Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  Unfortunately, the paperwork won’t do itself. I dread the organizational part of running my own business. I’m a creative person, not one to sort bills and take care of the inventory. If I had the extra money, I would hire an assistant to take care of these things. One day. Maybe.

  Once I’ve hugged Johnny goodbye, I call an Uber. What a luxury. I should take the bus to the client’s house to save money, but I’m already sweating under my long-sleeved blouse and blazer and don’t want to arrive drenched in sweat after being crammed into the bus.

  I kind of regret that I had to retire my old delivery van a month ago. Not that I had much of a choice. The old thing was done, and the repairs would have cost a fortune. So, I’m saving the environment and don’t own a car anymore—at least that’s what I tell myself. Can’t afford a new car anymore would be the correct phrasing.

  I shake my head. My dire finances are not what I want and should think about right now.

  When we arrive, I admire the houses in my client’s neighborhood. Screw that, house is too demure of a word to describe the residences with the massive yards. Their owners are loaded. I shouldn’t be surprised. My client used to be a star hockey player. The way people live here compared to what Johnny and I have… it’s ridiculous.

  One day I’ll buy a small house with a yard. When I win the lottery.

  I swallow and scold myself. Now is not the time to dream about things that most likely will never be. I have to make the most of the opportunity at hand.

  I take a deep breath and walk to the gated entrance. Another deep breath and I’m ready to press the bell. You can do this, Ellie. You have to.

  I shift from one foot to the other while I wait for someone to open the gate from the inside. Do people have personnel here? A butler, maybe? I grin at my own stupid thoughts. People don’t have butlers anymore… or do they?

  One thing’s for sure, if this guy has one, he should fire him on the spot. No one has answered the door yet. The little video thingy beside the bell stays black. I bend my head to listen for breathing noises. Nothing. No movement on the camera. No sound from the speaker. Absolutely nothing.

  I press the bell on the gate again while my gaze wanders around the neighborhood. Each residence has a big gate, high fences—some more see-through than others—and stunning properties behind.

  Am I at the wrong place?

  I pull out my phone and recheck the address and the scheduled time. This should be it. I’m in the right place. But my client isn’t.

  Sweat pools on my back and I feel sick to my stomach. In my haste to change after Johnny ruined my first outfit, I forgot to eat the second half of my own breakfast this morning and my body isn’t handling it very well. I’m not one of these women who can survive on solely rice cakes or fruit for breakfast. I need real food—as the width of my hips can attest. I sway on my feet.

  Before I do something as stupid as to pass out, I turn around and lean against the gate just to topple backward. Adrenaline floods my veins. Interesting. Why have an impressive door when you forget to lock it? Is that a new security thing?

  Whatever it is, I’m in. At least I’m on the property. And I have an appointment. My client won’t mind if I admire his yard and peek into the house. He could have locked his gate after all.

  I take one step inside and wait for something bad to happen. Maybe dogs attacking me? But neither dogs nor security guards appear. Before I make my way to the house, I pull the door back without shutting it completely. Who knows if I might have to retreat faster than I want to?

  As I approach the house, I’m still unsure what to make of this whole situation. A gate in this kind of neighborhood shouldn’t be open. Something’s off.

  My gut tells me to get out of here. But I need the money. You got this, Ellie.

  I wish I did. My sleeves cling to my arms and sweat trickles down my back. I just hope my blouse won’t stick too much. How can some women look flawless all day? The only thing I have to do is step into the sun for ten minutes and I look like I took an hour-long spinning class.

  Do they use glue to keep their hair from sticking out in every possible direction?

  I’ve tried it all—the anti-frizz, miracle-working, leave-in treatments; the one-minute, save-your-hair renewal mask; or, my favorite, the overnight, ruin-your-bedsheets mask. Other than spending money I could not afford to spend, nothing changed. My hair still does what it does best—curl at the sides, in what I like to call the electric-shock look, and stick to the rest of my head as if I haven’t washed it in three days. I swear every curl has a life of its own.

