Players

by Rachel Cross

  She shook her head. “Is it because I was unavailable when I was on the road?”

  “No. Normal people can stay celibate for weeks or months or years in a committed relationship, Amy. It’s not about you,” he repeated.

  She knew he had issues, major issues, but she’d let herself believe he cared about her. That she was different, that they had something. And now he was pinning his infidelity on this? He said he was taking responsibility, but blaming it on some compulsion or addiction wasn’t taking responsibility. Nor was it telling her what she needed to know. What is it about me that couldn’t satisfy you?

  He spread his hands. “Amy, the relationship I had with you was unlike any I’ve had with a woman. I hadn’t experienced intimacy like that. Even the way we did it—missionary, you remember how much that freaked me out the first time? I never wanted that, and now that’s my favorite way to be close to you. To wrap you up in my body, while I’m so deep inside you, you pull every bad thing out.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Sex with you wasn’t shameful and didn’t leave me feeling empty afterward. I never made that connection before, maybe because I’ve never been capable of true intimacy. But in spite of that, I couldn’t control all the other shit . . . the temptation, the obsession. I wanted to—God! I quit the porn, stopped going to the sites—”

  “Porn?” What man with the kind of life he had used porn? Porn was for guys who couldn’t get laid, not guys like Shane who could win a national championship in a sexathalon.

  “Yeah. I’ve spent a lot of time online doing that. I stopped looking at it after we got serious. I told myself it was because I didn’t want you to have something pop up when you used my computer or catch me, but I stopped because I didn’t want to use it anymore. ”

  She was sure the shock and horror must be reflected on her face. Revulsion had replaced anger.

  “My attitudes toward sex are incredibly screwed up. It started back when TruAchord was touring. They’d have parties . . . ”

  Her stomach churned and she tried another sip of the Coke, her gaze never leaving his face.

  He rubbed a hand across his face. “Fans. Uh, women, though, not girls.”

  This had to be the sickest thing she’d ever heard. “Groupies?”

  He shrugged.

  “Oh my God. And your parents had nothing to say to this?”

  “My parents weren’t around. And the label didn’t want the legal problems of us dating underage girls when we were with TruAchord—‘cause you know, with our fan base . . . so they would facilitate . . . things.”

  She was sure the revulsion inside was reflected on her face. “Who did?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Well, the tour manager, people like that. And it was like parties, but yeah, we were all getting laid. I didn’t have a regular girlfriend until I was twenty. And you know what it’s like on the road, casual or nothing.”

  She nodded.

  “In my twenties, when I stopped traveling, I met people in clubs and stuff. But old habits die hard and when I got into something, I wasn’t faithful. Not to anyone for any length of time. I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t offer it, until you.”

  “That’s pathetic.”

  He nodded. “I thought I’d be able to give it up—all of it—when I met the right person. That love would fix what was wrong with me.” He looked up at her, his face drawn. “But it didn’t. And that’s not love’s fault, because I love you so fucking much, Amy.”

  She blanched. “You don’t love me like I loved you,” she whispered.

  He took her hand, his grip painful.

  She withdrew it with a wince.

  His expression was tortured. “I loved you then, and I love you now. More than anything. You’re the one who kept telling me how all the problems in my life—the naked picture, the paternity suit, the career problems, right down to my relationship with my sister and her husband—was all because I don’t have a healthy relationship with sex.” He took her hands again. “You were the one who pointed it out time after time, so why is it so hard for you to believe that it isn’t you or how much I love you?”

  Her lips twisted. She’d thought all his problems revolved around women—but it was deeper than that. The dots had all been there; she hadn’t connected them.

  “I know you must be so disgusted with me. Trust me, it pales in comparison to how ashamed I am. What I’ve become is . . . revolting. I knew when I was hanging over the abyss by my fingernails night after night while you were on the road that I’d hurt you. But if you believe nothing else I’m telling you, please believe that it wasn’t anything lacking in you. You’re amazing.”

  His voice broke and when he spoke again, it was hoarse. “You were dealt the same crappy hand I was, family-wise, and yet you’ve adapted and thrived. I’ve wallowed. If that picture hadn’t busted me . . . but I’m getting better.”

  She was already shaking her head. She couldn’t get sucked back into this. “The trust is gone, Shane.”

  But underneath the anger and humiliation and disgust was a tiny kernel of pity. There was something about the way he described hanging onto the edge of the cliff by his fingernails. The idea of him with other women, touching them while he professed to care for her—it made her want to hurl.

  And stab him with something.

  “I’ve tried over the years to be in relationships, and with me there are two options: open or over. I end stuff because I don’t want to cheat. And I’ve had some success with open relationships, but they usually go bad too. That wasn’t even something I considered with you, because the idea of you with another man sickens me.”

  “Yeah? Then you know how it feels.”

  He nodded. “I was in agony over Kyle for a long time.”

  She groaned. “For the love of God, Shane, we may as well be siblings.”

  “I know, I know. My head knows that, but I have a jealous streak a mile wide where you are concerned. The therapist has been quick to point out the irony.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t be with someone who can’t be faithful.”

