by Pippa Grant
Good thing too.
Otherwise I was bringing in Mrs. Murphy and Felicity’s baby book.
The one with her all in Thrusters gear.
“Sit,” I tell Felicity.
She looks at the three chairs. Padded seats. Wooden backs. “Nick, you get the floor.” She tests all three, points me to the least wobbly, and positions a second for me to prop my ankle on.
Murphy mutters something none of us need to hear to interpret.
Felicity takes the third chair. “This is stupid without my puppets,” she says.
“Pretty sure you can make do,” Nick replies. He’s not wrong, but he’s being a fucking snarkhead. “It’s just a test run.”
“Those cameras aren’t rolling, are they?” Felicity asks. “If I kick him, are you going to have evidence?”
“Yes,” Jenna says.
“Well, fuck,” Felicity says as Lucy. She looks at me and Loki. “Did the monkey sign an NDA too?”
I poke her in the heart. “Listen.”
She goes pink. “Felicity can’t afford to be a full-time ventriloquist,” Tim informs me.
I pull out my wallet and shove a handful of bills at her.
Her eyes go wide for a moment, and then a peal of laughter rings out from between her lips.
Murphy’s growling at me.
Felicity leans over and kisses my cheek. Squeezes my arm, pushes the money back into my hand. Traces a finger up to my elbow. Makes lightning strike my junk.
“You are amazing,” she tells me.
Happy now. Smiling. Confident.
Like she should be.
We both know that handful of cash isn’t enough to support her, but she knows.
She knows it’s not about the cash. It means I believe in her.
It means I got her back.
Murphy growls louder.
“So far, so good,” Jenna says. She’s stepped back between the cameras.
Felicity jerks straight. “So you want us to… What?”
“Be charming,” Murphy grumbles.
“I do that by breathing, but you’re going to need some work,” Felicity says.
As me.
I rub my chest. She makes me okay.
“Is that your monkey voice?” Murphy asks her.
“You can’t handle my monkey voice,” she replies. She cringes, her confidence fading. “That was really lame, wasn’t it? I’m funny on stage. I swear.”
Fucking cameras.
Or maybe fucking Murphy.
He thought she was funny the first night she made Loki talk.
“Felicity, what’s it like being related to a hockey player?” Jenna asks.
“It depends on which of her boyfriends he’s beating off with his hockey stick,” she replies cheerfully as Lucy.
She cringes again. “You can’t use that, can you? I can’t talk about him beating off guys.”
She’s rubbing her hands down her jeans. Sweaty palms. Nerves.
I cover her hand, and she looks at me.
Eyes too wide. Lips too down.
“You play?” I ask.
“Hockey?”
I nod.
“Are you kidding? Felicity’s the best terrible hockey player this side of the Mason Dixon Line!”
She switches from Lucy to Tim. “Sad but true. Nick tried to teach her how to shoot a puck when she was seven, and she hit herself in the face and took out her own tooth.”
“It grew back,” Lucy assures me.
“But her hockey skills never did,” Harold says.
I fucking hate Harold.
A slow grin starts. Like she knows how much I hate Harold, but now she’s getting into the groove.
“What about you?” Harold says to me. “You play hockey?”
“Harold’s a dick. I’m gonna poop in his shoe,” Loki announces.
“Not his fault he doesn’t like having someone’s hand up his ass, Loki,” she says as me.
“I want Lucy! I want Lucy!” Loki chants.
He screeches for real, like he’s laughing.
“Loki, do you play hockey?” Lucy asks.
“Better than Murphy does,” Loki replies.
“Fuck, Felicity,” Murphy mutters. But he’s grinning.
“You shush,” Lucy chides him. Happiest chiding I’ve ever heard. “You went and got yourself benched over something dumb and stupid that you didn’t trust Felicity to take care of for herself. So you don’t get to play hockey either. Now what do you have to say for yourself, mister?”
Murphy clearly knows Lucy, and he clearly knows he’s in deep shit if he’s getting chewed out by the cheerful cat. His eyes narrow. Coming out in fighting mode.
“You know how hard it is to watch guys older than you hit on your baby sister? You didn’t fit in. You never fit in. You were so smart when it came to math and science and history, but with people, you were in over your head. You had no idea—you know what they’d say about you in the locker room? You were eleven. And those fuckers—”
He ducks his head and fists his hands in his hair. He’s on the floor, knees up.
My fists are clenched.
Eleven?
She had assholes looking at her like that when she was a kid?
Felicity’s gone white.
I’m tense as Coach when we’re down by four in the third period. “Who?” I growl.
Murphy finally looks at me. First time all week.
Looking at me like maybe I get it now too.
How much more he’s done that she doesn’t know about. How many nut jobs never got the chance to touch her because he stopped them before they could.
That maybe, just maybe, I’m her latest nut job, and he’s watching me.
What makes you different? that look says. You don’t fucking talk.
Now I’m getting hot in the face.
“I handled it,” Murphy says. “I always handle it, because that’s my fucking job.”
Felicity’s blinking hard. “You—” she chokes out, like she’s seeing it too.
