by S. R. Grey
“I knew he kept these!” I exclaim.
Instead of tossing the lacy undergarment into my bag, I leave them where they are. He may as well keep his pervy reminder of the morning we first met.
A short while later, I place my key to his house on a table by the door.
And then I leave.
I don’t write a note or a letter.
I don’t need to, as I’ve already left my heart behind.
I’m Numb, But Not Comfortably So
When I return from practice, Aubrey is gone.
There’s no note, but I view that as a good sign. Maybe I’m delusional, but I don’t think we’re done.
Still, I’m numb as I walk around in the house. My home has never felt so fucking empty. Aubrey gave this place life, with her laughter and her love.
“God, I miss her already.”
As the days pass, I miss her more and more. And I never stop loving her. I want to pick up the phone and call, but I don’t want to cause her any more grief. If she feels anything like me, though, she probably has a big hole in her heart too. Mine is tearing me to pieces.
I finally decide to fill that hole with the only good things I have left—drive and determination. Maybe if I show Aubrey how she really changed me for the better, she’ll say “fuck the contract” and come back.
With newfound hope in my heart I start playing better hockey than ever before. We win game after game and easily move back into first place in our division.
“I hope Aubrey’s watching all these games,” I confide to Benny one night after a particularly satisfying victory. “If she is, I bet I end up hearing from her soon.”
We’re in the locker room, and Benny just stares over at me. “Dude…” He sighs and shakes his head.
“What?”
He gives me this most sorrowful look, like I’m a lost cause. Maybe that’s not it, though. I know he’s still pissed at me for fucking things up. Aubrey was not only the best hockey student he ever had, but she was also his bud. Believe it or not, I think Nolan misses her too. More likely, he misses their verbal sparring. But I know he feels some kind of loss, seeing as at the end of a long plane trip out to a game in New York City, he starts in on me about how traveling is so fucking boring now that he has no one to ride me about.
“We need to find you someone new,” he says, teasing. “Maybe the team can hire another life coach.”
Joking aside, I take that shit seriously.
“I’m not interested in any other women,” I snap, making all the players seated around us turn and look.
Once they resume what they’re doing, and their eyes are off me, I hiss, “For the record, I sure as fuck don’t ever need another goddamn life coach.”
He pauses for a beat, and then says, “Eh, maybe not. But what you do need is to get out more. Come with us tonight. Breeze has a friend who just opened a new club in the city.”
Breeze is from Russia originally, but he has a lot of friends out on the East Coast, especially in New York City.
I think about joining them, but in the end, once we’re checked in our hotel, I decline.
“I think I’m going to stay in my room and watch highlights from the last game we played against the Rangers,” I tell Nolan when he calls my room. “There are a few plays I’d like to dissect, maybe figure out how we can do better.”
“Isn’t that Coach’s job?” Nolan replies dryly.
“It’s my job too,” I counter. “I’m captain of this team, remember?”
I’m deflecting, and he knows it. “Whatever, Oliver,” he retorts.
He disconnects, and that’s the end of that.
So here I sit, dissecting footage of plays, and still miserable as hell. I’m still doing all this for Aubrey, still hoping that if I show her all the time she spent with me wasn’t a waste she’ll see that falling in love with me wasn’t a mistake.
She’s bound to recognize that eventually, right?
Of course she is. She just needs time to sort things out. I suspect I’ll hear from her once she sees the light.
Though, I sure hope she comes around before the holidays, which are quickly approaching. If she does maybe we can still spend Christmas together like we originally planned.
That’s what I tell myself day after day.
And that’s what keeps me going—my house of cards, built on a shaky foundation.
But as Christmas nears, and I’ve still not heard a word from her, I finally begin to lose hope.
Moving On Sucks
Life without Brent is hard.
The first thing I do when I’m back at my townhouse is go up to my bedroom and pick up the pillow he slept on after our day of nonstop sex.
Inhaling deeply, I murmur, “Thank God it still smells like him.”
I’ve never been happier that this place has been closed up, preserving all the scents and memories from our visit in October. Even Al is still on the floor, crumpled to where we tossed him in the heat of passion.
I pick him up and laugh. “I can’t believe Brent was jealous of you.” The bright green alligator stares back at me, and I smile sadly. “How ridiculous that he thought you were a real guy, and that Lainey and I shared you.”
I start laughing at the silliness of it, but soon my laughter turns to sobbing.
Curling up on my bed with the stuffed toy held close to my heart, I cry out, “I miss him so much, Al. What am I going to do?”
Depressed, I hole up in my place and do nothing but watch hockey. I immerse myself in the NHL channel, watching every game and all the coverage. What I live for, though, are the Wolves games.
I also monitor every move Brent makes off the ice. It’s as if I’m still his life coach. To my relief, there are no reports of crazy shenanigans, and he plays phenomenal hockey. A few paparazzi shots turn up one night. They’re pics of Nolan, Benny, and Breeze hitting the town in New York City, going into some new club. Nothing looks out of the ordinary; they’re just guys out for a night. Even the club they’re going to looks rather tame.
