It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (14 page)

His door remained closed, and for a second, Eden’s chest tightened. What if he’d died or been moved? Or . . . awakened?

She pushed it open.

He lay in the bed, still quiet, still breathing, the night pressing through the windows. She went over to him and turned on the bedside light.

A nurse had shaved him, and he looked even younger now. Maybe a teenager.

She dug out a Post-it note from her pocket. Thank you, Officer Kyle Hueston. One call to the Deep Haven police, to her high school pal Kyle, and he’d helped her track down the owner of the Jetta at Frogtown Meats and Deli.

“Is your name . . .” She read the paper. “Zachary Ryan?”

She stared at Doe’s face for any sign of a response. Not that she expected it, but what if
 
—?

She sighed, put the Post-it back in her pocket. Kyle had also provided her with an address, but she’d googled it and discovered another unsavory location in St. Paul.

One where, she could admit, she’d appreciate Jace’s presence if she decided to visit.

But she’d ended any hope of getting Jace to help her last night. And for what?

Her pride. Rightly so, because today at work she’d searched for Jace’s name on Twitter and unearthed a picture from last night.

In the photo, Eden sat, mouth hanging open, staring at Jace and Haylee like she’d stumbled into a tryst. She’d studied it so long that Kendra found her. Studied it with her.

J-Hammer ambushed with date. #nicegirlsfinishlast

“Am I the nice girl?” Eden had asked.

Kendra lifted her shoulder. “Guess it depends on you.”

She looked like the nice girl. And yes, she did finish last. But what if . . . what if she’d stuck around to fight for him?

Don’t push away the people trying to help you.

Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed him away quite so quickly. After all, he’d helped her track down the car. And made her a sandwich. She sat down in the darkness. And then, because she’d done it before, turned on the game. Fast-moving and sharp, the Blue Ox stole the puck, taking it down the ice into the opposing team’s territory.

Jace passed it to Max, but he missed and chased it, the sound of skates and sticks hitting the ice like shots in the arena.

An LA player slammed Max into the boards and dug out the puck, headed back over the blue line. Jace skated close, reached in with his stick, shot it away.

A defenseman recovered it and brought it toward center ice. He shot the puck to Jace, who brought it up, playing with it.

And then, just as she thought he might pass it off to Max, he looked at the net and . . . took the shot.

It bounced off another player and ricocheted through the knees of the goalie, into the net.

Score! She couldn’t help the smile as Jace raised his stick above
his head, his players congregating around him with hugs, pounding him on the helmet.

The Blue Ox were on the board.

Eden shut off the television. Stood. Patted Doe’s leg. “Tomorrow we’re going to find your family. I promise.”

Returning to Owen’s room, she found Ingrid in the hallway, staring out the window. “Mom?”

She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. But she couldn’t hide the stress around her eyes. “Sweetie. Where did you go?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Here in the hospital?”

Eden nodded, not sure if she meant Doe or Jace. Were they friends? Maybe not yet, but . . .

“Well, I wanted to tell you that the doctor is discharging Owen tomorrow morning, and we thought we’d take him home for a few days.”

“I think that’s a great idea, Mom.”

Ingrid touched Eden’s arm. “Could you come up this weekend and get him? Maybe you could spend an extra day?”

“I have some vacation time coming, so I could probably get away. Sure. If Casper leaves the keys to the Charger.”

“I’ll pry them from his hand.”

Eden laughed.

“You know, honey, if you want to bring your new
friend
with you, you can.”

Eden stilled. “My new friend?”

Too much tease settled on Ingrid’s expression. “I believe he plays hockey? With Owen? You two had a date last night?”

Eden’s mouth opened. “What
 
—?”

Ingrid laughed. “You’re not the only one on Twitter.”

“Mom, no, seriously?”

“I’m kidding. Amelia saw it on Owen’s feed. Want to elaborate?”

“It’s nothing. We’re just . . . we’re friends, that’s all.”

Maybe. Sort of.

But for the first time since meeting him, she truly hoped so.

J
ACE COULD BENCH-PRESS
the world today. Especially after scoring twice last night
 
—the last one with four seconds left in the game, another slap shot from center ice. Lucky, but it bounced in past the goalie’s body just as the horn sounded.

Then he’d managed three after-game interviews and even got glad-handed from Graham, who ignored Max to talk to Jace.

Like Jace might be the star.

Yeah, he could take on anyone today. And he probably owed a little of it to Eden. He’d heard her voice in his head in the first period, as he worked the puck toward the goal.
You’ve got a deadly slap shot.

An impulsive shot, but he’d taken it. And played good, hard hockey. Drank in the applause bouncing off the girders and back onto the ice.

Most of all, he’d gone to bed without a migraine. Sure, the reporters wanted to know why he skated away from at least two potential fights, thanks to a couple nasty, in-the-boards checks, and he’d had to ice his knee, but no fines, no injuries. No reason for a team not to take another look at him at the end of the season.

He might get a contract after all.

It almost made up for the emptiness inside when he thought of Eden and the way she’d walked out of his life, the cold front she’d put up between them. He didn’t care or didn’t
want
to care.

