“Can I help you, ma’am?” I finally ask in my friendliest voice.
Her mouth parts, but she hesitates. “Are you dating Brayden?”
She knows Brayden? Maybe it’s because she follows the team. “Are you a fan?” I ask.
She snorts. “God, no. I’m an ex-girlfriend. I’m sorry for the snorts. I hope for your sake that he’s a lot better now than when I was with him.” Without another word, she turns toward the elderly lady and seems to help her pick fabric.
I’m left stunned, though. She has to have a lot of hurt or a big grudge or both to say something like that to me, right? She basically said he was terrible with her. A sinking feeling slams into my gut as I cut fabric for the lady with her, who by eavesdropping, I discover is her grandmother. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? I have enough doubts as it is without her unknowingly fueling the fire.
I’m tempted to text Brayden and say I ran into one of his ex-girlfriends. Where exactly would that conversation go? He’s already told me a different version than what Maryann said. Who’s to say he won’t continue with that? These thoughts plague me all day.
It may be Wednesday, but it sounds like Barday to me. I head straight to the closest bar after work. Things only worsen there. My first drink is in my hand for all of two seconds when a guy comes up to me, so close his chest touches my entire side. One glance at him is all it takes for my body to stiffen, not that he notices.
“Steven, what do you want?” Hello, bad decision, number I-lost-count.
“That’s no way to greet an old friend.” His grin makes me shiver from the creeps. Just because I liked him once, or at least liked him enough to fuck him, doesn’t mean he can’t gross me out now.
“Go away.”
His hand moves to rest on my mid-thigh and I immediately shove it off, which makes him laugh. He leans in even closer, his lips touching my ear and making me wish I could cut it off. “I’ve heard a rumor about you.”
“There are rumors about me?”
“Of course there are rumors about one of the city’s whores.” He says it so casually as if it’s so obvious and as if I should already know this. Steven was one of those guys who liked to call me names. Unfortunately, I let him get away with it far too many times. Between that and him knowing that I can’t stand it when he does call me a whore, he would say it even more.
“What’s the rumor, Steven?” I ask. The sooner I can get to the bottom of whatever he wants, the sooner he’ll go away.
“That my old whore has settled down. That you’ve turned into a one-man woman. That Brayden Hayes was the man to turn you.” Steven props an elbow on the bar and rests his chin in his hand. I want to smack his head right off. “Tell me, does Brayden know about your past?”
“What do you want if you already know the rumor is true?”
He grins. “To annoy the hell out of you.” With his free hand, he runs a finger down my jaw. “I have missed doing that.”
I shove his hand away. “Too bad.” There’s only so much I can take from Steven these days and I’ve reached my limit. Standing, I leave my half-empty glass of alcohol behind and head home.
How did I ever get involved with a guy like that? He has asshole stamped on his forehead. And that’s without opening his mouth. My forehead probably says worst decision maker, despite what Steven would say. He’d have whore plastered over my entire face. Sure, I’ve made some questionable decisions, including deciding to sleep around, but at the same time, I don’t regret that. I regret who I chose to sleep with more than the act of sleeping around.
I regret letting them get close. Duping me into thinking we were friends on a most basic level, or something more in some cases. I regret not paying attention to the subtle signs when I was being wronged. I regret my actions when it comes to guys like Zane.
“Hey, big fella,” I coo at Otis when I open the door to the house. He’s about the only boy I can count on these days. After our walk, I refill his food and water bowls and then head to my bedroom to change into something more comfortable. To further torture myself, I settle in on the couch to continue reading my mom’s diaries.
Half of the time, she’s complaining about how I slept around. The other half, she wished I’d get pregnant, only to turn around and say she would end up raising the kid because I’m clearly irresponsible. Thinking of my past choices, I shudder at the thought of having a baby with any of them. Only a handful would likely be good dads.
She talks the most about the quilt shop. How she thinks I’m mismanaging it, how I’m surely running it into the ground, and how pissed she is that Grandma left it to me and not her. Mom was never in the shop that I can remember. It’s always confused me why she wanted it so badly once Grandma died. Why the sudden interest in it?
Her diaries don’t tell me much.
I do uncover a horror. Did Dad read that she cheated on him? Did he make it this far? What am I supposed to do if he wants them back? Conveniently lose this one? Or maybe he knew and that explains his grouchiness. I don’t know.
After a few hours of reading and another walk with Otis, I head to bed. Seeing my birth control pills, I grab the package. I think it’s almost time to refill.
Wait. How is this possible? I could’ve sworn I was due for a refill soon, which would mean my period should be starting, but I just picked these up last week. Checking the date on my calendar, it was the same date as Brayden’s concussion. No wonder I forgot I picked them up.
But more importantly, where in the fuck is my period?
“Well?” she pushes. “Do you want kids?”
“Mom, what the fuck are you doing?”
I gulp. This is not happening. I don’t want kids. Mom never thought I could take care of one. I’m not ready for one. Brayden clearly doesn’t want one. No, no, no. Nope, I can’t deal with this. Brayden isn’t here. What am I going to do?
