On the Line Read online

  “I have an amazing life, thank you very much,” my brother counters. “I’m just making sure you do too.”

  I put my Kindle down in my lap, stretch out on the porch swing and inhale the cool, salty night air. “Yes, Sebastian, my life is good. Just like it was last week when you called. And the week before that. And the week before that.”

  Sebastian and I haven’t always been close, but we were essentially inseparable when I lived in Seattle. When I decided to transfer to San Diego with the lawyer I worked for, he was supportive but concerned. Even though he’s my younger brother, he’s always acted like a protective older one, which is why he calls me so much. I know he’s just worried about me because I haven’t lived away from a support system—from him—since I got out of rehab.

  I loved being around Sebastian—he’s a friend as much as a sibling—but Seattle was never really my dream home. I’d fantasized about California since I was a kid, so when my lawyer announced he was transferring and offered me the chance to go with him, I decided I had to take it. It was also a chance to stand on my own two feet without the safety net of my brother being just a ten-minute drive away.

  “Did you enroll in the design certificate program you were telling me about?”

  “Yeah. I’m jumping in with both feet, taking two classes this semester,” I explain, and I feel a rush of excitement I haven’t felt for any kind of school before.

  “You know if you wanted to quit your job and be a full-time student, I would pay your way,” Sebastian says casually, like it’s no big deal for him to support his adult sibling.

  But it is. And I can’t let him do it again. He already supported me while I got my GED and my first online degree. “I know, but I like online classes and doing it in my spare time.” Interior design really excites me, and this is something I really want to do for myself.

  He seems to accept that answer because he changes the subject. “How’s the roommate situation?”

  “Good. Even better than I expected, actually,” I confess, and I feel relief when I say it.

  I’ve never had a roommate before, so I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out. Maddie is a legal secretary at the firm where I work. I met her my first day in the San Diego office. We really hit it off at work and even went to drinks and dinner a couple times in the first two weeks I was here. When I told her I still hadn’t found a place to live and that I wanted to be as close to the beach as possible, she mentioned that she lived in a two-bedroom place by the beach on Coronado Island and that her roommate had just moved to San Francisco. She invited me over to check the place out and I fell instantly in love. It was an old semidetached cottage that had somehow escaped being torn down by a developer. She said the owner didn’t want it turned into condos but, unfortunately, he also didn’t want to spend a lot of money maintaining it. It was drafty and out of date but it was only half a mile from the beach, and when it got quiet late at night you could hear the waves. I loved it. “She’s out on a date tonight. With Ty.”

  “Really?” Sebastian sounds shocked, which I expected. Ty Parsons is a hockey friend of his who plays for the San Diego Saints.

  Last month when I moved, Ty came over to see if I needed anything. Turns out he lives just around the corner—in an oceanfront million-dollar condo. He met Maddie that night, and I could tell he was attracted to her. She was cheerful and sweet, with long ash blond hair, wide brown eyes, sun-kissed freckles and giant boobs. He asked her for her number that night, and now they were on a dinner date.

  “Yeah. He better not wreck her,” I mutter, and Sebastian laughs. “What? I like her. I don’t want her hurt, and I don’t want her blaming me because I introduced them.”

  “Maybe he’s got noble motives,” Seb counters.

  “Didn’t you say he used to be your wingman at the Olympics?” I say, rocking the porch swing as I reach for the blanket I brought out earlier and pull it up over my legs. I swear I could sleep out here, it’s so peaceful.

  “Not all hockey players just want to get in a girl’s pants.” He chuckles. “And speaking of hockey players not interested in sex, have you seen the news?”

  “No. I’ve been happily out of the loop today. Why?”

  He pauses. “Westwood signed with the Saints.”

  I sit up, the swing rocking violently under me thanks to my abrupt movement. I almost fall off of it. “What? The Saints? As in San Diego?”

  “Yeah. He’s moving to San Diego,” Sebastian confirms. “It’s all over the news, but I had to call him myself to confirm it, because it’s like the last team I thought he would sign with. They suck.”

