If ever there was a contradiction, David was it. He presented a fierce and violent presence on the ice, but with her he was warm, caring, and understanding. He personified the dumb jock in interviews, giving short, clichéd answers, but in reality he was intelligent and articulate. The most remarkable thing was this man, who had the most beautiful young women ready to throw themselves at him, was with her—a middle-aged divorcée with custody problems and a pending nervous breakdown.
She glanced outside again and saw the newspaper on the front stoop. She figured a cup of coffee and the paper was a good way to pass the time while David slept. He had another game that night and had to be at the arena around ten for a morning skate, which meant he still had a couple of hours to sleep.
Grabbing his robe, Kate headed downstairs so he could rest.
*
In the daylight, she could see that the kitchen opened onto a deck that led into a small yard. The house was the biggest surprise. She never expected him to have such a refined home. Everything was tasteful and classic. There were few frills, nothing trendy, and only one flat panel TV that she could see in the whole house.
His den gave her the clearest picture into his personality and his history. There were some pictures of his family, and one of him and some of his teammates when he played hockey for Canada in the last Olympics. But the most dramatic thing about the room was that it was filled, floor to ceiling, with books. All of her titles were there, which she found flattering, as well as volumes of history, philosophy, and literary fiction. He wrote notes in the margins; as she flipped through a copy of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, she marveled at his insights. His degree from Boston College hung proudly on the wall, from which she discovered that David earned a B.A., summa cum laude, in history. This man who cracked heads on a nightly basis was a deep thinker, a scholar, and most definitely an enigma.
Who knew?
She washed the dishes from the previous night, made herself a cup of coffee, and sat down with the paper. The news was depressing, as usual, and after getting her fill of national and international tragedies, she went to the local section. A little fashion, some gossip, and local news was how she normally offset the global problems in the main section.
This time, however, the gossip page made her feel like she’d been hit by a bus. A fairly good sized picture of David and her former student, Chelsea, was front and center. The image was disturbing enough. He had his arm around her as they walked along a city street. They looked like they were in a conversation—a perfect, happy, plastic couple. But what really had Kate ready to snap was the caption:
“Local celebutante Chelsea Connor may have snagged the ultimate prize in Philly’s most eligible bachelor, David Burke. The word is a summer wedding is planned.”
Kate closed her eyes and let it all sink in. It didn’t make sense, but when did her life ever make sense? She gazed at the picture and felt a tightness around her heart, which made her run her hand across her chest. It physically hurt to look at the picture and think about what it might mean. It was the same feeling she had when she saw them together that morning in New York. It was humiliating, and while Kate knew she should talk to him about it—he’d probably be able to explain it—she just couldn’t. Kate didn’t want to have to ask questions; she didn’t want to have to wonder about the people in her life. If David was engaged, everything she’d hoped for, everything he’d let her believe, meant nothing. Even if he wasn’t engaged, he and Chelsea were obviously enough of a couple that such speculation wasn’t a complete reach.
Which meant David would never really be hers.
Sobs caught in Kate’s throat as flashes of last night played in her mind like a cruel movie. The way he touched her, the things he whispered to her in the dark, made her believe there might be a future. Now all she wanted to do was get away from the reality the picture in the paper forced her to accept. He was a ladies’ man, a player, and expecting him to change was foolish. If it wasn’t Chelsea on his arm, there would be someone else. This was who he was, and nothing short of a miracle would get him to change.
Young women, beautiful women, women without stretch marks, spider veins, and teenage children were the ones David would really want. Kate was never going to fit into his life and she had to get out now, before the damage to her heart was irreparable.
She tiptoed into the bedroom, gathered her clothes, and stopped to look at him sleep. The pain she felt, the feeling of inadequacy, was all too familiar. He hadn’t been honest with her, and after what she’d gone through with Richard, that was something she couldn’t forget. David was peacefully asleep, peacefully unaware, as Kate left the room and faced the fact she might never be able to fully trust anyone again.
*
David awoke hoping to wrap himself around Kate, maybe make love to her again before he had to be at the arena, but instead found he was alone in bed. It wasn’t the way he wanted to wake up. Rolling onto his back, he thought about her, about how being with her had changed him.
They’d talked about everything. His family, his job, her job, her divorce, her daughter. They laughed, they made love, and a couple of times he’d held her while she cried. He knew more about her than he did about people he’d known for years. This was what people meant when they talked about soul mates—finally he understood.
He got up and when he looked around his room, he realized her things were gone. Her lingerie, dress, and shoes were no longer on the chair in the corner of the room. Strange. The house was eerily quiet, and David had the sense something had gone very wrong, very quickly.
The night before, he’d learned about her addiction to coffee, so he pulled on a pair of jeans and made his way to the kitchen, where he hoped he would find her. But the only thing he saw in the kitchen was the newspaper. The dishes they’d left in the sink were clean, but Kate wasn’t around.
He didn’t understand.
He couldn’t believe she’d left without saying anything and he wondered what the hell he’d done. Shuffling the sections of paper around, he figured Kate must have been reading it before she decided to take off. Was this payback for the way he treated her?
He glanced at each section and felt the bile rise in his throat when his eyes fell on the old picture of him and Chelsea. Mother of God. This gossip shit was getting out of control. He glanced at the caption and the only word that jumped out at him was wedding. Wedding? According to the article, he was getting married.
“Fuck.” The word came out on a breath of pure disbelief. Did these reporters just make this shit up? The more he thought about it, only one answer made sense—Chelsea.
Now he knew what made Kate bolt. He finally found a woman he was crazy about, someone who made him feel like a real relationship was possible, and that blonde bitch wrecked it. David didn’t know how the information about the non-existent wedding had made it into the paper, but he was certain Chelsea was behind it.
The paper usually arrived on his doorstep around six in the morning. It was almost nine. She might have left thirty minutes or three hours ago… he had no way of knowing when or where Kate had gone. The worst part was he couldn’t do anything except set the record straight. And maybe tell Chelsea exactly what he thought of her manipulative little games.
David let loose with a string of expletives and slapped the sugar bowl that was on the table. It flew and exploded against the wall, raining down in hundreds of little pieces. It was exactly how he felt.
Everything was in pieces.