Without hesitating, I find a suitcase and start packing.
***
Deanna isn’t answering my texts. She’s had a full twenty-four hours to do so, too. Why would she ignore me? Things were back on track when I left. We’re out to eat at some fancy restaurant someone insisted on going to, but I can’t focus. Zane is on one side of me and EJ is on the other.
Feeling like a complete idiot, I decide to ask Zane a stupid question. “Hey, can I ask you something about Deanna?”
“Like what?”
“Did she ever ignore you?”
The beginning of a grin makes me want to punch him. “Sure, but it was either because she didn’t want to talk to me or because she was with someone else.”
“You’re a dick.”
He laughs. “You asked.”
She wouldn’t be with someone else, so that isn’t why she’s ignoring me. I’m almost completely certain of that. Turning to EJ, I say, “Can Raelynn do something for me? I’ll pay her whatever you pay her in a week.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you want her to do?”
“Go to Deanna’s work, talk to her, see what her mood is like.”
“Spy on her for you?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head, but pulls his phone out to text her. A moment later, he confirms that she’s out running errands and she’ll swing by the quilt shop for me. No pay needed. I was willing to double her week’s pay if she had said no. I’m that desperate to figure out what’s going on with Deanna.
Scotty sits across the table with Marco on one side and Serge on the other. Marco and Scotty seem to be quietly arguing over something.
“What’s wrong with you two?” I ask. Anything is better than thinking about Deanna right now.
“Nothing,” Scotty answers while Marco says, “We’re finally telling everyone the sex of the babies.”
Oh, that’s right. Their wives, Sylvia and Lizzy, are both pregnant. “Well? Which one of you is going first?” I direct the question at Scotty since he’s older.
He glances at Marc. “It doesn’t matter, I guess.”
> They have the table’s full attention now. “Just get on with it,” Bruiser rushes them.
“Scotty,” Marco quickly says. “It’s Sylvia’s first pregnancy, so Scotty can tell everyone first.”
Wait, what? Doesn’t he have that backward? I glance around, but I’m the only one confused and surprised by this. EJ leans over and whispers, “I’ll fill you in later; they talked about it a little when they announced the pregnancy.”
Got it. Scotty stands and takes a deep breath. “Come February, I will be the proud father of...” The guys rap their hands on the table, earning us glares from nearly everyone in the restaurant. “A little boy,” Scotty finishes with a proud grin. “My girls are all very excited, but so am I because I’ll be a little less outnumbered.” Scotty sits back down.
“Now, for Marco,” Rams says as he nudges Marc’s shoulder.
Marc stands and his grin is there before he even speaks. He waves his hand in the air and the drum roll comes once again. “It’s a boy and a girl! She’s having twins!”
“Way to go, Marco!” Cal shouts.
That means there will be three more little rebels coming to the family in a few months. In the past year, it expanded by three with Bruiser’s two kids and EJ’s baby. As long as the next person isn’t me, I’ll be happy for everyone.
“Hey.” EJ bumps his elbow against mine. “Raelynn said she stopped by the quilt shop. One of the employees said Deanna took a last-minute vacation and they don’t know when she’ll be back.”
A vacation? Last minute? I can see her freaking out and ignoring me, but why would Deanna abandon her job? She cares more about that than anything else. Something isn’t right. Something must be wrong and it must be big. It both worries me and pisses me off that she’s choosing to ignore me as a way of dealing with whatever it is.
To get my mind off of it, I ask EJ to tell me how this is Sylvia’s first pregnancy. Apparently, they adopted their girls from Lizzy after her husband died and she’s had fertility issues for a long time. Interesting and a bit confusing, but whatever. It’s not really any of my business. The table buzzes with happy energy over the news about the babies, but something seems off with Scotty. He’s happy, but he seems worried about something too.
When he decides to leave a bit early, I follow suit and catch up with him on the way out.
“Oh, hey, Brayden,” he says when I step in next to him.
“Hey. Congrats on the boy.”
“Thanks,” he smiles.
“Is everything okay?”
He shrugs. “They put Sylvia on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy. She’s freaked out now.” Scotty sighs. “We never thought we’d have a kid of our own, you know? I keep telling her that since she’s pregnant, things will be fine. That we’re not worrying about what ifs. But now, they’ve put her on bedrest and every time she calls me between now and when that baby boy comes, I’ll wonder if it’s a good call or a bad call.”
“I get it,” I say, though I’m sure I don’t understand it on the same level he does. After all, he’s the one going through it; I’m not. “We’re here for you, you know.” He nods. “And I’m sure the women won’t mind popping in and checking on her throughout the day.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. She might want to see someone other than our moms.”
I hope everything goes well for him. He’s a good guy and he definitely deserves it.
“Hayes!” Coach Mike shouts. “What the fuck are you doing out there? Your turnovers and penalties led to three goals!” All of this happened in one period. I’m not sure I’ve ever been singled out like this. At least, not so clearly in recent years. “Get your shit together!”