  “The inner values count, Ellie,” my grandmother always told me. “Relationships aren’t solely built on looks.” She forgot to mention on what exactly they’re built. Maybe that’s why I’m always attracting the wrong men, if I attract them at all.

  My thoughts on hair frizz have brought me to the entrance of a house that seems way too big for only one person. Emilia might have forgotten to mention that this guy owns a freaking mansion. With wings. How long does one need to clean this place? Two days? Three?

  And how many people does it take to keep the garden in this impeccable condition?

  Let’s not go to what it costs to heat that place…. I might be able to live a year with that kind of money.

  I stare at the pool. Michael King doesn’t need to book a vacation. His waterfall and lounge area look better than any hotel pool I’ve ever seen. Not that I have much to compare it to.

  If the yard is an indication of what’s inside the house….

  Why does this guy even want to redecorate?

  Since there’s no bell, I knock on the milk glass part of the door. And wait.

  No sound. No movement.

  I knock again. Then I push at the door. Unlike the gate, it doesn’t give in.

  What to do now?

  I knock again, using more momentum this time and regret it immediately when I hurt myself. That thing is sturdy.

  “What do you want?” The door flies open, and a man snaps at me.

  I take a step back and swallow. The giant guy in front of me looks kind of familiar but at the same time… not at all. This can’t be Michael King?

  The eye color is the same—a laser-sharp icy blue that every woman in Boston dreams about, according to some gossip sites I browsed yesterday to prepare for this appointment.

  The hair is the same color as in the photos I’ve seen of him. Black. Pitch-black. But instead of his signature million-dollar haircut, he’s wearing it long and… unwashed. Other than that, he isn’t what I expected. He certainly doesn’t look like any of the photos I’ve seen of him.

  Michael King isn’t the Michael King he used to be anymore. Instead of the sleek, playboy-like hunk, a bitter-looking man with an unkempt beard and red-rimmed eyes stands… or leans heavily on a cane in front of me.

  He also holds a brush with what looks like dried black paint on it in the other hand. Is he already renovating his mansion? And if so, why is there no fresh paint on his brush.

  His index finger features a streak of black paint that looks dried as well. Something isn’t adding up here. I should listen to my gut instinct and get the hell out of here.

  While I stare at him, Michael King takes a step forward and his body odor wafts in my direction. Screw my I-haven’t-washed-my-hair-in-three-days look. This guy has the I-haven’t-showered-in-a-month smell on him. He wins. Times ten.

  I take another step back and open my mouth, but not to talk. I try to inhale oxygen without bombarding my nose with… his fumes. This house has to have at least two or three bathrooms. Why doesn’t he use one of them?

  Stay professional, Ellie. You need this job. I swallow again. I wish I had brought a clothespin for my nose. It doesn’t help that I’ve been feeling sick to my stomach.

  “Um, I’m Ellie from Cozy Cottage. Emilia Ravelli-Walker called me. She told me you wanted to redecorate your house and… uh… she told me to come here today to talk about your expectations and
show you some options.” I force a smile on my lips while trying to keep them shut. Judging from his frown, it isn’t much of a smile. At least I’m trying to be civil—something I can’t say of him.

  He stares at me, though I’m not sure whether he looks at me or right through me. With his swollen eyes and bleak expression, it’s impossible to tell.

  His chest rises high and falls back down as he takes two deep breaths. I still don’t know if my words got through to him. If he stinks to heaven and back, I’m not sure I want to know what it looks like inside anyway. I… I should leave this place.

  “If it isn’t a good time—”

  He snorts. “A good time? Are you serious, lady? Do I look like I’m having a good time? Do I fucking look like I’m joking? Look at me!” He waves the hand with the brush in front of my eyes as he sways from side to side. Another wave of disgust hits me. Sour and rotting. Alcohol combined with sweat and… I don’t even want to know.

  “Do I fucking look like I love my life?” With every word, the volume of his voice rises until it hits my eardrums like a dynamite explosion. “I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone.” He takes a step in my direction.

