If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(9)

Turns out, that resolution was easier said than done. The past five days since the disastrous family dinner, between practices, conditioning, and diving back into a comfort reread of my favorite fantasy romance series, I’ve been trying—and failing—to figure out what comes next.

I want people to see me differently, but how do I get them to? I know that inside, I have changed. But as I look at my reflection in a shop front’s window glass not far from my apartment, I’m confronted with the fact that on the outside, I really don’t look like I’ve changed at all.

Which is pretty darn frustrating, considering how much I’ve grown in just a few years. Since graduating from UCLA this past spring, after an accelerated three-year track on a full ride, thanks to my grades and my athletic scholarship, I’ve been more independent than ever. I scoured listings fastidiously and—all on my own—secured a sunny studio apartment that’s just a short walk to the beach. I chose my agent without anyone’s input besides Frankie’s, but she’s in the field, so I was only doing my due diligence. I made the starting lineup on the women’s national soccer team, then I signed with LA’s Angel City. I even finally got my driver’s license, after hours of practice in Viggo’s beloved beater, Ashbury.

And yet I still look like that quiet, awkward teenager who left the social nightmare of high school for cyber school and never looked back. The girl who sat at the back row, end seat of every lecture, not wanting to be seen or called on because speaking articulately on the fly is not my strength, and when I feel eyeballs on me anywhere except when I’m on the field, I turn tomato red.

I watch my reflection as a hefty sigh leaves me, before the sound of a cheering crowd draws my attention. Turning toward the noise, I spot an open patio restaurant with TVs playing sports highlights and watch Dodger Stadium erupt at the sight of a home run before footage cuts back to the sportscasters in their newsroom. The late August evening breeze picks up, and with it comes the enticing scent of hot, salty french fries.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten since before practice today. Maybe some food in my stomach will get the creative juices flowing, help me figure out my first step in what I’ve decided to call Project Ziggy Bergman 2.0.

There’s a small two-top nestled in a corner of the restaurant patio that gets some evening sun, and I ask the host for that one. Once I’m seated, I scour the menu before deciding on a grilled chicken sandwich and a plate of fries. At the last second, I order a boozy strawberry milkshake.

Halfway into the boozy milkshake, my chicken sandwich long gone, I drag a fry through a glob of ketchup and stare up at the TV. I am nowhere closer to knowing my first step in Project Ziggy Bergman 2.0.

I am, however, a little tipsy.

Which is the only explanation for why seeing Sebastian Gauthier appear on TV in full hockey gear, soaring across the ice, makes me blush, swift and hot.

Alcohol always makes me rosy-cheeked. It’s a coincidence that the heat from the booze in my milkshake happened to find my face now, when this sports news program started covering hockey phenom Sebastian Gauthier’s fall from grace.

Eyes glued to the screen, I bring the fry to my mouth but pause, watching Sebastian weave past his opponents, the puck so tight on his stick, I’d swear it was glued there. I watch him pass it to Ren, who fakes a shot, spots their teammate Tyler Johnson cutting toward the goal, passes it to him, then cheers when they score. Even though I know this is a replay, even though I’d remember if Ren had been hurt from this, so I can only conclude the hit isn’t going to happen, I can’t help but brace myself as I see a goon from the other team wind up for what promises to be a brutal high stick to my brother’s face, only for Sebastian to skate in, freakishly fast, and shove the guy back, though not fast enough to avoid the hit himself. The stick slams into Sebastian’s face, sending his head snapping back.

The fry drops from my hand, landing with a splat in the ketchup on my plate. I watch blood well from Sebastian’s nose as he shoves the guy hard, then mutters something through his mouthguard that sets off the goon, who starts swinging at Sebastian. A crowd of players builds from both sides, piling into an epic brawl that Sebastian escapes only because my brother grabs him by the collar and yanks him back.

My stomach churns at the sight of thick crimson rolling down Sebastian’s face. I push away my plate of fries and ketchup and swallow back a wave of nausea as the newscasters talk about the high-sticking player, who’s got a reputation for this kind of foul. They talk about him in the same breath as Sebastian, pointing out that Sebastian’s always in the thick of these brawls, too.

And yet. Didn’t they see what I did? Someone who stepped in and protected someone who matters to him? It doesn’t seem so, as they go on about his recent car crash, his broken foot. They call him the names that are the backbone of his terrible reputation: reckless, troublemaker, bad boy.

Bad boy.

Inspiration dawns on me, a lightbulb illuminated on a megawatt ping.

My stomach churns even harder now, but this time it’s not from nausea—it’s from excitement. Heart pounding, I drop enough cash on the table to pay for my meal twice and stand, before rushing out of the restaurant.

It’s not hard to find Sebastian’s address through a quick internet search. Like the rest of the team, he lives in Manhattan Beach, and he’s gotten himself in the news enough that his property’s location is no secret. I put it in my map, make sure I’m headed the right way, then start to power down the sidewalk, destined for the last place I’d ever expect to show up to, let alone unannounced.