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THIRTY-ONE
Idon’t know if I can watch much more of his game. He’s not playing like himself.
“Not sure what’s gotten into Burke tonight, but the crowd is loving it, Randy. He and Ehlers are still going at it. Ehlers is getting in a few punches, but he seems unprepared for the haymakers coming from Burke. He’s throwing bombs out there! I don’t know why lines haven’t stepped in yet, they’re going the full twelve-rounds and—and Ehlers is down! Refs finally have stepped in and Burke is getting escorted off the ice for a penalty. Looks like we have a little blood on the ice tonight, folks.”
The color commentary is ridiculous on this fight. What the hell is Lonan thinking? Usually, Banks is the one out there stirring shit up. I get that they are trying to hype up the viewers, but watching him get hurt is unbearable. I shouldn’t be talking, considering I’m the one that may have hurt him the most. They show a close-up of him in the box; every time he squirts water into his mouth, he spits out blood.
I hate it. I want to say that his little stunt on the ice tonight was unrelated, but I can’t help feeling some blame. My fingers itch to text him, but I resist. First, I need some time to get my feelings sorted out. Based on how we left things, I don’t know if he’ll ever want to speak with me again.
* * *
Fuck. Therapy was a bitch today. Lots of heavy topics and lots of tears. Or as my therapist Carol calls it, a “productive session.”
Unfortunately, now that I’m acknowledging some of the trauma that’s happened, I’m becoming familiar with my tendency to run away from my problems. I need to work on myself and make some progress before I enter a relationship—much less answer a marriage proposal. It would be too easy to slip into old patterns and end up right back where I started. There’s only so many times someone like Lonan will allow himself to be hurt by me. I will not burn through my strikes until I’m ready to give him what he wants. What I want. I just hope he can hold out for me.
I flip open my phone and check out his Instagram. He’s not posted in a while, other than team promo stuff. He looks good. Healthy, a lot better than he looked during that fight a few weeks ago. He’s smiling, but it’s not the same as the one I’m used to seeing, it doesn’t reach his eyes.
THIRTY-TWO
Igot Micky her apartment. The guy who owns our hockey bar, Top Shelf, has a couple of apartments above it that he normally only rents to rookies for dirt cheap. Most of us have lived in those units at one point or another, and because of that, we’ve gotten used to going to the bar for our usual hangout. In exchange for the cheap rent, we show up and bring in more customers. Everybody wins. Since we only have one new rookie next season, Rhys something-or-other, the other apartment was available, and I talked him into renting it to Micky. I’ve held up my end of the bargain, now it’s her turn.
Me: Let me know when you plan on getting in town. I’ve got keys for you.
I send her a pin drop with the address so she knows where it’s at.
Micky: Seriously? How? I haven’t been able to find any vacancies!
Me: I pulled some strings.
Micky: You’re the best. I’m still working on her. How are you holding up?
Me: I miss her.
Micky: Ugh, you’re both so cute it’s gross.
Has Bridget been saying she misses me too?
* * *
Our press box lasted longer than usual. We lost the first game of the playoffs. We’re out. Everyone on the team is feeling the heavy slump of our loss. Funny how I started thinking this year would be one of the best. I was way off the mark. I can only go up, right? Hope so ’cause I’m fucking counting on it.
I enter the auditorium as the lights are dimming, thankful I got into the doors to Maddie’s dance recital before they closed them. I pull my ticket out and squint to see what row I’m supposed to be in. Row 12. I quietly make my way down the aisle, when I reach the seats, there’s only one left open on the end. And Bridget is in the other seat.
This is the first time I’ve seen her since I asked her to marry me. It’s like I’ve been coldcocked. I take my spot. She doesn’t look at me but she sucks in a breath when I sit. I can smell her shampoo or perfume or whatever it is that makes her smell like fresh citrus. I’ve been going back into the guest bedroom every now and then to get a hit of her scent. It’s faded over the last month, but right now I’m surrounded by it. I close my eyes and commit it to memory. My jaw tics. After this recital, I don’t know if I’ll ever be this close to her again.
I check the program they handed me, and Maddie’s group goes second to last. We’ll be here awhile. I shrug off my jacket and get comfy. I’ve gone from seeing her almost every day to quitting her cold turkey. I’m jonesing, so there’s no reason I should make it easy on her either. I roll up my sleeves and rest my arm next to hers on the armrest.
Like I prayed she would, she welcomes my touch. It’s pure relief. I let out a long exhale. She keeps her arm right where it is. Not only that but goose bumps burst across her skin.That’s my girl.It’s the game we’ve always played. When my body brushes against hers, she never pulls away. She’s still holding feelings, same as me.
I take it a step further and stroke the back of her hand with my tattooed knuckles. My touches are butterfly soft but she reacts. She crosses her thighs, and even though the speakers are blaring with some shitty pop remix, I heard the sigh slip from her lips. She tries to cover it by clearing her throat. There’s not a sound she makes I haven’t memorized. The connection between us is so charged, and we’re so starved for each other’s touch that this feels like foreplay.
If I keep it up, I’m going to have an issue. For now, I’ll just keep my forearm pressed against hers. I’m not pulling away.
* * *
Me: It was good seeing you today.
Bridget: You too.
