A Match Made in Texas- By Arlene James Page 0,66
Kaylie? I guess I thought we had something going on, something meaningful.” He shook his head and asked, “Is that over?”
She folded her arms, feeling chilled and a little lost. They had never spoken of any personal feelings between them, but she wouldn’t pretend that such feelings did not exist.
“I don’t know. He’s my father, Stephen, and my faith teaches me to honor him. I have to consider his opinions, his wishes, his needs, even his fears.”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m a hockey player, Kaylie. It’s all I have, all I am.”
“No. No, it isn’t. There’s more to you than hockey, but I would never ask you to give up hockey just to please my father. That would be like asking you to stop being you, and I’m not sure I could bear that. Unfortunately, Scripture doesn’t say to honor your father unless he’s completely unreasonable.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to dishonor him.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
Stephen wrinkled his brow. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”
She tilted her head. “Pray. We can both pray.”
Stephen nodded but was clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “It just seems like there ought to be something more I could do.” He reached out with both hands and pulled her to him, the cast on his left palm hard against her waist. “Would it help if I kissed you again?”
“No,” she whispered, allowing her regret to imbue her voice, “that would only make it worse.”
Gulping, he nodded and put his forehead to hers. “Prayer it is.”
She slipped her arms around him. “It’s been known to work, you know.”
“It’s been known not to,” he said soberly, pulling back, and then he told her about the night his cousin and best friend, Nick, died.
“I’m that one-in-a-million Dutchman who can’t hold his liquor,” Stephen admitted wryly, doing his best to keep his resentment at bay. “We drink beer for breakfast in the Netherlands. Oh, not me. Two beers, and I’m done, useless. All my friends know, all my family. Nick used to tease me.”
Stephen chuckled softly, hurting right down to the marrow of his bones, but he didn’t let that stop him. He told her everything, how he’d sent for Nicklas to come and keep him company in the U.S. They were like brothers, he and Nick, the siblings neither had ever had, his mother’s only sister’s only child. Just months apart in age, they had practically lived together after Hannah had taken Stephen back to the Netherlands. His aunt Lianna had been like a second mom to him, and it had been the same with Hannah and Nick. So naturally, when Stephen had called, Nicklas had come, and naturally, Nicklas had insisted that a celebration was in order when Stephen formally signed with the Blades.
“A single beer and a glass of champagne was what I had that night,” Stephen recalled, “but Nicky, he was tossing them back so fast. We didn’t stay long. I preferred to be driving my new car. All that horsepower, all that flash…”
He shook his head and told her what he remembered of the accident, how they’d been fooling around at night on a vacant street in a newly platted neighborhood when a cement truck had suddenly appeared. Stephen had swerved his car out of the way and hit a curb. The car had tumbled downhill over and over until it came to rest on the passenger side, leaving Stephen hanging by the straps of his safety belt above a crumpled and torn Nick.
“I begged,” Stephen admitted, closing his eyes. “I begged God not to let him be dead. I begged not to have killed him.”
His neck felt stiff, and he rotated his head, trying to loosen the muscles and banish the memories. That was what he’d walked away from the wreck with, a few strained muscles. Nick had died, and he’d had a stiff neck.
He’d been a madman at the site, fighting the emergency personnel, first when they’d tried to treat him and then when they’d taken Nick away. They’d had to sedate him to get him into an ambulance. As a result, there’d been no alcohol test, but the cops had witnesses who’d seen him drinking at the club. Not that it had mattered. Stephen had pled guilty in open court, expecting, almost hoping, for a prison sentence. They’d given him probation, and the team had written a good-conduct rider into his contract.
“So I skate. And Nick’s gone,” Stephen said, hating the forlorn sound of his own voice. “And I haven’t seen