I breathe in and let it out in a whoosh.
Ren chuckles. “Not what I meant. Where are you?”
“Bed,” I say.
“Take your blankets and pillows and go into the living room. Do you have a heated blanket?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Bring that with you.”
Without question, I do as he says.
“You have a couch just under the windows that face your balcony, don’t you?” Ren asks.
“Yes.”
“Set up there. Plug in your blanket and turn it on.”
I arrange my bedding on the couch. The chill of the room makes the little hairs stand up all over my body. There are moments when I can’t help but glance behind me as if I’m sure that whatever woke me up is right there. Watching.
Not for the first time, I really need someone to wrap around me right now and tell me it’s okay.
It’s hard to convince my racing mind that even the muffled sound of my wind chimes can cut through this unease.
“I’m done,” I say quietly.
“Open your windows and crawl into the blankets,” Ren orders.
Taking a breath, I do. The cold December air rushes in as soon as I open the first pane. I shudder. My dick tries to draw up into my body.
When the second window is pushed open and the sounds of my wind chimes fill the room, I crawl under my blankets and hunker down to wait for instructions.
“Close your eyes, Fel.” His voice is smooth, quiet. Soothing. I sigh and close my eyes. “Breathe with me. Inhale and hold it for two seconds. Then release it slowly.”
I match my breathing to his, sure I can hear it only because he’s trying to breathe loudly.
It isn’t long before the quiet sounds of his breath and the wind chimes outside lull me to sleep again.
NINETEEN
REN
I’m pleasantlysurprised when Felton didn’t fall into a dark mood when we lost against Carolina two days ago. Our team definitely had an off night and couldn’t get the puck anywhere near the other goal for most of the first two periods. Honestly, we’re fortunate we made it onto the board at all.
Felton was back in goal tonight against Seattle and when the buzzer sounded at the end of the third period and he’d managed a shutout, the grin on his face said it all. He needed this. Not just to boost his confidence, but to prove to all the nasty voices in his head that he’s not what they say he is.
He’s a good fucking player. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. I follow him and the rest of our team into the visitor locker room. Wins are always exciting, but there’s something about beating a team on their home turf that really gets your blood pumping.
The locker room is extra rowdy when the team files in, and the excitement makes me smile. Coach Shively steps into the locker room and stripping slows as we listen to him. He’s probably one of my favorite coaches I’ve had to date. He’s a good guy, always remembering that his team is made up of people, not numbers on a jersey with a job to do.
He’s also stern when it comes to the job. There’s no room for slacking or half-hearted attempts at playing. I’ve seen men sit on the bench for a week because they were too lazy to put in effort during practice.
While I listen, I keep Felton in the corner of my eye. I’m not sure if he still needs it, but I asked that we share a room while we’re on this two-day away game streak. I’m not naïve enough to think that a few good days means he’s completely better. I’ve seen how easy it is for the switch inside him to flip and he begins a freefall into his internal dark pit of self-deprecation.
I’d really love to meet his parents one day. The little bit that Felton told me and the call that I overheard with his father on the phone tells me a lot about the environment he grew up in. Then there was the state he was in when he returned from Thanksgiving.
How do you treat someone like that? Your own child!
