up on your skates. Can’t keep a fiancée to save your life,” Lukov taunts as New York’s goalie blocks Hall’s first attempt.

I ignore Lukov, but I’m hit with an intense need to see Lennox. I look to the box where the girls sit, only to find Sara, Hannah, and Ava sitting side by side. No Lennox.

My head swims, and dread builds, weighing me down.

Of course she’s not here. Why would she be? Her father told her he’d turn over the trust. She doesn’t need you.

I’m still skating forward, but the play in front of me is nothing but a blur.

“Lep,” War calls, that single word far away and garbled.

Then I’m hit from behind and crumpling to the ice. And finally, I welcome the darkness.