She laughs lightly. “Oh, yeah. Abigfan.”
“Uh, great. Did you want a selfie or an autograph?” I glance at Ryan, who’s watching me and stifling a smile. Widening my eyes, I gesture for a pen, but he pretends he doesn’t know what I want.
“Ohhhh, yes. A selfie would be great. And then you could give me your phone number with that autograph?”
She perches herself practically on top of me, her boobs pressing into my arm as she holds out her phone and snaps a selfie. I can’t even lean away before she snaps it, and I barely manage a smile.
“Now, that phone number?” she asks, holding out her phone to me.
“Drinks are ready,” Ryan says from behind me.
I hold up my hands, clearly refusing her phone. “Sorry. I don’t give out my number to fans. I’m with …” I jerk my head toward the team, and that makes her perk up.
“Oh! Could I come too? I’dloveto meet everyone.”
“It’s a private party, ma’am,” Ryan finally jumps in. “Only invited guests are allowed. If you’re going to bother the players, you’ll have to leave.”
She pouts, and I hear her start to argue with him as I grab the drinks and go. When I’m walking back, I find Hailey watching me intently.
Did she see that interaction?
But even if she did, so what? Nothing happened. I took a selfie with a fan—granted, she seems like she’s more a fan of theplayersthan the game—got our drinks, and now I’m coming back.
“Have a nice conversation?” she asks when I return and set her glass in front of her, nodding toward the bar.
“Not particularly.”
“You could, you know,” she says, her voice pitched low so it’s only audible to me.
“What?”
“You could. I mean … if you want to.” She studies me for a second, then looks away, focusing on her drink.
I’m about to respond, let her know that I absolutelydon’twant to, and not just because I’m pretty sure Ryan is actively kicking that lady out. But before I can, she gets up and moves to another table, sitting next to Jenkins and almost immediately laughing at something he says. Laughing the way she used to laugh forme. Before I fucked up everything.
Why did I have to push her about her parents?
I knew. I knew they were shit. I knew she didn’t want to tell them anything. And yet I felt the need to act like her relationship with her parents is normal.
While we were away, Bouchard was talking about his relationship with his dad, how he severely limits how much he shares with the man because he never has anything positive or encouraging to say. Even now, with Bouchard a professional athlete, he tries to tell him how to play better. “We made it to the fucking playoffs,” he spit out over beers after our loss against Edmonton when we played them last. “I’m in a good relationship, and he acts likeI’mthe sole reason we didn’t win the Stanley Cup last season. If I talk to him tonight, he’ll say it’s because I’m too distracted. That I need to break up with Maggie and get my head in the game.”
“What a bunch of bullshit,” I told him because it so clearly is.
And that was apparently the right thing to say because he clapped a hand on my shoulder and very sincerely said, “Thanks, man. I mean, Iknowit’s all bullshit? But I listened to him for so long that it’s hard to remember sometimes, you know?”
I nodded, but I don’t really know. Not like that. My parents have always been unfailingly supportive. I mean, sure, they’d tell me when I was being stupid. But it’s because I was genuinely being stupid, not pumping me full of bullshit about how relationships will distract me and keep me from playing to my full potential.
In fact, they’re the opposite. They’ve been hoping I’d find someone for ages, worried that I focusedtoomuch on hockey and neglected other areas of my life. That hockey at this level would make it harder to find someone to connect with.
And they’re not wrong. I did make choices, especially when I was younger, focusing on hockey and practicing and drills, but also avoiding close connections because my closest non-family connection died when we were still just kids. While I’ve moved on in a lot of ways, that changed—and broke—me in ways I’ve never fully recovered from.
Watching Hailey now, I’m filled with a mix of fury and jealousy. Why is she talking to Jenkins like that? He can’t understand her. He doesn’t know what she’s been through. Not the way I do. He won’t take care of her—careabouther—the way I do.
She’smywife. She should be with me.
Standing, I saunter over to where she’s sitting with Jenkins, looking down at them both and sipping my beer. “Got room for me over here?”
I try to keep my voice light, but there must be some undercurrent that even Jenkins picks up on. He glances up atme, the smile on his face fading, and immediately makes room for Hailey to move over so I can fit in the big circular booth too.
