“It’s going to take time, Devin,” Ashleigh replies as she places Conner on the ground. He wraps his arms around her leg, not wanting to let go of his mother, but at least his sobs are slowly halting.
“Maybe,” I reply and catch her eye. “But maybe it’s a sign we shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be putting our son through this.”
“Devin, please,” she says in her frustrated voice—the only one I’ve heard come out of her mouth for months. She presses her lips together in a tight line and bends down, rubbing our son’s back gently. “Conner, honey, can you go into the den and play with your Legos?”
He sniffs but nods and untangles himself from her legs and shuffles off. He glances back at me and gives me a wave and a feeble smile. My heart starts to crumble once again and I run a hand through my hair in aggravation.
“He just isn’t adjusting,” I say firmly and lean on the doorframe, because she hasn’t invited me in—to my own fucking house. “If you let me stay in the fucking guest room, like before, he would at least be able to sleep at night.”
“He sleeps fine here,” she counters, but I know that’s not completely true. She’s had to call me several times at night to talk to him over speakerphone and calm him down. He wants his daddy to tuck him in when he’s with her and he wants his mommy to tuck him in when he’s with me. “And you moving back in defeats the purpose of giving each other some space to figure this out.”
“Space isn’t going to figure this out,” I shoot back harshly. “Counseling and effort and compromise is what’s going to fix this.”
“Callie called.” Ashleigh changes the subject abruptly, tucking her long hair behind her ears. “She took a job on a show that’s going to film here.”
“What?” I’m stunned.
“She’s moving here. New Jersey area, I think. And she wants to see us,” Ashleigh continues.
“When? For how long?” I’m even more aggravated than before. This is not what I need right now.
“I don’t know. She didn’t say in the message and I haven’t called her back,” Ashleigh replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not going to lie anymore, Devin.”
I want to punch the shit out of something—not her, of course, but a wall or a door or something. I haven’t told my parents or even my brothers that Ashleigh asked me to move out for a bit. I didn’twantto tell them either. They would make a big deal out of it. Or, more accurately, they would make me face the reality that it was, in fact, a big fucking deal.
“I’ll handle it,” I say swiftly.
“Devin…”
“I should go before Conner comes back,” I say flatly, holding back the anger and pain that’s building inside me. “I have an early practice tomorrow, and if he sees me leave, he’ll flip out again.”
Ashleigh does nothing but nod her head gently. I turn and head back down the stairs. I call Callie on my cell as I walk back toward the three-bedroom brownstone I started renting a few weeks ago when Ashleigh told me she needed space for a while. Callie’s voicemail picks up and I curse, but I curb my frustration when I hear the beep.
“Hey, Callie! Ashleigh mentioned you called. You’re coming to Brooklyn?” I swallow and work hard to keep my voice cheerful. It sounds forced, even to me. “Why don’t you call me back on my cell and we’ll make plans to hang out. Make sure you call my cell, okay? Thanks!”
I disconnect and sigh. How did my life end up here?
I wander the streets aimlessly. Brooklyn is quiet on this fall night with only a few people walking by me. A block before my rental home, I turn left and head for one of the busier commercial streets toward a place I’ve been going a lot lately—a pub. I can’t go back to that townhouse. I hate it there as much as Conner does. Maybe more. If I could get away with throwing a fit and crying my eyes out—if I thought that would make Ashleigh stop this bullshit—I would.
Does she really not love me anymore?
Shehasto still love me; otherwise, she would just ask for a divorce. She never would have come back here with me this season. She would have stayed in Silver Bay…right? But even if she loves me, does it even matter at this point?
Do I still love her?
I love the child she gave me and I love the vision we both once had for our life together. I wanted that vision to be a reality. I always wanted that. But can I say, without a doubt, that I still love her? No. But Iwantto love her again and I want to make it work, because divorce is failure, and I’m not ready for failure. That’s all I can say right now.
I walk in and take a seat at the glossy, dark wood bar. Vinnie, the bartender, gives me a friendly smile. It’s sad that I know his name. It’s sadder that he pours me a Sam Adams lager without me even having to ask. I smile gratefully and take a sip.
I still blame myself a lot for ending up here. I knew Ashleigh’s first year in Brooklyn had been rough. She hated how big the city was and wasn’t comfortable being left for road trips. She missed her family and friends like crazy. I’d spent thousands of dollars flying her loved ones out to spend time with her, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted me to be there more and there was just no way I could make that happen.
She’d worked through it. I’d made a point of calling her a few times a day from road trips and emailed and texted her constantly. It was the best I could do. She didn’t like a lot of the other hockey wives either, so the fact that, when I was home, there were a lot of team events they wanted us to attend didn’t help matters. She complained constantly that we didn’t have enough alone time.
After our first year in Brooklyn, I was honestly panicked at how strained our relationship had become. She told me flat out she didn’t think she could return to Brooklyn next season. Desperate, I had taken her away to Europe—just the two of us. The trip did bring us closer. We went back to the way we were when I asked her to marry me—in love and happy and devoted to each other. She got pregnant with Conner on that trip. That was the happiest we’d ever been. Maybe the happiest we would ever be. God, I fucking hope not. I don’t want my marriage to end. I really don’t. I am not ready to fail.
“Captain!”
I recognize the voice before I even turn around. Tommy Donahue is standing at the other end of the bar, waiting on Vinnie to pour him a pitcher of beer. He smiles at me happily. The kid is always happy. He just recently turned twenty-one, but with his freckles and dark red hair he looks more like a teenager from a cheesy sixties sitcom—if they’d made one about a kid with a killer wrist shot.
