“I know.” He averts his gaze, heaves a deep breath and loosens his tie a little. “Jesus, how did this conversation get so heavy. Can we change the subject?”
“Go to your mixer.” I give him a peck on the cheek and hang my coat on the antique coatrack before I head through the living room into the kitchen. I open the cupboards and examine the contents waiting for the sound of the front door opening and closing. It doesn’t come. And a second later I hear the oak floorboards creek and his hands are on my hips as he gazes into the cupboard from over my shoulder.
“We could order sushi,” he suggests.
I shrug. “Honestly, Victor, if you want to go to the mixer, go. It’s fine. I swear. I’ve had a long day and I’ll probably just make mac and cheese and go to bed.”
“But you love those spicy shrimp rolls at the place on the corner,” he reminds me and I glance over my shoulder at him. He gives me his best dashing smile and squeezes my hips. “Screw the mixer.”
I feel lighter. Like maybe things are turning around. God I hope so. I don’t deal well with giant upheaval or changes. It comes from all the upheaval and changes I faced when I was little. I’ve been to psychologists my whole life, my parents were very proactive knowing my past. I knew even before I became a professional myself that I tend to hang on to things—people—longer than I should because my childhood traumas made me feel like jumping out of the frying pan always meant you landed in the fryer. Of course knowing my issues and actually facing them are two different things. So I smile back at Victor and hunt around in my junk drawer for the menu from the sushi place.
Chapter 5
Alex
Iwake up screaming. I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming, but my throat is raw so I’m guessing it was a while. The sheets are damp with sweat and twisted around my legs. I know without even looking that I’ve dug my fingernails into my palms again and they’re bleeding. I can feel the sting and sticky dampness of the blood. I struggle to get air into my lungs and reach for the bedside lamp. I squint against the light and stare at my palms. There are little half-moon fingernail imprints across them both. Only a couple on each palm broke the skin though and they’re not too deep, but there is blood and it’s on the hotel sheets too.
Fuck.I am so sick of this.
The nightmare is the same as it’s been since I was eight. I’m trapped in that damn concrete room—the “time-out room” as the foster monsters used to call it—and it’s cold and for some reason it shrinks. And shrinks. And it makes me call out for help because I’m panicked and it won’t stop shrinking. And I’m crying and I’m terrified and then all the concrete—all the walls and the ceiling are pressing into every part of me, cold and hard, and I scream.
The thing that always makes me angry after the dreams is that I’m calling for help. I learned in the first couple of weeks of being at that foster home that there was no help. I always sat silently for the hours, sometimes all day, that I was in there. I didn’t cry and I didn’t call for help. But in my dream I do, and I even sometimes know I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.
I sit up, untangle myself from the sheets and head to the bathroom. I leave the light off, but it’s not completely dark because the bedside light is filtering in through the open door. As I’m running my hands through the water to clean the small wounds, there’s a firm knock on my door. I yank off a bunch of toilet paper and press it into my left palm because it’s got the most cuts and then grab a towel and wipe my right hand on it. There’s another firm knock. I’m only wearing my underwear so I grab the complimentary bathrobe off the back of the door and throw it on.
I’m just about to open the door when it starts to open for me and one of the hotel’s security guards is standing there. He looks startled to see me. I’m annoyed to see him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larue. We normally would never enter your room without permission. However, we called and you didn’t answer.”
“I was sleeping,” I reply tersely and shove the bloody toilet paper in the pocket of the robe before crossing my arms. “I sleep deeply.”
“Oh. Again, apologies, it’s just that we had a noise complaint,” he explains and starts to look a little uncomfortable and I know exactly why he’s here. Someone heard me screaming.
“The screaming?” I question and he nods. “Yeah, I fell asleep with the television on and I guess there was some cheesy horror movie on. It woke me up too.”
“Oh. Okay.” He glances toward the television, which is clearly off, but as far as he’s concerned it’s because I shut it off. “Again we’re sorry to bother you but when you didn’t answer the phone and someone reports screaming we have to—”
“Yeah. Sure. No problem,” I cut him off. “I’d like to go back to bed now.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good rest of your night.” He leaves, closing the door behind him. I throw the latch on the door so he can’t just walk in again if I fall back asleep and start screaming again. It’s doubtful that’ll happen anyway. I glance at the clock. It’s four in the morning. I got four hours sleep. Oh well. Better than nothing. I’m meeting Kristi for the keys to my new apartment at ten.
I shrug out of the robe, leaving it on the floor and throw on some sweats, a hoodie and my sneakers. Might as well go for a run. Staying in this tiny room isn’t going to stop the nightmares from coming again if I go back to sleep. I hadn’t had one in almost two weeks, but I know that incident in the closet with Brie triggered it. I really wasn’t trying to be an asshole about not helping her. I just can’t do confined spaces. That closet didn’t have concrete walls and wasn’t in a dank root cellar, but it was the same long, narrow shape and…I just couldn’t. I should have told her I was claustrophobic, but that woman is so damn judgmental.
I grab my iPod and headphones and leave the hotel. It’s colder than I anticipated. Locals probably wouldn’t find it cold at all, but I still have California blood from living in San Diego. I suck it up and start to jog. I head straight for the bridge so I can run to Manhattan. I can’t wait to live there. As much as I love my teammates—and I honestly do—I don’t think living near them is the best thing. Being a third wheel is fine in small doses, but now there’s no Jordan without Jessie, Devin without Callie, Luc without Rose. The girls are all fantastic, truly, but they don’t want me around all the time and I don’t want to be around all the time.
It’s not that it’s hard seeing them all in love and everything. It isn’t. I don’t miss what I’ve never had. But it’s a distinct reminder that my life—these friends I’ve considered family—are getting their own families and I’m not. I’m happy for them. I’m just not particularly looking forward to the next phase of my life.
I’m fucking thirty. And I’m feeling thirty. Late nights before a practice or a game affect me now. I’m sluggish and achy and foggy mentally. Also, I’m kind of over the puck bunny thing. I’d never admit that to the guys, because I have a reputation to uphold but yeah…not feeling it anymore.
I jog across the bridge and then slow to a walk. I don’t want to overexert myself because I have practice this afternoon. I’m run-walking for about an hour and stumble across a Dunkin’ Donuts. I head inside and order a coffee and a Boston Kreme donut. I sit at the small counter against the window and scarf down the donut, then order one more and take it with me, gulping down the last of my coffee and tossing it in the trash can as I exit.
The city is getting busier. Of course it wasn’t exactly empty when I started this run, even at four in the morning. With any luck, the city is lively enough to meet some new single friends. Maybe. Hopefully.
I decide I’m going to grab the subway home so I wander down the block in the general direction I think it might be. The music in my ears suddenly disappears. I pull my iPod from my pocket and see the battery is dead. Damn it. Well at least it didn’t crap out on my run. As I start to pull my earbuds out I hear a female voice—loud and firm. “Don’t!”
I stop and look around. There’s a woman walking about ten feet ahead of me, but she’s by herself. Across the street there’s a guy in a business suit and another one a few feet back in jeans. No other women though.
“Stop!”
Same voice, only this time it’s louder and filled with fear. And I can tell it’s coming from behind me. I start walking backward. One step. Two steps. On the third step I’m parallel with an alley. Halfway down it I see this big, hulking dude leaning over a very skinny, scraggly-haired woman. She’s pressed against the side of the building and he’s grabbed her by the arm of her ripped puffy coat. He’s speaking, but his voice is low and I can’t make out the words, only a rumbling sound.
