It’s weird. I don’t know where it all went wrong, but I guess a guy spewing chunks in your presence and having to rub his back like a little boy, physically place pills on his tongue, and force-feed him water would be a turn-off for any living woman.
She was gone when I got out of bed. No note, no text messages. My clothes she had worn were folded neatly and placed on the edge of the bed in her room, which is where they’ll stay after they’re washed, because those are her sleepover clothes and that’s her sleepover bed.
She didn’t text me all day, and I was too mortified to text her first. I don’t get embarrassed easily, but I get all red and splotchy when I think about that night. I think she has managed to open up an emotion I haven’t felt this strongly since childhood.
I ammortified.
When we’re back on the ice, I do what I do best. I push, I provoke, and I get the puck to Dec, Saltzy, and Oz. I keep the puck away from Waters. I refuse to glance in the direction of the WAG rows, because I can’t risk catching a glimpse of hernow. One look of red hair and that seat will become my focus all game.
It can’t happen.
But still, I think about her anyway.
We haven’t gone a day without texting in a long, long while. Not since the beginning of this arrangement. We text all the time. About nothing and everything, and I like it that way. I am enthralled by her attention. I find myself making mundane things that happen throughout my day seem extraordinary and invigorating, just so I can have an excuse to tell her the story. I survive on her responses. I sink into each and every word she gives to me and pray for more.
She’s my friend now. Maybe one of the best I have.
It drives me crazy that she can go a day without talking to me, but I am losing sleep over a measly thirty-something hours without her presence in mine.
Today, she broke that dry spell.Kind of.
I was a pathetic idiot. I texted her first, reminding her that it was nearing the end of November, and asked her to send me the medical bills for this month. We still have a lot of time before the end of the month, but I still said it. An excuse to get her talking to me. A liferaft used to gauge her attitude, to try and figure out how badly I’d messed this all up.
She responded with an image of the totals, the copies of each bill, and a reminder that it’s too early for the rest. I didn’t open a single one because, again, that was not the problem.
When I thanked her, I was a bit relieved that she didn’t just end the conversation.
Red
I’ll be at your game tonight. I know it’s not our night, but Penny asked me to join her. If my ticket has been given to someone else, just let me know.
That message sent me into a spiral. What thefuckdid that mean? Who else would have her ticket to sit with the other wives and girlfriends? Who else would be in that seatbesidesmy girlfriend? I found myself glaring at the phone, at the tone.
Me
It’s yours. See you tonight
Red
Great. Thanks.
I didn’t answer that. I couldn’t. I’d be fishing for conversation at that point, and that wasn’t going to happen. She’s acting differently. The way she was speaking, the lack of gentle jabs and jokes, and don’t get me started on the fucking punctuation. She needed to chill with the periods because they felt like punches to my face.
We ended up winning by a landslide. It puts me in a better mood, but I still feel off-kilter. This isn’t even arealrelationship and it’s making me sick. Lowesy and Boss must sense that a winning game didn’t change the state of my attitude, so they linger in the locker room much longer than the rest of the team. I’m used to Lowesy hanging out until we’re the last two here, but Boston is typically long gone by now.
When I finally relent and drop my shit onto the bench, I spin to glare at them. “What?”
Boss stares at me for a second, and then he risks a look at Dec.
Declan’s hazel eyes are already burning into my face. His arms are crossed in front of his chest. “What the fuckis going on?”
“With what?”
“You’re off. Something is off.”
I take in a big, deep breath. I do not have time for this shit. “We won, didn’t we?”
“That’s great,” Boston grumbles, massaging out his thigh with his fingers. “This isn’t about the game. If you’ve got shit going on and you need an ear, that’s what we’re here for.”
