If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(92)

“Too much,” she whispers.

I peer up at her, searching her face. “Too much?”

She nods.

“Ziggy—”

Her snore is soft and sweet. It makes me smile, torn. What does she mean, she misses me too much? That it’s too much to ask, this friendship, this…dynamic, while I’m busy with the season? I want to shake her awake and ask her, but to what end? So she can tell me something that will crush me? So I can ask her for something I’m not prepared to give?

Slowly, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her palm, featherlight. Then I set it down on the bed and clasp it, stroking her warm satin skin.

“I’m too selfish to ask you to stop missing me, Ziggy,” I tell her quietly. “So…please don’t stop. Please hang tight. Just hang in there for me. I promise, I’m trying. Okay?”

She sighs, a soft smile lifting her mouth. “Kay.”





Breathing heavily, I’m bent low as I glide across the ice, not because I’m winded, but because I’m pissed and trying not to lose it. I’m pissed because we’re losing. I’m pissed that my asshole absent father decided, now that I’ve cleaned up my act and I’m having the best season of my career, that he’s interested in being in my life, despite my telling him he can fuck right off until further notice, and he’s at my game tonight, like he has been a handful of other times the past few months, watching me up in that fancy box with the owners, laughing and schmoozing them, acting like they’re best fucking buddies, all so proud of me; like he’s had anything to do with me getting where I am, except for dumping half his hockey-inclined DNA into my makeup, then splitting when he got bored.

I’m pissed because it’s been six months since that night I tucked in Ziggy after my birthday party and begged her to wait for me while I got my shit together, and it’s felt like six years, for how hard I’ve worked to make myself good enough.

I still don’t feel good enough.

I’m pissed about how much self-restraint it’s taken, keeping my hands and lips off of her, keeping my mouth shut so I don’t say what I’m dying to say too soon, before the time is right.

And I’m really fucking pissed that it’s been three weeks since I’ve last seen her. Between a rough stretch of away games and Ziggy’s schedule, which has taken her around the country, doing publicity with the National Team and as an ambassador for Ren’s charity, of which she is now a partner along with Oliver’s boyfriend, Gavin, and her sister-in-law, Willa, who’s also a professional soccer player, we haven’t done more than text or talk on the phone.

I miss her so damn much. Just like she said that night—too much.

Seeing her whenever I can, doing angry yoga together, grabbing breakfast, taking a quick road trip while she drives her favorite car of mine to a new bookstore, joining Bergman Sunday dinners whenever I’m home, have been the crumbs sustaining me over the past six months.

The past three weeks without her, however, the only thing holding me together has been talking and texting with her while traveling with the team, driving home, in my hotel rooms after tough games and tougher virtual sessions with my therapist, and hockey—the physical relief of pushing myself so damn hard on the ice, I have nothing left when I collapse into bed afterward. But it’s getting harder to hold back that cold fury that used to settle into my veins when I played, when unresolved anger and pain pulsed through me, screaming for release.

I breathe out again, the way my therapist taught me, and pick up my head, receiving the puck from Tyler’s win at the faceoff, then flying down the ice. Seattle’s defenseman charges toward me, and I fuck around with him because I can, leading him right as I swing my stick wide with the puck, then pulling it across me, faster than he can blink, and shooting.

Seattle’s goddamn goalie saves it, though, and I grit my teeth, skating away, frustrated as I chase after another Seattle defenseman, who powers up the ice with the puck. He passes it center ice to his forward, who works the puck past our guys, then dumps it to a Seattle forward who shoots and sends the puck right over Valnikov’s shoulders, into the net.

I growl in the back of my throat as the buzzer blares and the light flashes red, skating back to center ice, breathing heavily, shutting my eyes as I try to hold it together.

And then that prickle at the back of my neck makes me stop dead. I straighten, then turn, glancing over my shoulder, right into the stands. I don’t make eye contact with fans. I’m generally too hyper-focused on the game to even remember there are people around, watching us. But tonight, I look exactly where that sixth sense tells me to, the second row, halfway down the rink toward Seattle’s goalie, where we’ve been attacking two out of the three periods.

And then my heart does something terrifying. I swear to God it just stops, for a second, like a hiccup in my chest.

Ziggy.

She’s…here.

I blink at her, stunned. And then this…warmth spreads, right from the heart of me, out to every inch of my body, like she’s the sun and just seeing her, drinking her in, has lit me up, head to toe.

She tips her head, a little furrow in her brow. Her smile slips.

Probably because I’m staring at her like a dipshit, wide-eyed, stunned, instead of smiling at her, waving, doing a damn thing to show her how happy I am to see her, how far beyond pleasantly surprised I am that she’s here.