But being with her, having her around, made him wonder if they could be friends. Or . . . more. Not the kind who just wanted to show up on the front page with him, but the kind who enjoyed eating grilled cheese sandwiches and watching hockey, maybe even the sort of easy company that didn’t judge.

Except that didn’t sound at all like Owen’s nosy big sister. Maybe he hadn’t been out with Eden Christiansen but some kind of body double.

I like the fighting.
He’d actually confessed that and she hadn’t even blinked. As if . . . as if she might understand. Or at least let him admit the very real fear that he
was
a monster. A beast. He had thought of himself that way for nearly his entire professional career . . . thanks to his fight with Boo.

But for a snatch of time, in her eyes he saw someone different. A man apart from hockey
 
—a man who just wanted to share a sandwich with a pretty girl. A girl who might show up to cheer for him, on and off the ice.

Clearly he had forgotten the part at the end where she fled the bar. Even if he had untangled himself from Haylee, the damage was done.

So even though some fragment of Eden’s voice remained in his
head, he’d have to put her out of his thoughts. She’d never see him as anything but a fighter, a goon.

Jace threw his bag over his shoulder as he exited the building. Still wet from his shower, his hair turned to icy ringlets in the cold breath of January. He’d stuck around long enough after practice today to ice his knee, but he still bore a small limp. He wore his workout clothes
 
—a pair of track pants, tennis shoes, and a team sweatshirt
 
—but he’d left his jacket open, letting the cool air drag down his body temp.

“Jace.”

The figure at the end of the tunnel made him slow as his eyes adjusted to the light. White parka, green hat
 
—

And his heart gave a rebellious jump. “Eden? What are you doing here?”

She sort of shrugged, her face betraying hurt at his words. “Hi.”

But really, what
was
she doing here? Seeing her, looking cute and a little hopeful, dredged up their dismal, silent ride home, and all his happy feelings died.

He put on a scowl and thundered past her. “I thought we were
very different people
.”

She scrambled behind him. “We are. I mean . . . yes, okay, I did say that. But I . . .”

He could hear her voice fading as he lengthened his strides.

“Jace, listen to me. I found the address of John Doe. At least the registration on his car.”

He slowed.

“I . . . I’m sorry. I was hoping you could help me. Just this once.”

He turned. Raised an eyebrow as he slung the bag from his shoulder. “Why? Is it in Frogtown?”

“Um. Sorta? It’s on the north side
 
—”

“You really don’t like St. Paul, do you?”

She lifted a shoulder. Tugged her lip into her mouth. The movement was so adorable and out of character that he stared at her without words.

She came here. For him. To get him. And sure, she needed his protection, but . . .

She came to practice for him.

He shouldn’t like that quite so much. He turned toward his car, flicking the Unlock button on his key fob.

“Jace?”

He opened the trunk. Stood there for a moment. In his periphery, he could see her standing there, now a little fear on her face. Like she cared if he turned her down.

“Get in.” He dumped his bag inside.

“I’m driving Owen’s Charger.”

He glanced at her. “Does he know that?”

She smiled, threw the keys up, and caught them. “Nope.”

“This could be fun.”

She laughed, and it found all his soft, unprotected spaces.

“I’m driving.” He held up his hand, and she threw him the keys.

Yes, this could be very fun. He just had to keep it casual, not do anything stupid, like offer to feed her.

He clicked the fob and found the Charger parked down the row. “Ready?”

She shrugged again. “Just don’t
 
—”

“Crash it? Drive it into a lake?”

“I was going to say get a speeding ticket, but yes, we need to return it in one piece.”

He got into the driver’s seat. The thing still emanated the I-am-new fragrance. Eden slid in beside him.

“Where are we going?”

“The Lake Phalen neighborhood.”

“Right. Okay.” He pulled out and headed north. “So what’s his name?” He shot a look at her. She had dabbed on some lipstick, a little mascara, and it only made her eyes look bigger, luminous. He could very well get lost in them.

“Could be Zachary Ryan, but I don’t know.” She gave a strange, wry laugh. “I went to his room and tried it out on him, but he didn’t wake up.”

“Sad.”

She nodded. He noticed she wasn’t holding the handle. “I caught the game last night.”

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice even.

“Congratulations on your goals.”

“If Owen had been there, he would have scored them.”

“Maybe. But he wasn’t, and you brought in the win.”

He smiled at that.

“And no fights. Or penalties.”

She noticed that, too?

“Can I ask you something?”

He glanced at her. Nodded.

“Are you thinking of quitting because of the migraines? I listened to the pregame last night, and they were talking about it.”

“Who said I was thinking of quitting?” Oh, that didn’t come out right, but she didn’t flinch. Just kept her eyes on him like a reporter. “Off the record?”

She frowned. “Yes. Of course.”

He wanted to believe her
 
—should believe her. So far, she’d
done nothing to betray him to the public. “Okay. Yeah, I get a few headaches, and they’ve gotten worse with every concussion, but it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Jace, I’ve read articles about this. Concussions can lead to brain bleeds
 
—”

“I’m fine, Eden.”

