Page 110 of Sweet Redemption

“You moved him across the country, away from the only home he ever knew, for what?” she yells. “Her? Well, I guess that didn’t take you very long, now, did it?”

If I could throw her out of my fucking house, I would.

“You are so far out of line,” I grunt and point to the family room. As pissed as I am, she’s not my priority right now. The woman who just ran upstairs to hide is. “Go. Sit. I’ll be back down in a few minutes to deal with you.”

“Deal with me? Says the man playing house in the shadow of my late daughter.”

“Choose your next words very wisely, Mel, if you ever want to see Bodhi again. Britt and I were complicated from day one. And that woman you just made cry matters more than you’ll ever fucking know. Now sit your ass down, and keep your mouth shut. If you’d have come when you were supposed to, this could have all been avoided.”

I don’t bother looking back as I take the damn stairs two at a time. Her weak sniffles are the first thing I hear, followed by a door slamming shut. And when I step inside my bedroom, she’s pulled on a pair of pale-purple yoga pants and some kind of matching sweater. “Serena . . .”

“Don’t, Hendrix.” She doesn’t look at me as she throws a few things in an overnight bag I hadn’t even noticed when we finally made it to bed last night. “Just don’t.” She yanks on the zipper and slips on a pair of sneakers as her shoulders sink. “I should have known better.”

“Don’t do that, princess.” I step up behind her and cup her shoulders. “Don’t⁠—”

“Don’t do what?” she snaps with a shaky voice. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I have to go.”

She shrugs out of my hold and spins around without looking at me and I know she’s doing it again. She’s fucking running. “Please don’t run this time, Serena.”

“I’m not running, Hendrix. I just need some space.” She moves around me, but I grab her hand.

“Bullshit.” I tug her back. “You’re running. You’ve been looking for a reason to run since day one.”

“Are you kidding me?” She yanks on my hand without looking at me. “Your dead wife’s mother is downstairs, accusing me of being a homewrecking whore who stole her daughter’s family. I’d say that’s a pretty good reason.”

“We know the truth. Isn’t that what matters?” I ask and pull her against me, unable to let her go. Not again. Not this time.

“No,” she cries. “Not when our entire relationship has been a secret. No one will believe anything else.”

“Even our breakup was based on a lie, Serena,” I argue, begging her to stay.

Fire flames in those bright turquoise eyes. “That’s not why we broke up. Don’t you dare rewrite history.”

“Are you finally ready to talk about why we broke up?” I push her, needing us to get this over with. Knowing we’ve been dancing around it for years.

“No,” she whispers and pulls away. “You need to give me space.”

“I’ve given you three years,” I yell, not giving a shit that Melissa can hear every word we say. “Three years, Serena. Don’t you think that’s long enough?”

She shakes her head as a tear falls down her cheek. “You’ve given me one week, Hendrix. Maybe two, if you count our conversation at the wedding. Three, if we go by that very first hockey game. Weeks. Not years.” She steps back and looks at me. Really looks at me before resignation flashes where the fire was just a few minutes ago. “I’m sorry.”

“Serena . . . I asked you to marry me.”

She shoves my chest so hard, I take a step back. “I need space, Hendrix.”

“I asked you to marry me, and you said no.” I move closer, refusing to give her the space she needs because I know if she walks out that door now, I’m never getting her back. “You. Said. No.”

“We lost a baby, Hendrix,” she cries, her gorgeous eyes pleading with me to understand as the words are ripped from her throat. “A baby. Our baby.” She hits my chest. “We lost our baby, and while I bled out at the hospital in Seattle you decided the way to fix it was to marry me and move my life to Chicago.”

“You’re what—pissed I wasn’t with you in Seattle? I would have been on a flight that day, would’ve chartered a fucking jet myself, if you’d told me,” I yell back.

“It wasn’t about you not being there. It was about you not listening. Just like you’re doing again now.”

Her words land like a fist to the face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She loses some of her fight and runs her hands through her hair, tugging on the ends. “It means I’d spent nine months rehabbing my knee so I could get back on the field⁠—”

“I know. I helped you,” I fucking remind her. “I was there.”