Not that I’d expected her to be a huge hockey fan. But there wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition. I’d had international campaigns for an energy drink, a watch company, sports cars, and health bars. Hell, she presumably lived in Los Angeles at least some of the year. A fifty-foot billboard of me holding my stick while wearing nothing more than tight red boxer briefs and a smile hung over both Sunset and Los Feliz.

I thought of that asinine billboard, copies of which dotted cites around the world, remembering how the guys used to comment about Lucky Luc flaunting his sack of jewels, and cringed.

Maybe it was better that she didn’t recognize me. Maybe that was why when she’d asked me my name, I’d said Lucian. Aside from my parents, no one called me Lucian. I had always been called Oz or Luc.

At my side, nosy little Emma made a sound, the tiniest of “Hello? Earth to Lucian” prompts, reminding me that I hadn’t answered her. Was I a contractor?

“Something like that.”

I snapped on the radio. Truth was I had absolutely no desire for her to recognize me. That would lead to questions and the inevitable truth that I could no longer do the one thing I loved most in life.

Stomach like lead, I drove in grim silence. And for once, Emma didn’t push for polite chitchat. The Pacific opened up before us in an endless blue expanse. Sunlight sparkled off the water, throwing up glints of gold that flared and shimmered. I reached for my sunglasses and put them on as Emma oohed and aahed.

“Most of the year, I live in LA,” she said with a faint smile. “But it never gets old, seeing this ocean.”

I’d once thought the same. The pickup snaked along the road, where dusty-brown-and-green-tinged mountains looked like ancient dinosaur feet stepping into the sea. At least that was what I’d said once as a kid to Mamie. The memory did little to ease the tight bands across the back of my neck and over my forehead.

Breathing steadily, I gave her a quick “It’s beautiful” and kept driving. Despite the growing headache, I couldn’t deny the beauty so affecting Emma Maron. The California coastline was awe inspiring, humbling. The ocean crashed and frothed against the granite cliffs and swirled in eddies around small bits of golden beaches.

Like Emma, I’d come back to California to let the land soak into my battered soul. To find peace. But I didn’t feel it. Peace eluded me. The pain in my head increased, digging in with fingers that touched the back of my eyes. And with the pain came the nausea, thick and greasy. Hell and shit-fuck. I hadn’t been hit with a migraine for weeks. Why now?

But I knew. The doctor told me I might experience headaches under sudden stress. It was her. Without even trying, she’d yanked me right out of my nice, safe cocoon of numbness, and I didn’t want to be woken up.

I cracked the window, refusing to give in to it. Next to me, Emma lightly sang along to Fiona Apple. I doubted she was even aware of doing it, but I didn’t mind. Her voice was soft and sweet. A nice distraction.

The sun rose higher, the glare intensifying. My headache swelled with it. A fine sweat broke out over my skin; light reflected off the ocean, and the road merged into one big glittering blur.

A migraine hadn’t hit me while driving before. Humiliation warred with common sense. The road wasn’t any place to fuck around in the name of male pride. I had to stop. I had to tell her I wasn’t fit to drive. I let out a slow breath, preparing to confess to Emma.

But she spoke first. “Do you mind if we pull into that overlook coming up? It’s just so beautiful, and I want to take a picture for my Instagram account.”

I wasn’t about to complain and gave her a short nod that made my weak-ass brain slosh around in the pain soup that had invaded my skull. Lights burst in response. I ground my teeth and tried to breathe through it.

The whole situation pissed me off; I’d skated with torn muscles, split lips, a busted-up nose. I held on to my stick with broken fingers taped up for one-quarter of a season. But I couldn’t handle this. This one thing had brought me down.

After turning into the semicircular dirt-and-gravel overlook, I put the truck in park as soon as possible and practically stumbled out. Emma didn’t notice, hopping down on light feet and all but racing to the edge.

The sea here was aqua where it met the froth of waves at the shore. A little ways down the coast, surfers bobbed on their boards, waiting for a good wave. Emma tilted her head back and drew in a deep breath of sea-scented air. Sunlight touched the golden strands of her hair and turned her skin the color of a perfect brioche. For a sharp second, I forgot all about my throbbing head. I forgot how to fucking breathe.

She was stunning. She had to be cold in the white sundress she had on; the air was brisk and damp in the wind. But she didn’t show it. Instead, she spread her arms wide, as though embracing the world, and the sunlight turned the white cotton of her skirt translucent, revealing the lines of her sweet little body in a silhouette.

I had no business noticing these things, especially not with her. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself; Emma Maron was impossible to ignore. Not just because of her beauty but in the way that she soaked up joy, as though simply breathing was a gift. Maybe it was, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment.

With an inward curse, I looked toward the water and followed her lead, sucking down deep breaths and willing the migraine to subside. But it gave me a big “Fuck you” and surged with such force that I swallowed down a gag.

“This is glorious, isn’t it?” Emma said.

“Yep.”

“I spent months filming in Iceland, which has utterly gorgeous landscapes,” Emma babbled in the background of my hell-pain. “Some of them downright eerie, like a moonscape, but I’m still awed by the Pacific. Makes me want to drop to my knees and give thanks or something.”

I wanted to drop to my knees too. But not to any ocean god. Maybe the pain gods, if I thought for a moment they’d leave me alone.

I didn’t notice her approaching until she was at my side. Even then she was mostly a blur of color and warmly scented skin. But I heard her clearly.

“Listen, Lucian, I wanted to ask you . . .” She stopped, huffing out a half laugh like she was struggling to find the right words. “This is kind of embarrassing . . .”

I’m an expert at embarrassment these days, honey.

My vision cleared enough to find her smiling weakly and wringing her hands—God, please don’t let her recognize me now.