Chapter 1 – Power Play
His Game – Her Heart
September
Amelia
After the show Jaxson put on following the game last night, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Usually, I'd hang around and talk to Jaxson and the guys on the team to congratulate them, but I didn't have it in me. So, I went home without a word.
Jaxson's side of the bed remains unwrinkled and cold. Again, he didn't come home. On nights like this, he claims he stays over with some of the guys for the afterparty. Recently, it's been a point of contention in our marriage. He wants to go; I want him home. Hedoesn'tseem to care and ignores my feelings. Other married players don't take part in the all-nighters, so why does he feel the need to?
I've been to some after-parties and noticed that some women wear revealing outfits to draw attention. They don't have to try hard with a room full of rowdy, drunk, adrenaline-charged men. The guys act like kids in a candy store with too many choices, zero self-control, and utterly oblivious to the mess they leave behind once the rush wears off.
It’s sickening.
And Jaxson? Going to these parties is just another reminder of how little my feelings matter to him, even if it stings to admit.
I'm not clueless, but I guess I’ve been lying to myself. If Jaxson isn't already cheating on me, I’d be shocked. He's pushing for an open marriage to satisfy his own desires. He knows I’ve only ever been with him. The idea of being intimate with anyone else doesn’t appeal to me at all. I could never do that to him; it fills me with revulsion. It's just another way he proves how little he cares for me.
I'm unsure what to do, so I pick up my cell phone to see if he called, but there's nothing. No missed calls, no messages. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere, orI could be, for all he knows. He didn't even check whether I made it home last night. I know that because the app he insisted we install won't locate anyone whose sharing is turned off. And of course, his has been off all night.
Sighing deeply, I pull myself out of bed and head to the bathroom for a quick shower. It's time to start my day. While Jaxson is a hockey player, I'm a professional ice skater. We both grew up in our hometown of Montreal, hitting the ice almost as soon as we could walk. From an early age, we learned to skate and compete because both our fathers were pro hockey players. Jaxson followed in their footsteps, building a hockey career. Since we need to live close to ice rinks to support him, Thunder Bay is a good fit.
At his insistence, I stayed home, putting my own desires on hold so he could be the one to earn and provide for us. But I always dedicated time to practice and condition my body, keeping the dream of returning to the Olympics alive.
Lately, though, as Jaxson spends more and more time awaydoing who knows what, I've continued working with my coach. Since spring, I've been quietly refining routines, planning for upcoming competitions, and setting new goals. I've ignored my own for far too long, and it's finally my turn.
He's always been a little controlling, but lately, he's become more intense. The more time he spends away, the tighter his grip seems to get. Since we got married, his insecurities have spiraled. Now he holds me back in every part of my life. We used to talk about having kids, but now he brushes me off, saying we're too young or too busy. Yet, here I am, alone in this big, fancy house with no one. Left behind.
I'm so thankful for my ride-or-dies, Nita and Shelly. They keep me sane. Jaxson has no idea I still talk to them because he doesn’t like me having friends, let alone going out with them. He thinks that because they’re single, they'd be a bad influence. I don't know where that idea comes from. He spends nights out with his buddies, drinking, partying, and whatever else he's up to. But I’d better not be seen out—ridiculous double standards.
And it's not like I have family I can call or talk to. Mom was one of Dad's groupies. Nine months later, she showed up at his doorstep out of the blue, dropped me off, and vanished. A paternity test later confirmed he was my father. I grew up in my grandmother's home, watched over by a few nannies through the years. My dad rarely showed his face, even with his mom constantly calling him. I was just a mistake he threw money at.
My dad’s vile pattern of treating women like disposable playthings is a big part of why I loathe the idea of an open marriage. I can't even imagine ever sharing my husband like that. Jaxson already knows how I feel about cheaters and man-hoes. It all comes down to one thing for me. My disgust at men reducing women to objects for their own gratification.
Dad married while I was in my teens to a woman who never accepted me. I guess she matched his energy, treating me with the same cold distance and indifference I'd grown accustomed to from him. He doesn't treat me as a daughter, but more as something he has to endure. Jaxson and I visit them at Christmas. Our interactions are polite but hollow. I feel more like an acquaintance than anything else. I don't know why I even bother. Jaxson is the only real family I have now.
I met Jaxson when I was sixteen, and it was love at first sight. Right after finishing high school, we wed. Five years in, our relationship is crumbling. The one person who made me feel whole, the only connection I truly trust, has betrayed me, leaving me shattered.
I hear the garage door engage and look out the window to see Jaxson pull in. What do you know? He made it home, as if that should mean something to me.
“Melly?” he calls as he enters the room. “Hey, baby.” He reaches for me, but I pull away.
“Eww, Jaxson!” I have a strong urge to gag as the cloud of cheap perfume, sex, and alcohol hits me. “You stink. I don't want to have to take another shower.” I push him off me.
“I didn't have a change of clothes,” says, looking guilty, then waves it off. “Anyway, we need to finalize the agreement to open our marriage.”
He doesn't miss a beat, diving straight back into this as if nothing else matters. All I want to do is escape, to shut it out, to stop hearing the insistence in his voice. But there's no getting around it.
"You know I don't want to," I lash out, wounded. “But given how you smell, it seems as though you've already started. Why should we even discuss it?” Tears well up, but I fight to hold them back. I don't want him to do me any favors by feeling sorry for me. If he can’t be faithful to me out of love, then I’m not sure I want to stay in this marriage.
“Well, I've been trying to talk some sense into you for months now,” he fires back with an air of superiority. “Have you made your decision? Divorce or open marriage?” He spits with cruelty.
His words sting. I close my eyes and turn back to the sink, staring out the window without really seeing. I wish my heart could just let go. He's all I have left, and I love him so much. I can't imagine my life without him. Or at least without the man he used to be. I don't recognize him anymore.
Then I shake my head and face the evidence. He's already cheating, judging by his actions lately, and not just the reek clinging to him. He's gone to games, practices, or meetings all the time now. If he's not doing that, it's parties with his teammates, telling me it's all about team building and bonding. According to him, I'd be lonely and bored if I came along. So, he leaves me behind, neglected, hurt, and invisible while he drinks, laughs, and flirts with everyone else. Each time he goes, I shrink, becoming diminished, like I don't matter at all.
It's not that I wouldn't go—I would—but he doesn't want me there. His excuses are endless. He says he doesn't like me around his drunk friends, afraid someone might make a pass. I'm no longer allowed to attend his away games because of a new rule requiring everyone to bunk with another player for safety and accountability. You name it, he has an excuse for everything, each one pushing me a little farther out of hislife. Because he's not just giving me excuses, he's creating barriers.