She sighed, still looking at him. “What is it about you hockey players that you always have to prove something?” Then she touched his shoulder. “You need to forgive yourself. It happened, and it doesn’t make you a monster.”

Her words had the effect of reaching in, wrapping fingers around his heart, squeezing. He lost his breath.

“Jace.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t actually believe what the papers write about you, do you?”

He tried to swallow the boulder in his throat.

“Because . . . I don’t.”

He looked at her then, and she was smiling at him. “I think there’s much more to you than that.”

Sheesh, now he felt like crying or something stupid. Because, well, had she forgotten that he told her he liked the fighting? And if that didn’t make him a monster, what did?

He turned onto Payne Avenue. “What was that address?”

She read off the number. “What if you didn’t play hockey anymore? What then? A bar, like Sam’s?”

This was easier, and he wanted to kiss her for the segue. “No. I don’t know. I don’t want to run a bar. Or a restaurant.”

“What about coaching?”

“I had an offer last year to teach some clinics. But they wanted
me to teach kids to fight. Ten-year-olds punching each other? Um, no.” He slowed the car. “We’re in the seven hundreds; keep an eye out.”

“What about announcing? You know everyone in hockey
 
—”

“I’m dyslexic. I can’t read the monitor that fast.”

She made a tiny O with her mouth. “That stinks. Owen has a touch of that too. It’s more common than people realize.”

“Yep. But . . . no, I don’t have anything but hockey. Here it is.” He tapped the brakes and slowed in front of a two-story Sears, Roebuck house with a tiny front porch, one window overlooking the street. A chain-link fence cordoned off the postage-stamp front yard, and a Christmas wreath hung on the front door as if clinging to the season.

“Maybe he lives with his mother?”

“Stay here,” Jace said.

“Hardly. That’s why I brought you
 
—so I don’t have to stay here.”

He glanced at her and found her smiling.

“Kidding.”

Right. Sure. But he got out and came around the car, not caring. Actually, relieved. If he was good for something, it might be exactly this.

She eased open the gate and trudged up the icy sidewalk. He nearly slipped twice but made it to the rickety porch as Eden pressed the bell. It buzzed deep inside the house.

Then Eden gave him a tight, small smile. “If this is Doe’s house, we’ll have to deliver bad news.”

He hadn’t thought about that part.

The inside door shuddered open, shaking the storm door. A young man in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants and a Coldplay
T-shirt eased open the storm door with his bare foot. He looked as if they’d rousted him out of bed, his hair ratted around his head. “Whatever you’re selling
 
—”

“We’re not salespeople,” Eden said. “We’re here because we . . . we’re looking for the family of Zachary Ryan.”

The man gave her a look that made Jace bristle.

“Funny. What, are you here to serve me or something?”

Eden’s mouth opened. “What? No
 
—”

“I’m Zachary Ryan.”

Even Jace had no words.

Finally Eden spoke up. “Did you know your car is sitting in the Frogtown Meats and Deli parking lot? It’s probably already towed
 
—”

“My car is out on the curb, lady.” He nodded past her. “I think you have the wrong person.”

He made to close the door, but Jace caught it. “You have a problem, then, because you’re listed as the owner of a Jetta
 
—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Still?” He let out a blue word. “I sold that thing two months ago, and the guy still hasn’t changed the title.”

“You sold it? To whom?” Eden asked. She glanced at Jace, expectancy in her eyes.

“I don’t know. Some guy. A friend of a friend. I don’t remember his name.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I don’t know
 
—not a big guy. Blond, I think. That’s all I got. Now will you let go of my door?”

“Not until you give me a name,” Jace said.

“What is your deal, dude? It’s not my car
 
—”

“It is your car until the title is changed. And it’s sitting in that
lot, racking up all sorts of parking tickets that you’re going to have to pay.” Jace smiled, this time with teeth.

Another blue word. “Fine. What do you want with this guy?”

“Actually we’re trying to help him. He’s in the hospital, in a coma, and we’re trying to find his family.”

This stole a little steam out of Zachary. He considered Eden a moment, then looked again at Jace. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Probably not,” Jace said quietly.

Zach turned silent. Finally, “Okay. I’ll see if I can find his name. I’ll contact my buddy and see if he knows him. You have a card or something?”

Eden pulled a Post-it note and a pen from her pocket, scribbled something. “Please call me as soon as you find out.”

“Yep,” Zachary said.

“I’ll make sure the police know where to find you,” Jace added, letting go of the door.

“I said I would do it!” Zachary slammed the inside door.

“That was fun,” Eden said.

“But we’re one step closer.” Jace led her back to the car. “I hope your editor likes this story because I have a feeling it’s going to be interesting.”

She tucked her hands between her knees as he pulled away from the curb. “I have to tell you something. I’m not . . . I’m not really a reporter.”

He wasn’t sure how to react.

“I write for the obits department at the newspaper. I’m basically a classified-ad taker.”

He could admit the fact that she wasn’t trying to pry into his life made him breathe better. But
 
—“Why did you say you were a reporter?”