  “He’s moving here?” I repeat, and stare out at my quiet little street. “He confirmed that?”

  “Yeah, he did. I have no fucking idea what he’s thinking.”

  “He said it was between Los Angeles and Manhattan. He said that the whole point of a new team was to be in a larger market with more access to endorsement deals.” It’s exactly what Avery told me in Maine last June. “He never mentioned San Diego.”

  “Yeah, we’re all pretty stunned,” Sebastian says, and sighs. “You know Westwood, though. He doesn’t exactly like to share his thoughts. But he said it’s what he wanted.”

  My heart feels like it’s been replaced with a hummingbird. Am I having a panic attack? No. I’m not panicked. I’m just…startled? Yeah, I’m startled. And I’m…excited? I don’t want to be excited. Being excited over Avery is not a good idea. Besides, it’s not like I’ll see him just because he’s here in the same city as me.

  “I gave him your number,” Sebastian announces.

  “Why?” The question flies out of my mouth too loud and too blunt.

  “What? Is that a big deal?” my brother asks, confused. “You guys were friends here. I mean you got along when we all hung out, right? And he doesn’t have any friends in San Diego yet.”

  “He’s going to have a whole team of friends.”

  “Are you crazy?” Sebastian scoffs. “He’s the best player in the league: everybody hates him. It’s going to take a while to bond with them. I didn’t want him all alone.”

  Something hits me and I say, “Alex is here, isn’t he? And they got along when they both played in Seattle, right? He can be Avery’s friend.”

  Sebastian’s deep rumble of a laugh fills my ear. “Larue? Yeah he’ll be an ally in the locker room, but what about the rest of the time? Avery’s not exactly going to go pick up chicks with Rue, which is Alex’s only hobby.”

  Alex Larue has bounced around from team to team every couple of years. He is a grinder on the ice, gets the job done, but there is nothing flashy or pretty or particularly skilled about it. He likes to say his claim to fame is he leads the league in sleepovers.

  “Right. Avery doesn’t date,” I remind myself as much as my brother.

  “Actually, he did date someone this summer,” Sebastian tells me.

  It’s another jolt of surprise. I feel like my brother is a human defibrillator and he just keeps zapping me with one shocking announcement after another.

  “He has a girlfriend?” Why is my voice so unsteady?

  “Apparently. I heard a rumor anyway, but when I asked him about it, he said it was over.” He pauses. “So anyway, is it a problem? Can you hang out with him?”

  “No. Yeah. It’s fine. I’m just surprised, I guess, that he’s coming here at all.” The wind picks up, and I’m suddenly chilled, so I grab the blanket and my Kindle and head inside. “When does he get here?”

  “Well, training camps start next week, so probably like tomorrow or the next day,” Sebastian says, like it’s not a big deal. But my already racing heart picks up speed. “So be nice if he calls you. Remember, he needs a friend.”

  “Okay,” I promise, and I can only hope that’s all he needs.

  We talk about the vacation Sebastian just took with his girlfriend, Shayne, and some other mundane stuff, and then he tells me he’ll call me on the weekend and hangs up. I fold the blanket ove
r the back of the couch and head upstairs to my room.

  Avery is coming to San Diego? Seb was right; that didn’t make sense. New York or L.A. would have sold their souls to acquire him. And I knew that’s where his overbearing, micromanaging dad/business manager wanted him to go. San Diego is a new team—an expansion team—and has only been in the league for four years. They are fighting to steal some of L.A.’s fan base, and it is a struggle because they haven’t been doing all that well. They haven’t made the play-offs yet. Why would the best hockey player on the planet sign here?

  The truth is I don’t want Avery Westwood in San Diego. San Diego is my place to start something new, and Avery is the past. It wouldn’t be that big a deal if I’d been able to stop thinking about the last time I saw him, at Jordan and Jessie’s wedding. Before that wedding Avery had been a comfortable but distant acquaintance. He lives behind a façade—a fake personality built for the media and sponsorships—and I don’t know a single person who could say they were part of his inner circle because he doesn’t have one. Even his close friends think he’s an island unto himself.

