Excerpt 1
Hours later, after the call to the hockey training facility, I finally sink to my bunk, the leather-bound book in my hands. I stare down at the journal, flipping it from front to back. Why am I so drawn to it? Hell, right now, I really am feeling like fucking Gollum with the One Ring.

This holds someone’s personal, most private thoughts. Yet I trace the Celtic tree of life emblem on the front, then toy with the leather string wrapped around it. The longer I hold it, touch it, the stronger the curiosity stirs inside me.

It’s wrong to pry. Wrong to even consider opening the cover and . . .

Dammit.

Even as the . . . ickiness writhes inside me like a pissed-off nest of snakes, I loosen the strap and slowly open the journal. There’s no name on the inside flap or on the first page where it’s typed This journal belongs to . . . with a line for the identification of the owner. Conversely, that makes me feel an iota better about violating this faceless and nameless person’s privacy.

Or I’m just trying to justify what I’m about to do.

What I can’t seem to stop myself from doing.

Slowly, as if I’m opening a box of precious treasure, I flip to the first page.

August 2

Dear Kendra,

Goddamn, I feel so stupid even writing that. You know I don’t do this shit. The most I’ve ever written was a grocery list the one and only time you let me go shopping by myself. And we both remember how that turned out. A $500 bill and a shit ton of beer and beef jerky. But here I am, writing in a journal of all things. The therapist your father insisted I go see gave me this as homework. And if I want to keep seeing the ice, I have to cooperate. Apparently, I have an anger problem that’s not getting any better. Your father better be glad he’s not just my in-law but the owner of my team or else I’d tell him and the therapists to go fuck themselves. Yeah, sorry. I know that’s your dad.

Well, since I have to do this and you’re the only person I want to talk to, I’m writing this shit to you. Besides, as crazy as it sounds, I swear I can hear you in my head. And I feel closer to you. Like you’re here right next to me. I said it sounded crazy, right?

I don’t have anything to say.

Except.

Except I miss you. I miss you like fucking crazy, sweetheart.

And I need you.

August 8

Dear Kendra,

Last night I dreamed about you.

It was so real. You still wore that peaches and cream body lotion. Your voice, smile, touch—they all were the same. And even though I was holding you again, talking to you again, a part of me knew that it was a dream. That I had to take advantage of this time with you while I had it. But even knowing that, I woke up reaching for you. And the pain of patting those cold, empty sheets sent pain through me all over again. As sharp as if you’ve been gone two days instead of two years. I lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. Like the pain, the grief were physical weights pressing me into the mattress, smothering me.

For a moment, Kendra, I thought the unthinkable.

I wanted to follow you.

Shit, I can only admit this here, to you.

I haven’t had those thoughts since the days right after you left. Why is it so hard for me to say “died”? I can’t. Even years later, I can’t say it out loud. Because it makes you being gone so fucking final. As if death isn’t. And yet, I haven’t said it in two whole goddamn years.

Which makes no fucking sense, right? If I want to follow you there, I should have the balls to say the words. I can hear you cursing me out for even thinking about it. You were always the bravest out of the two of us. I might fuck people up on the ice for a living but you? You were the one who was fearless, rushing into life, enjoying the hell out of it. Forcing me to go along for the ride.

I can’t fucking do this without you, Kendra. I don’t want to.

But we have Khalil.

He’s my lifeline, my saving grace. I hate to put that kind of pressure on a five-year-old kid, but I swear, if it wasn’t for him, I don’t know . . .

Sometimes I believe . . . Shit, I feel ridiculous for even saying this. But sometimes I believe you somehow knew you wouldn’t be here, so you gifted me with him. I will always have a piece of you here as long as I have him.

Yeah, I’m done after that.

I’m out.

I don’t stop reading until the last entry. I close the leather cover, my heart slamming against my rib cage, pumping hurt, anger, and sadness through my veins. 

At some point, I realized the identity of the book’s owner.

Solomon Young.

 

Excerpt 2
“Oh fuck.” I groan, squeezing my eyelids together. But when I open them, the person approaching the house with two bouquets of roses in his arms is still there. 

Ma, what the hell?

He isn’t familiar to me, but then again, he is. I don’t need to have met this man before to understand who he is and why he’s here. I’ve met about eleven of them before in the last year. He makes a clean dozen.