That’s what I said to Deanna, too. Maybe that’s what she’s doing. I hope so. Man, I wish I had my phone close by, so I could see if she’s checked in. Someone slaps me in the back of the head, sending my already hunched-over body forward. I glare over at EJ since he’s the only one making eye contact right now.
“What the fuck?”
“Focus. Be a fucking captain and not some lovesick puppy whose ass I wanna kick.”
All his comment does is remind me of my uneasiness at the beginning of this thing. This is exactly why I didn’t want to care about Deanna in the first place. She’s fucking with my head and it’s messing with my game. That is unacceptable.
Compartmentalization.
People do it all the time. For fuck’s sake, I have to be able to do it too. I take all thoughts of Deanna, all my worries, and shove them into a tiny box, which I then throw into the darkest place of my mind.
This is fucking stupid.
I’m on the bench for the start of the second and EJ pats my helmet. He points to the ice. Right, focus like the captain and hockey player I am. I glance up at the jumbotron and wince at the three-one score. I don’t even know who scored for us.
My blood settles. I did not come this far in my career for a fucking woman to screw it up. It might be one game, but that’s one game too many in my books.
Coach Mike sends my line onto the ice. We quickly gain possession and leave our zone. Scotty protects the puck from behind the net. Their goalie moves left to right, keeping an eye on him. In one swift moment, he passes it to where I am, right in front of the blue paint. A slight adjustment of my stick and it sails up in the air. The goalie is angled my way. He lifts his arm to block, but the puck deflects off his side and into the net.
My arms fly up into the air as the home crowd silences. “Fuck yeah, Scotty!” I give him a hug as the rest of the guys come over to celebrate. It’s not until we’re skating over to the bench that I realize I just truly celebrated a goal. My cheeks and mouth even feel weird from smiling. I should get pissed off and think less more often, I guess. Before I can think too much about whether people will realize I celebrated, and thus pay more attention to me, I shut my mind off and focus on the action on the ice. We still need another goal to tie.
That goal comes from EJ. But the tie is almost broken when a bad line change causes a Bruin to take off on a breakaway. Savage looks ready. The guy tries to go five-hole, but Savage shuts down that attempt and holds the puck.
Needless to say, the second period goes better than the first. The third even better. I score again and unthinkingly celebrate another goal. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but who cares? My hockey is benefiting from it.
I’m in my hotel room and I’m staring at all the unanswered texts to Deanna. What’s one more?
Me: You’re on vacation?
She wouldn’t expect me to know that, so maybe it’ll startle her enough to make her respond. I give her five minutes and nothing happens, so I set my phone aside and go to sleep. We have one more game before we go home. I plan to play good hockey. If she responds, she responds. One thing is for certain at this point, I won’t be seeing her on Sunday, even if she’s returned from her vacation.
She wants to do whatever it is she’s doing? Fine. She’ll either find me when she’s done or she won’t. My first priority will be hockey until I can’t stand it anymore and I give in and hunt her down. Thinking such a thing feels wrong, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m not home. Deanna apparently took off. Waiting seems to be my only option.
I don’t send any more texts, but Deanna finally responds Sunday morning, as if she was waiting for me to come home.
Deanna: Only at my grandma’s house.
What? She still has her grandma’s house or something? Why is she hiding out there?
Me: Do you want to see me? I don’t have time for whatever shit you’re pulling.
Maybe I shouldn’t have added that last part, but I’m pissed. All that anger I’ve been ignoring is suddenly back on the surface and raging hot.
Deanna: That looks like a trick question, to ask and then say you don’t have time.
Me: I’m tired. I have a game tonight. My time is limited today. My point is you need to quit fucking around with me.
The next text is an address. Nothing mor
e. I don’t waste time putting it into the GPS and driving over there. The house sits in the middle of nowhere, it seems. It’s the kind of house that needs a little work. Just looking at it makes me want to create a list of the minor work that needs to be done. Deanna opens the door as I open my car door and Otis runs out to greet me.
She doesn’t smile. For some reason, I expected as much.
“Did you bring me out here to break up with me or something?”
She shrugs. Shrugs! What the fuck does that even mean? It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. Deanna sits in one of the rocking chairs, the air not too terribly cold out here today. I sit in the one next to her, the wood groaning under my weight. My hand is still on Otis’s head, rubbing behind his ears. Safe to say he missed me at least.
“Why did you tell your employees you’re on vacation if you’re hiding out in your grandma’s house?”
“I needed a break and I come here sometimes when I need one. She left this to me, too.” She glances around at the yard and the porch.
“A break from what?”
“Everything.” Before I can ask her to elaborate, she says, “I met your ex-girlfriend.”
I frown. “Which ex-girlfriend?” There aren’t that many.
“I don’t know. She was in the store with her grandmother that day when you brought me lunch. She saw you, snorted when you promised to see me today, and said she hoped you were better now than you were with her.”
“Well, that’s not very helpful.”
“Did you treat all your ex-girlfriends badly?”
“No, but—”
She looks up at me with no emotion in her eyes. “Then how hard can it be? Maybe it’s the girl you kicked out of your house the last time you were injured.”
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