“I have therapy at noon,” I tell her, “and then nothing at all.”
“How is that going?” she asks me softly, and I just smile at her. The minute she heard I left Trent, she opened up her home to me. I stayed with my parents for three days before I caved and took Ariella up on her offer to stay with her. I thought I would come and hang out with her for a couple of weeks, but now it’s going on three months and I am feeling like I need to get out of their hair. Which is what I’m going to be discussing with my therapist during this session.
“It’s going good,” I assure her. “I like her, so that’s a good thing.” I take my own bite of my sandwich. “I’m still working out not having what he says bother me.”
“Fuck that bitch,” she snaps, making me laugh.
“Yeah, well, I got a text from Cheryl the other day.” I mention one of the only people I still talk to from the hospital.
“What story is he making up this time?” she asks me and I laugh. The minute I left, he started the smear-Lexi campaign. It started with me being away at a spa, and then when I didn’t go back to him, he said I had a nervous breakdown from planning the fundraiser. When that story got old, he said I was traveling the world, finding myself. That he gave me everything on a silver platter, but all I did was throw it back in his face.
“He said I was going crazy because I couldn’t get pregnant, and I was taking extra hormones and that drove me crazy.”
I can’t help but laugh at the stupidity of him. “He’s something all right,” I mumble. “What about you? What do you have planned today?”
“I have a meeting with a new client who’s starting a new foundation,” she tells me, “at one thirty.”
“Do you want me to watch Jagger so you can go without having to worry?” I ask her and she looks over at me.
“Are you sure?” she asks and I can see the relief on her face. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.” I laugh at that.
“I literally have nothing to do. I mean, I was going to go online and search for houses.”
“Good, then that will stop you and you’ll never leave us,” she states as Jagger slips off of her breast. Her top falls to cover her as she places him over her shoulder and he turns his head to the side to sleep on her shoulder. “I’m going to go and take a shower. Leave the stuff, I’ll clean it after.” I nod at her, knowing there is no way I’m going to leave it. “I’m not kidding,” she warns softly, rubbing her son’s back. “I don’t know how I would have done these last couple of months without you.”
I blink away the tears. “You would have been just fine.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says. “I don’t want you to leave”—her voice trembles—“but I know you have to eventually.”
“Yeah,” I agree with her, “but just think about how much fun it’ll be. You get to help me pick and decorate a house.”
fourteen
Kirby
The last fifteen minutes of practice is always a scrimmage game. First team to score gets off the ice first. After a two-hour on-ice practice, plus the three hours off ice we did before, I’m ready to take a shower, collapse on my couch, and not move for the rest of the fucking day. The sweat pools at the top of my helmet as I skate around in a small circle at the blue line, looking over at Jaxon, who has his stick on the ice, both arms folded and leaning on the stick as he waits for the forwards to get into position.
“Knox,” Jaxon calls his name, “if we lose this because you’re skating like your grandmother, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“I’m getting better.” He moves his skates forward and back as he waits for Coach to drop the puck so we can start.
“I want to trade Knox for Lane!” I shout and Knox just side-eyes me. “You better fucking skate; we lost the last game because you thought you were having a heart attack.”
“My chest was hurting!” he yells back, defending himself.
“It’s all that fucking pasta and meat,” Jaxon declares. “Chicken, steak, fish. Broiled, no carbs.”
“You’re one to talk. You got here yesterday morning and you looked like you were six months pregnant,” Knox fights back.
“That’s Lexi’s fault; she made chicken parm. Don’t worry about the back of the house, worry about the front of the house.” The minute he says her name, my body feels like it’s being jolted. I hide my mouth with my gloves as I try and breathe normally. Did I sit in bed last night for a full two hours and pull up her name to text her? Why, yes, yes, I did. Did I write something and then delete it over a thousand times? Also, yes. Did I ever send anything? The answer is, fuck no.
I ended up reading and rereading our text thread, even though there was nothing personal there. The whole conversation was dry and just about the fundraiser, but I couldn’t help but recall all the conversations we had face-to-face, when I saw her slowly coming out of her shell. But then the only thing I could see in my head, replaying on repeat, was her face the night of the auction. The tears in her eyes as she held on to my arm, begging me to stop. I tossed my phone to the side, telling myself if she wanted to get in touch with me, she would have.
The whistle blowing has me grabbing my stick in both hands and then placing it on my upper thigh as the coach drops the puck and the battle at center ice begins. I watch Knox turn his body, blocking Lane from getting the puck, as he wins the face-off, passing the puck back to Jaxon, who receives it the middle of his blade. I start to skate up the ice with him, Knox, Patrick, and Mike, the rookie, and wait for him to skate into the zone to cross over the blue line. Jaxon looks straight ahead like he’s about to dump it in and lets them chase it, but with the flick of his wrist, he sends it across the ice to me. It shocks the other team, who doesn’t stop me at the blue line from skating in. Knox hustles to the front of the net and I raise my stick, about to slap shot it in, but instead I pass it over to Jaxon, who lifts his stick midair, and then with the perfect hand-eye coordination slaps it over the goalie’s shoulder and to the back of the net.
The whistle blows and Jaxon comes over to me, holding up his glove. “And that’s how it’s done.” He winks at Knox, who just stalks over to the bench huffing.
Taking off my gloves, I unsnap the chin strap and push the helmet back to sit on the top of my head as I walk down the tunnel and toward the locker room. I place my stick against the wall with all the other sticks before walking into the locker room. I toss one of my gloves into one of the big gray bins in the middle of the room.