  This time I stand my ground. A mistake. His body odor is offensive, but it’s no match for the foul breath that hits my nostrils full force. I’m not sure what kind of insults he yells at me. Frankly, I don’t care. This guy either doesn’t know what a toothbrush and toothpaste are for or ran out of them a billion years ago.

  I just know one thing, the nerves in my nose can’t stand the ambush anymore. I gag. I can’t help it.

  And then I do the unthinkable. I throw up all over him.

  His eyes open so wide he looks like a cartoon character. Then disbelief and disgust play in slow motion over his face while my vomit runs down what used to be impressive abdominal muscles—still could be, it’s impossible to tell under the oversized sweater he’s… not wearing, more like has thrown around his body. The poor thing looks like he’s ripped a second hole in it to put his head through.

  I’m frozen in place while his gaze falls to his toast-vomit-covered belly. Having what little breakfast I had displayed like this is an entirely new experience, one I could do without.

  I giggle. I don’t want to, but this whole situation….

  He takes another step in my direction with murder in his eyes. Before he can so much as touch me, I turn on my heels and run away. There goes my job. Not that I care. No job is worth dealing with such a… jerk. I don’t envy him. He’s lost it.

  I feel his eyes burning holes into my back while I hasten to the gate. Just when I throw it open, the door behind me falls shut with a loud bang.

  Let’s hope Michael King closed it from the inside. I’m pretty sure I’m faster than a man with a cane. Still, I run for my life once I’m on the street.

  If he were the last guy on the planet, I’d make sure to get at least a galaxy away from him.

  Chapter 4

  Michael

  Vomit drops from my middle and trickles down to my knee. One drop at a time. Down my good-for-nothing knee. Fitting. Vomit is what the thing deserves. What I deserve. I’m good for nothing anymore. Even the crazy décor lady thinks so. “Cozy Cottage,” what kind of name is that anyway?

  A shiver runs through my body, and I close my eyes. The woman’s frightened eyes appear in the darkness. I clench my fists. I nearly shoved her to the ground. I didn’t. But I wanted to.

  I wanted to hurt her like she… it’s not like she hurt me. I don’t have feelings anymore. Or do I? It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore. She’s gone. Like everyone else. I’m alone again. That’s what counts.

  I lean on the cane and shuffle another step forward. A ninety-year-old has more mobility in the knee than I do. Shuffling is how I move these days.

  I grunt with the effort it takes me to make my way down the hallway. Fucking pathetic to think I was a pro athlete mere months ago. I pause in front of one of the mirrors and meet what I have become.

  No wonder the woman threw up on me. I can’t blame her. I’m disgusting. A useless mass of cells with dead eyes and an overgrown beard. I haven’t showered and shaved since I banned everyone from my life two weeks ago. Too much effort.

  I look down at the brush in my hand. After my paint order arrived yesterday, I painted one of the walls in the living area pitch black while nurturing my last bottle of whiskey. At some point, I fell asleep on the floor.

  I fucking can’t stand white anymore. The walls in the hospital were white. The ones in the rehab center were white. I’m sick of white. It’s getting on my nerves.

  If it hadn’t been for the goddamn knocking of the décor lady, I’d still be in my alcohol-induced coma. Now that I’m awake, I’ll resume painting the living area and then the walls in the hallway. Maybe. I wish I had black curtains to keep the sunlight out as well. I want darkness, not feel-good sunshine.

  I sway a little on my feet. Too bad I ran out of alcohol this morning. Every single drop is gone. All in my body. I should rehydrate. But does it even matter? Funny how I don’t care about nutrition anymore.

  All these years I didn’t allow myself sugar. All these years I didn’t allow myself to slip once from my self-imposed nutrition rules. Look at me now. I can have chocolate. I can have all the pizza and burgers I want. But I don’t want to eat anymore. I don’t want anything anymore.

  Maybe more alcohol. But for that, I would have to go out and face people when I don’t want to see anyone.

  I can’t even stand myself anymore. I smash the cane into the mirror and my reflection bursts into a thousand pieces.

