We live close to the arena, and everything is within walking distance. I can still get by in my anonymity, but every day—especially during the season—I get recognized more and more. It’s something that I’ve had to get used to, but I love it.
I get paid to play the sport that I desperately love, that I would be lost without. The one that’s gotten me through high school and my accounting degree, the one I could fall back on when I was down, when I was struggling with friends, and through the ups and downs of being with Frank.
I love the man. We’ve had some rough patches, but each time, we get back stronger and more in love.
He proposed to me a few months ago, a consolation prize after losing in the playoffs in the first round for the Walter Cup. It certainly was a bright spot that week, but it’s been six months now, and we’re not anywhere close to setting a date, let alone anything else we need.
I don’t even think he’s told his parents yet. That’s not odd; they don’t talk frequently. They’re not as close as my family. He was adopted pretty quickly when I first brought him home from university. My parents love him.s
s
The walk back to our apartment is lovely. The sun keeps me warm as the vodka tonic that I was drinking settles into my veins, making everything fuzzy and light. I feel completely at peace.
I’ll reach out to Rosie tomorrow to see how she’s doing, if she needs anything before training camp, andhopefully, Frank and I can get some details nailed down for the wedding.
I fumble with my key in the door, blinking away the bleary vision—the vodka has hit me harder than I expected—but it pushes open without me.Weird. Frank said he wasn’t going to be home until five, and it’s four thirty now. My blood freezes when something clatters inside my apartment.
I sneak in, grabbing my phone and trying to dial 9-1-1. My thumbs fumble, and my phone falls to the ground with a crunch.Well, that’s not optimal. The noise stops, and I realize it’s coming from the bedroom.Shit, they must’ve found my jewellery.
I look around and find an umbrella, brandishing it like a baseball bat as I move closer to the bedroom door, listening to the voices start to get a bit more concerned.
“Babe, don’t worry– There’s no one here. She’s not–”
“I swear I heard something.” The female voice is much more insistent, breathy, and my eye twitches a little. I know that voice; I’m sure of it.
“Do you want me to go and check?” The other voice is familiar, but it can’t be him. It’s deeper than Frank’s. This guy almost has a teasing tone to his voice.Shit, did they break in just to fuck?What kind of nightmare is this? “Because if I do, then you owe me,” he says.
I can hear the springs of the bed—my bed—move and then the small groan of the engineered floors as hegets up, moving towards the door. My heart pounds in my throat as I tighten my grip on the umbrella as I move closer to the door too, waiting for him to open up.
The door creaks open, and I swing the umbrella fast, with as much might as I can, and listen to him cry out before falling to the floor. The woman screams, and I listen to her scrambling off the bed.
“Who the—?” I hear him say, and as I look down my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. “Oh, shit.”
Frank sits in a crumpled heap, desperately trying to catch his breath. The woman in my bed is short, petite, blonde, and blue-eyed. She looks like a ballerina.
“Oh,” she says, gathering the sheet around her tits to cover up. “Hi.” It’s weak and awkward, desperately trying to say something that I can’t fathom.
I take the ring on my finger and, on autopilot, drop it at Frank’s knees. He tries to call out, but I take myself, my eyes, the umbrella, and leave.
I don’t seem to know where I am until I’m knocking on another door, a familiar one. When Brynn opens up, black hair tied up and her freckles prominently on display, I sniffle and a tear falls down my cheek. “Taylor?” she asks, “Are you okay?”
I shake my head, and she wraps her arm aroundme, holding me tightly against her.
“Can I stay here for a few days?” I ask and she nods.
At least this happened before the season started.
Two
Taylor
Brynn throws a dishtowel at me from the couch that I’m rotting on. It’s nearly been a week, I don’t have any desire to move back into my apartment, and I’ve slowly taken over her guest room. She did help me go get my phone and some clothes, and my gear, but she hasn’t prodded since then.
It was just the icing on the cake when the news broke that we had traded Rosie to the Calgary Chill, and got Eloise Harper and a second-round pick in this year’s draft.
The only thing that could be worse is if I died.
I’m serious.