Everyone is clearly behaving. And it shows in their play. The team holds on strongly to first place in the standings.
The week before Christmas—a holiday I’m not celebrating now on account of my broken heart and the fact that I was supposed to spend the day with Brent—my boss calls.
“It looks like we found you a new client,” he says. “I’d like you to fly out to Los Angeles the first week in January to meet him.”
I’m torn by this news, caught between wanting to move on with life and wanting to stay in this state of inertia where I have all the time in the world to focus on Brent.
“Aubrey, are you there?” my boss asks.
“Yes, yes.” I draw in a breath, then release it slowly. Guess it’s time to move on, whether I want to or not. “LA, huh?” I say with no enthusiasm whatsoever. “Is the new client an actor, then?”
“You know we like to keep those details confidential till you’re actually on the job.”
“Because that worked out so well last time,” I can’t resist retorting.
My boss huffs. “Ms. Shelburne, that was inappropriate.”
If only he knew how inappropriate I really was in Vegas—falling for Brent, fucking Brent. I almost tell him everything, since it’s messing me up, this keeping it in. But in the end I do no such thing. I simply say, “Sorry.”
He forgives my indiscretion, and we wrap up the conversation shortly thereafter. With that out of the way, I turn on the TV and search for tonight’s Wolves game.
Settling in on the sofa, I watch the man I love play amazing hockey. He scores a goal and racks up four assists, and that’s just after two periods of play.
He’s fine without me. So I should be fine without him, right?
Lots of people go on with their lives with broken hearts.
Brent sure seems to be doing that.
Why can’t I?
By the third period, it’s clear the team will win this game. It takes all I�
��ve got, but I make myself turn off the TV. It’s the first time I’ve done such a thing since I’ve been back in Chicago.
“It’ll be a new year soon,” I remind myself. “And that means it’s time to move on.”
But God, I don’t want to.
Every fiber of my being fights it, but I force myself to do what I must in order to move forward with my life—I let go of Brent Oliver for good.
Mother Knows Best
We win the last game before the holidays, and then we go on what amounts to a mini-break. There’s not another game till two days after Christmas.
It doesn’t always work out this way, but I’m glad it has this year. I was supposed to spend this time with Aubrey, but since I haven’t heard from her I can only assume she doesn’t want me in her life anymore. She was serious about us being over.
With no hockey to immerse myself in to distract me, I feel like crap. I decide to go home to Minneapolis to spend the holiday with my parents. My dad still isn’t feeling well, so maybe a visit from me will be good for him. That stubborn bastard refuses to see a doctor, according to my mom. I’m hoping maybe I can talk some sense into him if I’m up there.
Unfortunately, I never get the chance.
When the plane lands in Minneapolis, I discover I have twenty-eight messages waiting for me—an assortment of texts and voice mails—all from my mom.
I check the texts first, and they’re enough to start my heart racing.
Call home immediately, Brent.
It’s an emergency.
Son, please, get back to me as soon as you can.
And then I reach the one that throat punches me: This is regarding Dad. Something terrible has happened.
I grab a cab, and on the way to my parents’ house, which isn’t far from my lake house, I call my mom.
“Oh, Brent,” she cries into the phone. “Thank God you’re finally getting back to me.”
“Mom, Mom.” I’m frantic. “I was on a plane and had no idea you were messaging me. But I’m here in Minneapolis now, heading to the house. What’s going on with Dad?”
I hear her sniffle and then, “He had chest pain early this morning, but he blew it off as heartburn. We started putting up the Christmas tree, at his insistence, and he suddenly keeled over. Oh, Brent…” My mom chokes out a sob, and I suck in a stunned breath.
“Mom, where’s Dad now?”
I’m scared to hear her answer. What if he’s gone? God, I’d never forgive myself for not being there.
Thankfully, though still disturbing, my mom says, “He’s at the hospital, Brent. Your father had a heart attack.”
“Jesus, Mom.”
“I know, honey, I know. But the good news is he’s stabilized. I’m with him right now.”
“Where are you? Lakeside General?”
It’s the closest hospital to my parents’ house, so that would make sense.
“Yes,” she confirms.
I lean forward and redirect the cabbie to that location instead of their house.
“I’ll be there soon, okay?” I say.
“Hurry, Brent. He’s been asking for you.”
I promise the cabbie an extra twenty if he gets me there fast.
Eight minutes later I’m at the hospital. My dad looks terrible. He’s only in his fifties, but today he looks seventy. I can’t believe how gaunt and pale he is. Where’s the strong man I remember from my youth? Even a few months ago he didn’t look like this.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask the cardiac surgeon when he comes by to check in on my father.
He hustles me outside the room, and Mom follows. Leading us to a private lounge where we can talk, he tells us some decisions have to be made.
Fuck. This can’t be good.
The surgeon takes a seat across the table from me and my mom. Clearing his throat, he says, “As you know, Mr. Oliver suffered a very serious heart attack today.”
Mom, though this is not news, gasps. I grab her hand, and she smiles over at me.