  Glass fragments crunch under my bare feet as I shuffle farther down the hallway, a difficult task without the cane. My balance is nonexistent anymore. I use the wall for support and leave a brownish smear on it. See, the woman’s redecorating my house already.

  If Emilia calls again to make sure I talked to her interior designer friend, I’ll send her a photo of my newly painted wall. This thing might be worth millions. I might make a business out of selling vomit-covered wall pieces. I snort out a laugh. I do that a lot lately. Why talk when everything can be said with a snort-laugh.

  My gaze drops back to my vomit-covered stomach. I’m matching with the wall, isn’t that something? Still, I should get rid of that… whatever I’m wearing. I pull at the black cloth. I think it used to be a hoodie. Or a running coat?

  Whatever it is, I cut a second hole in it because I couldn’t find the one meant for the head fast enough. I should have thrown the ugly thing away. Instead, I took a pair of scissors to redesign the hoodie.

  That’s it. I could design clothes for a living now. Emilia might have a job for me. I could take a scissor to her RAVELLIS sports line and take them to a new level.

  I snort-laugh again as I fall against the wall in front of the bathroom. I should take a shower. Not sure when I took my last one. Before or after I threw out my mom two weeks ago? I don’t remember and frankly don’t care. No one’s here to see me. Not a single fucking person.

  No one wants to see me. Not anymore. I made sure of that.

  It’s better this way. I cringe when I think of everyone’s pitiful glances and concerned faces. I want solitude. Nothing more.

  I shuffle into the bathroom, using the wall again for support, and open the shower stall. My gaze falls on the stool inside.

  I clench my fists. My whole body shakes uncontrollably. I can’t even stand on both legs during a fucking shower anymore. My heart beats faster, and my breathing accelerates.

  Fixating on the shower stool, I lift my trembling hands until they’re pointing in its direction. I sway from side to side, but I have an aim. Pooling all the energy left in me, I grab the cold metal and hold on to it for a second. Then I smash it against the glass next to me with everything I have.

  Nothing happens. I plop back against the wall and take a closer look. What the fuck? Why’s there not even a crack in that fucking thing? I haven’t lost all my arm muscles. Y
et.

  I stumble over and pick up the stool again. My heart bangs against my chest while I sway from side to side with the effort it takes me to lift the thing again.

  I close my eyes, grab the legs tighter and swing the damn stool as high as possible. Then I crash it against the shower stall a second time.

  Then again.

  And another time. And one last time with all the strength left inside me.

  Glass flies everywhere. On the floor. In the sink. Against the mirror where it leaves an ugly crack.

  What used to be the shower is now a destroyed shell. Just like I am.

  See, I’m redecorating even more.

  The floor looks like a rink at the end of a brutal period, a chaotic mess of lines and icy snow—fitting since this is my last period. Ever.

  I fall to my knees and press my hands flat on the floor, welcoming its soothing coolness while I pant like I’ve just completed the longest shift of my life on the ice.

  Shutting my eyes, I concentrate on gulping air in my burning lungs with little to no success. My wrists can’t hold my weight anymore. I drop to my forearms.

  My weight is too much for my arms as well. Every muscle in my body shakes.

  I slide forward as I drop down uncontrolled. Pieces of glass sink into my skin. I welcome the pain. Better than to feel… nothing. Better than… what I’ve become. Better than being a useless shell.

  Bits and pieces, that’s all that’s left of the person I used to be. The king is dead. On the inside. On the outside. Everywhere it counts. And there’s no one to follow in his footsteps.

  Funny how mere seconds can change your whole life.

  One bad decision and it’s over. One wrong choice, made in a split-second, and there’s nothing left. What if I never had tried to shoot that fucking goal? What if I had never tried to be the hero of the night?

  I tilt my head back. My cheek slides over the cold floor. Then I open my eyes and take in the shattered glass around me. Reaching out with my fingertips, I caress one of the sharp edges. It feels like a freshly sharpened blade.