“Oh, good, Kyle. You made it,” my mother announces from the porch behind me, as if we all can’t see Kyle standing there. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Ma descends the front steps, a wide smile stretched across her pretty face. She might be able to pass for my older sister or younger aunt, but I can never forget this is the woman who birthed and raised me. And right now, it’s only my respect and love for her that’s keeping me from demanding What the fuuuuck?

’Cause a bitch is tired of Viviane Wright playing the Millionaire Matchmaker. Sans the millionaire.

“Oh, we have another guest.” Ma glances at me, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited someone else to dinner? Hi.” She stretches out a hand toward Solomon. “I’m Viviane Wright, Adina’s mother. And you are?”

I snort, and Solomon cuts a look at me even as he accepts Ma’s hand, shaking it.

“I’m Solomon Young. A . . . friend of your daughter’s.”

“The Solomon Young?” Kyle grows animated like a live-action cartoon. “Oh my God, I knew you looked familiar. Wow. I can’t believe this.” If he held up a sign with I <heart emoji> #19 painted on it, I wouldn’t have been more stunned.

Ma shifts her attention back to me, a little furrow wrinkling her forehead. I shrug.

“I’m sorry, I hate to sound rude,” she says. “But should I know you?”

“Only if you’re an NHL fan, ma’am.” Solomon dips his chin. “I play for the Pirates, Providence’s team. But I understand if I’m not familiar to you. Adina informed me you’re more football fans than hockey.”

I almost snort again, but as if he’s read my mind once more, he slides a don’t-get-fucked-up glance my way, and I huff out a breath.

And squeeze my thighs. Because goddamn. That was hot as hell.

“Ah, okay. Well, that’s ni—”

“Can I get a selfie?” Kyle cuts Ma off, already dipping inside of his dark-blue sports coat and emerging with his cell in hand. “Do you mind? Your arms are longer.” He passes the phone to Solomon with a wide grin. He’s not lying; Kyle isn’t a short man, but Solomon is a damn giant. I might’ve looked up his stats: six feet, four inches and two hundred and thirty-five pounds. “That’s awesome. Thank you, Solomon.” Kyle cheeses as if they’re pals.

Though that stoic, slightly menacing mug remains on his face, Solomon does take the phone, and snaps a couple of shots.

“Oh man.” Kyle shakes his head, fingers flying over his phone. “I have to post these now. No one would ever believe me.”

This whole thing has taken a sharp turn into the surreal. And by surreal, I mean the what-the-fuck-is-happening-here zone.

Ma clears her throat. “Uh, Kyle. Kyle?” She calls his name again, and this time, his head pops up, a grin still lighting up his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Wright.” Chagrin seeps into his expression, and he tucks his phone away again. “I just got a little”—he waves a hand toward Solomon—“excited.”

“Yes, I see,” she murmurs. “Can I introduce you to my daughter?”

“Of course. My apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mother speaks very highly of you. If I may?” He lifts the forgotten-for-a-selfie bouquets in his hand. “These are for you.” He passes one to Ma and then extends the other to me. “And these are for you. Your mother didn’t lie. You’re as beautiful as she said.”

Nope.

Uh-uh.

Not today, Satan.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure Kyle is a nice guy. I mean, my mother loves me, so she wouldn’t try to fix me up with a douche. But every man she has invited to a family dinner just isn’t my type. I can’t even identify what my type is, but it’s not the parade of guys she’s wined, dined, and offloaded on me.

You don’t know your type, huh?

The bitchy voice in my head pipes up.

And without my permission, my gaze slides over to Solomon. Arousal throbs low in my belly, thumps in my sex.

“Dina.” Ma elbows me in the side, and I mouth ouch to her.

Right. The flowers.

As I take them, Kyle smiles bright, and his regard dips down, lingering on my breasts, hips, and thighs.

Okay, no.

I can’t. I just can’t.

“Thank you, Kyle.” I beam at him, and though Kyle’s smile brightens, Solomon stares hard at me. Taking the flowers, I sidle over to Solomon until I’m standing next to him. He stiffens, but I don’t let that stop me from switching the bags over to the same one grasping the flowers and sliding my now free arm through Solomon’s. “But I think my boyfriend might have an issue with another man giving me flowers.”

“The fuck?” he hisses.