  He looked gutted. There was no other word for it. He held up a shaking hand. “I think if I do the work, I can be . . . if you could—”

  “I’d like you to leave, please.”

  “I’m fixing it.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I can’t take that chance.”

  “Why not?” She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Because you don’t love me?” He released her hands.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. That wasn’t it. Despite everything she still loved him. Didn’t understand him, wanted to kill him, but she loved him.

  “My therapist thought you, of all people, might understand.”

  She recoiled. “Me? God, Shane, what did you tell him? I’ve slept with a handful of people but . . . but not like that.”

  “Not sex, your eating disorder.”

  His face crumpled as his gaze swept her body.

  She stared, uncomprehending.

  Oh.

  That’s why what he was saying sounded so familiar. The hanging on by the fingernails. This was no heartache diet, this was her anorexia and exercise bulimia rearing its ugly head again after all these years. She hadn’t taken her recovery seriously, not for a long time. She’d managed with a meeting or some calls here and there during the last few years. But the emotional toll of the end of her career, the cheating, her injury. How could she have missed this?

  She looked down at her body, seeing it, really seeing it for the first time. And it all fit together. The crazy self-talk she’d engaged in with her “I’m too heartbroken to eat” and “I’m not skating so I may as well kill myself with three-hour swims and extra physical therapy” excuses.

  Here she was, standing at the bottom of the mountain again, like she’d been at seventeen.

  My God. I’m right back to where I was before I left the circuit. Only this time instead of “if I were thinner, I could win it all,” it’s “my hip wouldn’t have
gone bad.” Or, “if I were thinner, he wouldn’t have cheated.”

  She barely recognized herself. How had she dropped so much weight so fast? And it was all a delusion. There was no control—not over food or exercise, not over him or her life—and the decisions about her future that had to be made.

  Who did she think she was to judge him? Or Becky for that matter. She was deeply mired in the mud of her addiction and denial.

  Tears filled her eyes as she stared at him.

  He knew, he must’ve seen it immediately.

  “I’m as fucked up as you are,” she said brokenly.

  Worry mixed with hope ignited in his indigo eyes and they bored into her. “I thought you might understand. No matter how much I love you, you aren’t going to fix what’s wrong with me, the way I can’t fix you. I have to do that work myself. The way you do. In therapy. With support.”

  He offered her another sip of the Coke and she took it.

  “There are support groups for sex addiction?”

  “My therapist suggested I avoid the groups and work one on one with him. He’s well-known in the field, but there is inpatient rehab—”

  “For sex?”

  His lips quirked briefly. “You don’t read the entertainment magazines, do you? I’ve known people in the industry who have been in rehab for sex addiction, gambling, you name it. The guy I’m seeing thinks we don’t need to go there, that sessions should get me where I need to be, if I’m willing to work at it. And I am. Please, Amy. Give me another chance. I can’t make too many promises here, but I love you and I’ll be honest with you.”

  Looking into that beautiful, ravaged face, she desperately wanted to trust him, believe him.

  He took her hand again, gently, staring down at her fingers.

  A shiver rode through her body, as she sat, paralyzed with indecision.

  He took a shuddering breath and looked up.

  “No promises?” she asked.

  “Other than my love for you and being honest with you about my feelings, the therapist advises against it.”

  Yeah. That’s pretty much how her program had worked. One day at a time.

  “I need time to process all this and . . . to get myself back on track.”

  He sat back on his heels and took her hand. “I know. Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here, when you’re ready—if you’re ready.”

  He came back an hour later with three sacks of groceries. She watched him from the window as he set them on the stoop. Then he returned to his car and drove off. Tears filled her eyes as she got out of the chair, the dizziness and fatigue making sense, and brought the food in.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  She walked into a quaint stucco cottage with the tiny sign on the front door listing the four counselors. She’d chosen someone at random, but when she’d called, the woman told her they had two specialists in eating disorders and compulsive and addictive behaviors. She settled herself on to the floral couch in a cheerful waiting room and played with her phone. She hadn’t been to therapy in ages. More than five years. Occasional meetings, journaling, and calls had been enough to keep her disorder at bay. Or so she’d thought.

  “Amy?” A tall woman in chinos and a Ramones t-shirt with a very short, chic gray hair came to the entryway of the hall. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth.”

  Amy shook her hand.

  “Follow me.”

  The woman ushered her into a room that was probably a bedroom at one time but now sported two well-worn comfy chairs and a loveseat separated by a coffee table with a box of tissue, a few coasters, and reading glasses. There was a small fridge and a coffee pot in one corner.

  “Can I get you anything?” Elizabeth asked, walking over to the fridge and opening the door. “I have coffee—just made. Water, soda?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  The woman grabbed a manila file from her desk. “I have your info here.” She put on her glasses and thumbed through the file. Frowning, she looked up at Amy.

  “I should tell you I know your name. Figure skating is a sport I follow.”

  She shrugged.