  Then that weekend of the wedding he dropped the façade with me. He was funny and sarcastic and opinionated and charming. So damn charming. Seventy-two hours after he showed up for the wedding, I found myself on the verge of kissing him. And even though I haven’t seen him since that night, which was almost three months ago, I still feel if he let his guard down like that again, and kept it down, I might develop a hell of a crush on him.

  Physically, that makes perfect sense. He is all tall, dark and muscles. Seriously, he is built more like an MMA fighter than a hockey player. He has thick, almost black hair with a bit of a wave to it and incredible copper-brown eyes framed by dark expressive brows and a perfect roman nose. He also has the sexiest, prettiest wide mouth, and sometimes it flashes the most panty-wetting, mischievous smile I have ever seen. Sadly, I’ve only seen it a couple of times because he isn’t much on smiles…or happiness in general. And now I know Avery is charming, too, when he lets himself be.

  But letting myself develop a crush on Avery Westwood would be the equivalent of psychological napalm. He is off-limits in so many ways it is almost impossible to count.

  Chapter 2

  Stephanie

  He’s sitting on a wooden bench outside the Hotel del Coronado, where he’s staying. I can’t believe he called me. I never thought he’d risk being seen in public with a lone female—especially if he has a girlfriend, and especially the way the media picks up on any scent of a personal life. But he wants me to help him look at apartments.

  He doesn’t see me coming, so I can take him in without looking like a gawking weirdo. He’s got aviators on and a baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair while he stares at the ocean sipping from a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf cup.

  I don’t know why, but it feels like there’s a hummingbird trapped inside my stomach. I try to quell the feeling by reminding myself he’s the same uptight hockey jock he usually is—hiding from the world under shades and a hat but still sitting upright with perfect posture like a Boy Scout in case someone snaps his picture, and probably sipping an organic tea with free-range milk so his drink doesn’t offend anyone.

  That thought steadies me, and as I reach him I bend down and pull off his hat. His head snaps up, but he breaks into a smile as soon as he sees me. “Hey! Steph!” He’s on his feet and pulling me into a hug before I can blink.

  It’s startling to be hugged by him. He’s never, ever hugged me before. I don’t think I’ve seen him hug anyone except on the ice with his teammates after a win or a big goal. It’s like having a brick wall embrace you, except he’s warm and smells way more appealing than bricks and mortar.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, throwing me for another loop. “California agrees with you.”

  “Thanks. It’s the sunshine,” I say as awkwardly as possible for some reason, and then make it weirder by stepping back and pointing at the sky, like he doesn’t know where sunshine comes from.

  He smiles again, unbothered by my weirdness. “It’s definitely different from Seattle.”

  I nod and hold his hat up between us. “And you don’t need to hide here, Avery. It’s not as rabid a fan base as Seattle. No one will recognize you.”

  He looks skeptical. And concerned. He’s comfortable hiding. It’s annoying but also really sad when you think about it. Does anyone really even know this guy? I take the hat and put it on my own head, which must look ridiculous, because I’m in a pretty little sundress and wedge sandals—nothing you would normally pair with a baseball cap.

  He shoves his hands deep in his pockets as we walk. His shoulders kind of hunch forward, too, because he’s still trying to hide, even without the hat. Oh, God, this boy…

  “So where are we headed?” I ask, and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, looks something up and hands it to me. It’s an email with a list of addresses for rental apartments. All of them are located here on Coronado Island, which doesn’t surprise me because most of the Saints live here. “Okay. We’re right near the third place on the list. Wanna start there?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  As we veer off the walking path and onto a side street, he asks me “Typical Avery” questions: How was my summer? How’s my job going? He even remembers the name of my boss, which I told him once while we ran together in Seattle. He was listening. Wow. My own brother doesn’t remember my boss’s name, and they’ve met each other. After his tenth question aimed at me, though, I decide it’s time I do the asking.

