Getting Lucky - Jennifer Lazaris Page 0,40
mean to upset you. I thought it would help.”
Ryder signaled the bartender. “You want another one?”
“Not yet.”
“Fine. I’ll have yours. Two more beers, Jake,” he called.
Zoe remained silent as he drained his glass.
“Danielle was my fiancée.” His chest constricted, and the familiar rush of anxiety returned. The reaction was always the same when he talked about Danielle.
A surprised look fleeted across her face. “You were engaged?”
“Seven years ago.”
She twisted at her napkin, which Ryder now recognized as another nervous habit. “Nic didn’t mention that.”
“She told you nothing?” he asked.
“She said it wasn’t her place to tell.”
“Seven years ago, Danielle and I were on our way to a charity event in Montreal. I played for them back then. It’s how we met. Her parents were involved in the organization and she attended every event.
“I kept badgering her to get ready on time that night. She always took forever to get ready. She fussed over her dress, saying it didn’t fit right. She was eight months pregnant, and insecure about her appearance. I insisted on getting there early for once and rushed her out the door.
“A guy blew through a red light and hit my car. The police told me later his cell phone had started ringing. He’d dropped it on the floor, and was leaning over trying to reach it when he hit my passenger side door.”
He took a long, deep swallow of beer before continuing. “Danielle’s injuries were critical. She went into a coma and never woke up. She died in the hospital a few days later.”
Zoe covered her mouth with her hand, and her face drained of color. “Oh my God.”
“They did an emergency procedure to try and save our unborn son. I named him Connor. Danielle had his name picked out for months. He lived a few days in ICU, but didn’t make it. He died a few days after Danielle.”
He took another long pull on the fresh beer Jake had placed in front of him. He ignored the tears that rolled down Zoe’s cheeks and kept talking.
“See, if I would have shut the hell up and let her take her time, she’d still be here. My son would still be alive.”
He looked over at Zoe. She had one hand to her mouth and was shaking her head.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “The doctors told me that usually in an accident that severe, no one walks away. They kept me in the hospital for a week after the accident.”
“They said I had gotten lucky.”
His gut twisted at the memory of the team of doctors standing there in white coats, telling him how he was a goddamned miracle.
“They said I was lucky, because I’d still be able to play hockey.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “They told me, you know, aside from having the two most important things in my life stolen from me forever, that I should be grateful.”
Hands shaking, he took another drink of beer. “Because I had gotten lucky.”
“Oh, Ryder,” Zoe whispered.
He hung his head and drew in a breath, trying to calm himself. Christ. It still hurt. The guilt over being a survivor when they had both died had never left. He doubted it ever would.
“Her parents arranged a double funeral for Danielle and the baby, and I had the baby placed in Danielle’s arms. It’s what she would have wanted, but I couldn’t—”
He sucked in a breath before continuing. “I couldn’t view them that way. It would have completely destroyed me.”
Ryder’s eyes burned with unshed tears at the memories. Zoe was openly crying, and held her hand over her mouth.
“Thankfully,” he continued, “I don’t remember the service due to the amount of drugs and alcohol I’d consumed. I was wrecked out of my mind from the start of the viewings until they were put in the ground.”
“I’m so sorry. Ryder, I can’t even imagine.” Her voice shook, and she put her hand over his.
“I don’t want your pity, Zoe,” he snapped, jerking his hand away. “It was an awful, terrible time, but I’ve accepted it and moved on.”
“Have you?” she asked softly.
“What? You’re going to psychoanalyze me now?” he asked, his temper rising.
“No. After what you’ve been through, I understand why you feel the need to be in control all the time.”
“That’s fucking right,” he said. “Because control—it’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.”
He tapped the table with his index finger. “I control my life, my play on the ice and my sex