  “And I’m very familiar with some of the issues that plague athletes in your sport as well as dance, gymnastics.” She waved a hand. “So I want you to feel comfortable talking with me, Amy. You mentioned on the phone wanting a therapist who had treated people with eating disorders. I’m well-versed in that area and treat a number of patients with those same issues.” She leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye. “I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  She nodded, readjusting her position on the couch.

  By the time Amy walked out of her one-hour appointment that had turned into two, she was reeling. Apparently the woman was well-versed in everything. She’d helped couples and families deal with addictions of every type. So Shane’s claim was the real deal and not unique for all that. Elizabeth had classified him as a garden variety sex addict based on what Amy had relayed. The woman wasn’t shocked or horrified by anything Amy told her.

  Most importantly, this woman knew eating disorders, understood the control issues, and hadn’t let her leave without assurances of daily meetings and sponsorship.

  • • •

  Amy examined the attractive young woman standing on her porch through the screen. She met the woman’s eyes, then looked down at the little baby asleep in the carrier. That infant looked nothing like Shane with its slightly olive skin tone and dark, almost black hair. The baby didn’t look anything like the girl standing in front of her either. The paternity test was a technicality, but he probably hadn’t known that. Had the girl?

  “I’m not with him,” Amy said.

  “I know,” the young woman said softly, shifting her feet.

  She couldn’t leave them out on her porch. She pushed open the screen door. “C’mon in.”

  The woman picked up the carrier, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby, and brought her into the living room. “Pets?”

  Amy shook her head.

  “Can we go out on the porch and talk?”

  Amy looked in askance at the child.

  “She ate an hour ago. We both did. She’ll sleep for a while yet.”

  The hostess in her would not be suppressed—even for Shane’s ex-lover. “Get you anything? Water? Coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d love a coffee, but I’ll drink water.” The woman pulled a canister out of her bag. Amy led the way to the porch and curled up into the wicker chair, pulling her legs up under her chin.

  The other woman sat. “I’m Kayla.”

  “Amy.”

  They studied each other in silence.

  “I hear you’re a great skater.”

  She shook her head and attempted a smile through stiff lips. “Gross exaggeration.”

  The silence lengthened and grew painful.

  Amy studied her knees, avoiding looking at the woman opposite her. Kayla was beautiful. Her body, fantastic. Skinny with huge breasts—but maybe that was from nursing? She pushed those thoughts away. It was one thing to know about Shane’s past. It was another thing to have it sitting in all its glory on her front porch. And was it his past?

  “So, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  She met her stare evenly. “Yep.”

  “Shane’s been . . . helping me out.”

  Her stomach lurched and nausea overwhelmed her. She took a few calming breaths. When she spoke her voice shook. “I thought the baby wasn’t his.”

  Kayla frowned. “It isn’t. He’s helping me because . . . well, I don’t know why he’s helping me.”

  Amy looked her up and down, eyebrows raised.

  The other woman chortled. “That? Please. As if I’d want a guy near me now. No, you misunderstand. He came to see me two months ago to scream at me for ruining his life.”

  “Oh?” Amy rubbed damp palms on her jeans.

  “Yeah. He showed up at my place after I had to drop the lawsuit. He was furious. And I was so exhausted, I didn
’t give a shit, you know? And I felt bad about what I did to him so I let him get it off his chest,” she said candidly. “I knew it probably wasn’t his baby early on. I wanted it to be—I needed the money and I figured he might pay me to keep quiet. There was that busted condom. And I read the papers; I knew you guys broke up.”

  “You weren’t the reason we broke up.”

  “No?” She looked puzzled, then the light dawned. “Oh. Yeah. The pictures with that girl?” She shrugged. “Some guys, that’s how they deal with their shit—the stress or whatever. I’m not giving him a pass or anything, but I think what I did—the lawsuit, refusing to get the blood test—it ate at him and he freaked out. God, you should have seen him when he came to visit me—sweating and shaking and enraged.” She shrugged. “What a mess. Look, I’m not doing this very well, I haven’t slept more than three hours in an age and it’s hard to string two words together.”

  “If it’s not his baby, why is he helping you?”

  The woman frowned at whatever she saw on Amy’s face. “Not because he wants me or something. Believe me, he doesn’t. And he doesn’t owe me anything since Jazmin’s not his. For some reason, he decided to help me out. Pity? Kindness? I don’t know. He found me a guest house on his friend’s property. The friend is never there—I think he’s in Vegas? Anyway, Shane’s friend made me the property manager or some bullshit like that. But basically I live there for free. It’s not forever. The guy will probably sell, but the market for mansions tanked apparently, so he had it on, now he’s taken it off. In the meantime it’s more than I could have ever dreamed of. A safe neighborhood and part-time job where I can take care of my kid and feed us. Shane put a nursery in the second bedroom—got all the stuff. All of it. I had nothing. I mean, can you see him at Babies R Us?”

  She leaned forward, her eyes locked on Kayla.

  “So I fucked up his life and this is what he does for me. Helping some girl he doesn’t know who tried to screw him over—a couple of times actually. I tried to get a naked picture of him that night.”