  “So I heard you had a girlfriend this summer,” I start casually. I can literally see his body tense. “Will she be joining you here?”

  He shakes his head tersely. We pass a group of guys on skateboards, heading toward the ocean. They look up at us but no one stops; no one even blinks. I nudge Avery’s shoulder with my own. “See, no one screaming your name. No one asking to take a picture or an autograph or tossing you their bra.”

  He laughs at that. It’s a great sound. It soaks into me, warms me and makes me smile back. “No one ever threw a bra at me. I’m a hockey player, not a rock star.”

  “Same difference to Canadians, right?”

  “Maybe,” he replies with a grin. “Still, no bras.”

  We turn another corner. We’re half a block from the beach. I stop and take his phone from him to double-check the address again. I glance up and point. “Your first potential palace, Hockey King.”

  He rolls his eyes and holds the tiny gate open for me. I haven’t been alone with a guy in a long time so I can’t remember the last time a guy held a door or gate for me. It feels nice. I lead our way up the tiny path to the town house. It’s similar to what I expected to see when looking at places with Avery. Spacious, with state-of-the-art appliances and renovated bathrooms. This place is three bedrooms, two floors, with a decent-sized backyard. I like it, but he seems unimpressed. The rental agent who shows us around really tries to sell him on it, but Avery just smiles politely and says he’ll be in touch after he’s seen the other options.

  As we walk back toward the ocean for the second rental, I ask him again about the girlfriend and if she’ll be visiting soon. He almost frowns and then gives me a standard media-friendly Avery answer. “I ended it a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t serious.”

  “That’s a lie,” I reply flatly, and my bluntness throws him off because he stutter-steps and comes to a stop. I turn and look him in the eye, my appearance glaring back at me in the mirrored lenses of his aviators. I don’t look like a total dork with his baseball cap on, which I forgot I was wearing. “You’ve never let anyone see you in public with a girl or called anyone your girlfriend, but you did with her. That’s serious.”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he points to the high-rise just over my shoulder. “That’s the other place, right? I recognize it from the listing picture.”

  “Nice avoidance tactic, Westwood, but I’m on to your bullshit,” I reply as he walks by me towa
rd the condo. “I’m not going to let you treat me like a member of the press.”

  “I wouldn’t be touring potential homes with you if you were a member of the press,” he reminds me as he presses the apartment number on the intercom outside the front door.

  “Then talk to me with real words—ones you mean, not ones you want me to hear.”

  The door buzzes and he opens it. As I walk past him into the lobby, he puts a hand on my lower back. It feels intimate, and even though his touch is fleeting and his hand is back at his side by the time we reach the elevator, the warm feeling it creates in me lingers. As the elevator doors close on us and we make our way up to the twenty-fifth floor, he turns to me, pushing his aviators up on his head so his eyes, which are a swirl of colors like caramel sauce on a melting chocolate sundae, bore into me. “I wanted serious. I tried serious. In the end, I didn’t feel serious enough about her. Not the way I know I could about someone else, so I ended it.”

  “So we’re back to celibacy?” I can’t help but ask, even though it’s really none of my business.

  “It didn’t work out with her,” he corrects me. “But I still want a serious relationship.”

  I almost ask him with who, which is ridiculous. But for some reason it doesn’t feel like he’s saying it in a general way. It sounds like he has something—someone—specific in mind. Of course he doesn’t, but even if he does, it’s not my business. The fact that he just gave me a real answer about something personal is a miracle. I need to shut up and be grateful for that.

  A hefty, squat man in a badly fitting suit opens the door to the apartment at the end of the hall and smiles brightly. “Mr. Westwood! Wait till you see this place. It’s amazing.”

  He wasn’t lying. This is exactly the type of place where I would expect Avery to live. A two-bedroom, two-bath condo with marble counters and hardwood floors and a massive balcony with unobstructed ocean views. If I could afford it, I’d take it in a heartbeat. Avery doesn’t, though. He tells this rental agent the same thing he told the last one. As we walk back out into the sunshine, I tell him he’s crazy.