Like she’s understanding too.
“You don’t attract normal people,” Murphy says quietly. “And you don’t even know it.”
I clamp my jaw shut.
He’s not wrong.
I’m not normal. And I’m head over heels dying right now watching the life drain out of her.
She rises.
“Felicity—” Murphy starts.
“I’m done here,” she says to Jenna. “And I’ll withdraw that last application to drive the Zamboni too. Clearly I wouldn’t be an asset to the Thrusters organization.”
“Shit.” Murphy leaps up. “That didn’t come out right.”
Felicity’s already halfway to the door, not looking at any of us. “I think it came out crystal clear.”
I’m on my feet too. Loki screeches. Jenna clips quickly to the doorway. She’s pissed at Murphy, but she’s a pro. Have to look close to see it.
“Thank you for coming in,” she says before Felicity leaves the room.
“Anything for the Thrusters,” Lucy answers cheerfully.
“Shit, Felicity,” Murphy says, “hold on a minute—”
I stop him with a look. Back. The fuck. Up.
The finger he shoots me isn’t personal.
Pretty sure the bird Loki gives him back is.
I cut him off in the hallway.
“Dammit, Ares.”
“Keeping her safe from dicks.”
Right now, he’s being a dick.
He spins and levels a look on me. He’s six-three. Not so small. I’ve got him by half a foot though. My Ma told me it’s not polite to talk about how much I out-muscle him by, so I won’t.
But I could flatten him.
Don’t think I need to.
He knows he fucked up.
Couple dozen times over.
That’s enough for now.
43
Felicity
I’m a freak.
A not-normal, talking to herself, addi
cted to school, career-floating, self-sabotaging, dick-magnet freak.
I get a weird look from a suit in the elevator. Probably because my eyes are leaking.
“I’m not crying,” I tell him. “It’s my puppets.”
Yeah, that helps.
Not.
Especially since I don’t have any of my puppets with me.
I didn’t know this was a freaking job interview for a part-time position as a Thrusters publicity stunt.
Or that my brother has been defending my honor since before I hit puberty.
Because I’m not normal.
Nick’s a lot of things.
Cruel isn’t one of them. Not to me.
But he doesn’t think I’m normal. That I don’t date normal guys.
Even my brother thinks I’m a freak.
It shouldn’t hurt. I know I’m off-center.
But this is who I am.
And I’ll never be normal.
The suit looks me up and down, and one of those smarmy smiles snakes over his lips. “If you need a shoulder—”
“Aaargh.” The door dings open. I barrel out without looking where I’m going and almost run over a group of fans in Thrusters jerseys on a tour of the arena. An oversize replica of Nick’s jersey is painted on the wall behind me, reflected in the two-story windows above me. Ares’s jersey is right beside it.
Berger. 00.
Double zero.
Like he’s nothing.
Who the fuck let him use that number?
I shouldn’t be out here. I should be upstairs, defending his honor.
But I just want to be alone.
No men. No monkeys. No family. No well-meaning friends.
What am I doing?
I was living with a guy just over a month ago. I knew it was over a few weeks before I left—I probably should’ve known before I ever moved in with him—but it took me that long to work up the courage. And the plan to end things.
And now I’m living with another guy.
In my grandmother’s house.
And it feels different.
Ares is different.
Or am I just telling myself that? Do I just want to believe he’s different from all the other guys I’ve ever dated?
I thought Doug was different. A businessman. Worked out, but he didn’t play sports.
And I was wrong.
I’ve been wrong about every single guy I’ve dated.
And now I’m sleeping with a guy who grunts more than he talks.
But he’s more.
He is.
I’m not wrong this time.
I’m the one who’s screwed up. The one with voices in my head, who can’t quit talking, who draws weirdos into my circle just by breathing.
The cold November air slaps me in the face when I shove out the massive glass doors.
The one consistent thing I’ve been interested in my entire life is ventriloquism. Even before I knew what it was called, before I saved up all my pennies to buy my first puppet, I’ve been obsessed.
Lucy can code in HTML. Tim can recite old tax law. Harold was instrumental in getting me that bowling industry management degree, even if we never used it.
We.
Fuck, I’m so weird.
No wonder all my ex-boyfriends are crazy.
I’m crazy.
I put my head down and turn south. Reynolds Park is just a few blocks over. I need to clear my head. Shake everything loose. Get some fresh air.
Think.
Listen.
Listen to my heart.
Someone latches onto my elbow at the corner.
I jerk away, but he squeezes harder.
Right on a pressure point.
Doug.
“We need to talk,” he growls.
“Let. Go.”
“You called the fucking cops on me.”
And clearly it wasn’t enough. I yank my arm again. “I said, let go.”
“Not until you—ow, FUCK, my nose!”
I shake my hand out.
Fuck is right.
That fucking hurt.
But defending myself by driving my fist into his face was a reflex, and I don’t regret it.
Oh, god.
I just punched him. In broad daylight. On a crowded street corner.
Something fizzles in my veins, and a tremor rolls through me.
Maybe I do regret it.
