Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 11

I flip through the album, and page after page is filled with childhood photos of Cash and Cory—playing hockey, fishing off a dock, swimming at the lake, holding a toad, and playing with friends. A timeline of his life unspooling on the pages. It's strange to see this version of Cash, young and playful and goofing around with his younger brother. I can feel the happy memories pulsing off the pages and see how much they loved each other.

I flip to another page and find a picture of Cash wearing a Tornadoes ball cap on his head, with a Tornadoes jersey over a three-piece suit. He must have just been drafted to the Tornadoes. His arm is wrapped around Cory, and to the left of Cory stands Daniela.

All the air vacuums out of my lungs when I see her in the photograph—frozen in time, celebrating the happiest and greatest moment of accomplishment in Cash's life. She looks stunning, dressed in a slim black skirt, heels, and a dark emerald silk blouse, with long strawberry blonde hair brushed and smoothed down her back. She's young and smiley and proud of Cash. The glimmer of a diamond ring on her left-hand catches my attention. But the way Cory's arm is wrapped around her shoulders makes me question whether her engagement ring isn't from Cash but rather from Cory.

Could Cash have been telling me the truth? Was he in this relationship with Daniela because of his brother? I stare at the photo, and my heart pounds painfully. My eyes blur with unshed tears. I'm reminded just how real she is, how much Cash's past destroyed us, and the reality of his secret relationship with this beautiful girl.

I hear the faucet turn off and the bathroom door open, and then he calls from the hallway, "Quinn?"

His voice startles me, and I panic, flipping the photo album shut, stuffing it back inside the nightstand drawer, and appearing in the doorway. "Yeah?" I shout back.

His shoulders fill a doorway down and across the hall, and I feel oddly unsettled. He's shirtless, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is wet and slicked back, and tiny water droplets trickle down his defined chest and abdomen.

"Are you hungry?" He gives me a dark grin. Leaning against the wall, he says, "I'm thinking I'll run out, grab a few groceries, and make us dinner."

"You'll do no such thing," I scold him.

His expression straightens, and he looks away, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"This is exactly why Dr. Henderson wanted me here," I say, voice firm. "To protect you from yourself. You're supposed to be resting."

"Okay. You're right," he interrupts quietly. He looks back at me, his eyes making the slow circuit of my face. "Why don't we order Chinese take-out? Like we used to."

I feel the reminder of our past sink like a weight in my chest. It will never be the way it was. Cash and I will never be that couple again, and it's hard to accept. There's something so utterly defeating in that. An intelligent woman wouldn't have agreed to seclude herself with an ex-boyfriend who broke her heart for two days; she would've let him hire a home nurse and return to her new life in Boston. But deep down, I know all the reminders—what my heart felt during our once most tender and intimate moments—brought me here.

"No take-out," I say. "I'll run out, grab groceries, and make us dinner. You'll lie down and rest, exactly like Dr. Henderson told you."

"You're a terrible cook," he says quietly, teasing but also not. He's had a fair share of cooking fails from me, including burnt grilled cheese sandwiches and overly salted tomato sauce.

"Can we focus on what to eat, not how terrible of a cook I am?" I ask.

He keeps his steady gaze on me and considers for a moment. "You're going to return with groceries? This isn't some excuse to make a run for it?"