“Mr. Oliver is stabilized now,” the doctor is quick to add. “But imaging shows us he has multiple blockages.”
Now it’s my turn to suck in some air. Mom squeezes my hand.
“Those blockages are what’s causing the chest pain and contributing to his general feeling of malaise,” the surgeon goes on. “That’s why Mr. Oliver hasn’t been feeling well for a while now. But we can remedy that. He needs to have this condition treated, and soon. Unfortunately, I’m ruling out angioplasty—”
“What’s that?” my mom interjects.
“It’s a less-invasive procedure that essentially involves threading a balloon up to the blocked artery and inflating it to allow for more normal blood flow.”
“And that not an option, why?” I ask.
“There are too many blockages, and some are quite severe.”
“What can be done, then?” my mom inquires, her tone shaky.
The surgeon smiles empathetically. “Your husband needs coronary artery bypass surgery. What that means is we’ll create a new pathway away from the blocked artery to improve blood flow to his heart.”
“That sounds very serious,” my poor mom whispers. Looking down, her dark hair falls in such a way to frame her face.
“It is very serious,” the doctor confirms. “But the long-term outcomes are very positive. If all goes well, your husband can still expect to live a long and happy life.”
“When can my father have this surgery?” I ask.
“Day after tomorrow,” the surgeon replies.
“That’s Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, it is. We’ll schedule Mr. Oliver for the first surgery that morning.”
Mom sighs, relieved I’m sure that help is on the way. I, however, remain unsettled.
When Mom returns to Dad’s room, I wait out in the hall. I don’t want my father seeing me messed up like I am right now.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
I feel so damn alone. I need someone to talk to. If I could just share all the fear I’m feeling I might be okay. But I can’t put this on my mother; she has enough to bear. If Aubrey were still my girlfriend I’d lean on her.
Shit, I wish she were here. I could use her style of comforting. She’d tell me everything is going to be okay, and she’d make it feel like it really would be. That’s how she made me believe in myself. Well that and the occasional kick in the ass.
Mom comes back out of Dad’s room and informs me he’s sleeping and that she’s going to grab a coffee since it promises to be a long night.
Eyeing me intently, her eyes the same color as mine, she says softly, “Can I talk to you about something, Brent?”
I nod. “Of course, Mom.”
She gestures to a row of vending machines down the hall, beckoning for me to follow. “Come. Walk with me.”
As we walk, she asks me about Aubrey. “Why isn’t she here with you, honey?”
I never told my parents that we’re finished. The plan was that after we spent Christmas with the Shelburnes, we were to come up here to Minnesota. I only told my mom that plans had changed. I never specified why.
I have no choice now but to fess up now. “Mom, Aubrey and I are done.”
My wise mother retorts, “From that tone, it doesn’t sound like you’re done.”
We stop, and she levels me with a single look—you know that look, the one only moms can give to make you feel about two inches tall.
“Mom,” I begin, sighing. “Aubrey doesn’t want me, okay? But it’s all my fault. I screwed up big time.”
“So fix it,” she says. “Relationships are messy things, Brent. It’s not all good times and happy days. Look at what’s happening with your father right now.”
“That’s totally different,” I counter. “Dad’s sick. Aubrey left me. Though, like I said, she had a good reason.”
“Brent, whatever happened between you two, it’s just a different kind of adversity. How we handle the bad things in life is what defines us
.” She pauses, then asks, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you love Aubrey?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then go get her, son. Tell her what’s happening. Let her know that you need her. If she loves you, she’ll forgive whatever happened enough to come back to Minnesota with you. She should be here with you for your father’s surgery. You can figure out everything else later.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” I murmur, thinking of the addendum in that fucking contract.
“It’s as complicated as you make it,” Mom says. “Go get your girl, Brent.”
She’s right.
To hell with the contract. To hell with the team and their ridiculous demands. My dad is sick, and I need Aubrey. Damn it, I love Aubrey. And I don’t want to spend another day without her.
It’s time to do what Mom just suggested. It’s something I should have done from the start.
It’s time to go get my girl.
A Surprise Arrival
My damn stubborn sister won’t leave me alone for the holiday. At my parents’ insistence, Lainey arrives at my townhouse two days before Christmas.
“No more pouting,” she declares not five minutes after walking through the door. “Look at this place.” She gestures around wildly. “You don’t even have a tree. Mr. Whiskey Eyes may be gone from your life, but that doesn’t mean life is over.”
That’s debatable.
“I should never have told you we broke up,” I complain as she drags me up to the shower.
She turns on the water, and I sit down on the closed toilet seat.
“Look, Aubrey.” She points to the pulsating flow coming from the shower head. It does look inviting. “This is water. It’ll make you clean. All you need to do is stand under that little nozzle thing. Maybe even add a little soap, and watch the magic happen.”
“Ha-ha. Smartass,” I retort, though I do grudgingly give her a smile.
I haven’t showered in days, but Lainey has me considering it.
When she heads for the door to leave me alone, it’s not without a warning. “I’m checking back in here in five minutes. You better be in that shower, Aubrey, or I swear I will drag your ass in there.”