“You bitch!” Doug dives for me. I lunge, there’s a sickening thud that has nothing to do with me, and he goes flying.
“Ohmygod, did you see that?”
“Call 9-1-1!”
“That man tried to molest that woman!”
“Holy shit, the Force is down!”
We’re suddenly surrounded. Ares is crumpled to the ground at my feet, chest heaving. Doug’s splayed at the edge of the curb. A spry, slender woman who could’ve been Gammy’s twin in white curls and support hose whacks him with her purse. “When a lady says let go, you let go.”
Sirens sound.
I drop to my knees. “Ares?”
Pain creases his face. I grip his cheeks. “Ares.”
He studies me like he’s trying to place me. Like he doesn’t know who I am.
He’s hurt.
There’s no blood, but there’s no boot either.
He wasn’t wearing his boot.
No crutches.
“Ares,” I whisper.
“Okay?” he grits out.
No, I’m not okay.
He’s hurt. He’s hurt, my ex is a stalking dickhead, I don’t know where Loki is when he should be sitting on Ares’s shoulder, and Ares is hurt.
“He tried—kill me—” Doug’s moaning.
“That nice young man stepped in and defended that poor lady’s honor,” Gammy’s twin says. “You go look at all those security cameras on the arena. You look at the traffic cameras. She told him nicely to go away, and he wouldn’t.”
Gammy’s twin is a fucking angel.
“Ma’am?” A cop kneels beside me.
Eyes Ares with a healthy amount of respect.
“He’s hurt.” I’m blabbering. Tears drip down my nose.
“Ma’am.” The cop gestures to his eye. “Did someone—”
Ares tries to sit.
The cop puts his hand to his weapon.
“Stop.” Fuck. My eye. Right. It’s still greenish, almost healed, but not quite. And I walked into a door doesn’t really sound likely when I’m sitting on the ground cradling a giant.
“He’s hurt,” I say again. I stroke his hair while he squeezes his eyes shut. Breathing. Like he can meditate the pain away. “He was trying to save me.”
Trying to save me.
From all the bad decisions I’ve ever made.
All the wrong situations I get myself into.
From myself.
My. Fucking. Self.
Who I am.
What happens tomorrow? The next day? The day after?
What happens when Nick pulls a Nick on him, or when we go to the grocery store and run into another ex who tries to touch me wrong, or when he decides he’s just plain tired of all the drama?
Tired of my voices.
Tired of my indecision and my aimlessness and all my brains that don’t do shit for telling me who I’m supposed to be.
Tired of me.
Look at all the trouble I’ve gotten him into, in less than two weeks.
The crowd’s getting thicker.
“Felicity? Felicity! Motherfucker, what’s that asshole—erp.”
“I got him, Felicity.” Duncan’s voice. I can’t see him, but it’s a voice of reason.
More sirens. More people. The cop finally gets a good look at Ares. “Oh, fuck. It is the Force.”
I can’t look at his ankle again.
I can’t.
He’s not starting rehab next week. Maybe not even the week after.
Because he was trying to defend me.
To protect me.
I’m
the reason he’ll miss even more of the season.
Coaches come running. Staff. Team members.
I’m shoved aside. The cop wants to talk. Gammy’s twin is still standing watch over Doug and detailing his crimes. “I was going to step in myself when that nice giant took care of him for me.”
“You know both men?” the cop asks me.
I point to Doug. “Ex. Complaint on file.”
I point to Ares. My eyes water. My throat clogs. “And Ares—Ares is my hero.”
He looks back at the crowd around Ares. Nick finally makes his way to me, Duncan and Jaeger each holding him by an arm. They let him go when he grabs me in a hug. “Jesus, Felicity. Are you okay?”
My brother is such an overbearing shithead.
But he’s here—he’s always here—and that’s what counts.
44
Ares
Hospital beds suck.
Always too short and too soft.
And I’m all alone.
People all around me—nurses, doctors, Thrusters admin—and my phone’s about dinged itself to death, but everything feels empty.
I’m out. Months. No hockey.
And it’s because I made the same mistake Murphy did.
Thought Felicity couldn’t handle herself.
Thought she needed a hero.
Saw her slug him after I was already moving. Couldn’t stop. Tried to twist like I would on a skate, but all it did was knock me down.
Twist my ankle.
Again.
Take me out.
For months.
“Ares?” Gracie knocks on the door.
She eyes my cast, winces, and creeps closer. Loki’s with her, on a leash. “Hey. We brought you cookies.”
Frey follows.
He doesn’t look at my cast.
Isn’t smiling.
Not like him. Grim doesn’t fit him. He’s always smiling.
Not now though. Because he knows.
He knows I’m not part of his line the rest of the season. And he knows how much that fucking sucks.
No.
Not sucks.
Sucks isn’t enough.
Loki leaps on the bed. The doctors and nurses and staff have their little freak-out. I glare at all of them.
Want to go home.
Fuck.
I don’t know where home is.
Got traded in late September. Bummed a room off Frey because he offered and we were both the new guys on the team. Helped watch out for Gracie too.