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The day Ryan was drafted into the NHL, he gave me a promise ring. It's just a simple gold band I wear on a chain around my neck, close to my heart. I gave him a gold chain in return—a reminder that we belong and will always find our way back to one another, regardless of the distance between us. It doesn't matter if he's in Montreal and I'm at Western.
Ryan is my future.
I exhale roughly. This line of thought is too deep for English class, especially when I want this day to end so I can go to the doctor and get some painkillers. I feel like crap, and Ryan is coming home tonight. His team missed the playoffs, so his summer is starting early, and we plan to spend most of it together. I need to suck it up and hopefully get my lady business sorted out at the gynecologist.
Over the last three years, I've learned being a woman can really suck. I'm eighteen and my "monthly frenemy" is a real bitch. She shows up when she wants, with no regard for cycles or timing. She makes me feel like a bag of shit and gives me cramps that are so horrible I want to curl up in the fetal position and have someone knock me out.
I've felt terrible for days. I've skipped two periods, which my doctor ensures me is normal since I'm a long-distance runner with a low body fat content. I've been on the pill since fifteen to try and regulate my cycle, but it doesn't seem to be doing much good, and Ryan and I always use protection to be doubly sure. We've never had a pregnancy scare, thank god.
I groan and put my head on my desk. Holly's sitting beside me taking notes, and I haven't heard a single word Mr. Crabtree has said about Shakespeare —one of my least favourite subjects. I mean, come on, Shakespeare! I get the whole dramatic teenagers wanting to be together, but seriously! Thirteen-year-olds killing themselves over "love?" Give me a break.
Another pain-filled moan escapes my lips as a spasm hits my abdomen like a battering ram. I wish the dam would break and the red river would start flowing. I feel sick. My skin is clammy. I feel hot all over, and I'm a little nauseous. I crouch down in my seat, trying to mask my pain. I want to go home and lay down with some Tylenol or have someone knock me out.
"Avery," Holly whispers from across her desk, concern on her face. "Are you okay?"
I purse my lips and nod once. She doesn't look convinced and, to be honest, I'm not sure I am okay. My last few periods have been nightmares—extremely heavy and painful, which is why mom booked me in to see Dr. Tomlinson, my gynecologist.
When class ends, I'm so ready to get the hell out of here and see the doctor that I'm practically running for the exit. Holly and I go to our lockers, collect our books, and hightail it out of the halls before Cassidy Tippett can throw snarky comments at us.
Cassidy is one of those girls who like to flaunt her big boobs and walk around with perpetual duck-face lips like it's normal. She also runs the school paper, which is just a gossip column. Cassidy hates Holly and me because we don't fawn over her bullshit. She's jealous of Holly's hockey talent and tries to bring her down by reminding everyone Holly is less endowed in the chest area.
Holly is gorgeous with dark, wavy hair and blue eyes, but she's completely blind to her beauty. And she's not a compliment fisher. She just literally doesn't see how hot she is. Her dad's an absent asshole who also happens to be the NHL superstar, Alec Sparks. A few guys have tried to go out with her to get to know her dad, which is another reason she thinks boys are only interested in her dad and not her. Holly barely knows her father, so anyone trying to touch his fame will be disappointed.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Holly asks as we head for the parking lot. We usually walk home together, but today mom is picking us up and driving Holly to the arena before my appointment.
"Just lady business. You know how it is." I roll my eyes and smile. "I'm off to the vagician."
"The what?"
"The vagician." I laugh and groan at the same time. Holly and I like to make up our own words. "The gynecologist. You know, the vagina magician?"
"Oh my god,” Holly giggles. "The stuff you come up with kills me."
Thirty minutes later, I'm sitting with my mom in the doctor's office. I had some blood work and an ultrasound done before coming, so hopefully I can finally get my lady bits in ship-shop-shape.
I'm hoping some miracle drug can cure whatever is going on downstairs. Holly's coming over tonight after hockey practice, and I don't want to ruin our fun by being miserable. My stepdad coaches her hockey team and is an NHL scout. He and my mom are the perfect couple.
Simon Decker met Sandra Avery when I was one. Both were recently widowed and became fast friends. They are the perfect friends-to-lovers trope and connected at a group grief counselling session. My biological father died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm just after I was born. I can easily talk it about because I never knew Brad Avery.
Simon's wife died in a car accident, leaving him with three-year-old twin boys to take care of on his own: Ollie and Ozzy, the Decker Twins.
Their relationship started innocently enough. Mom and Simon began to hang out together, connecting over their shared grief and love for their children. Then, after two years of being "just friends," Simon kissed my mom one night after a movie, and the rest is history.
It's hard to believe Dad, Ollie, Ozzy, and I aren't biologically related though. It's weird, but we kind of look alike. We've all got blonde hair and varying shades of brown eyes. Except for Ollie, who has one brown and one blue eye, which I've always thought is the coolest. My eyes are slightly different, I suppose. They're more caramel than the Deckers' chocolate.
We all have the gift of height. I'm almost five feet nine inches tall, and the boys are well over six feet—which bodes well for their hockey careers. Ollie and Ozzy are what the NHL would call sure things. I must have gotten my height from my biological father because my mom is pocket-sized.
My brothers are Broadway-bound, and Dad couldn't be prouder as a father and a coach. Then there's me. I have no clue where I am going with my life. Holly and I have always known hockey was in our blood, but while Holly will likely be lighting lamps for Team Canada, I'll take a desk approach to hockey in some form or another. I'd love to work in upper-level management for a team but the odds of me landing a job—usually held by an old, white guy—are slim to nil. There isn't one female GM, coach, or assistant coach in the NHL.
I wince, rubbing my pelvic area. I'm getting impatient to see the doctor. I've never understood why doctors are never on time. They're always at least twenty minutes behind schedule.
"Is Holly coming over for dinner tonight?" Mom asks. I know she is trying to distract me from the pain with idle chatter.
"Yeah. Her mom works late tonight, so she's hanging out with Ryan and me."
"Mary works too hard. That woman is going to wear herself out." My mom and Holly's mom are close friends and have been since they were kids, just like Holly and I are now. My mom also thinks Alec Sparks is a Grade-A asshole for leaving Mary with a daughter to raise and very little financial support, especially when he's a multi-millionaire. I have to agree with that assessment.
"Avery, how are you?" Dr. Valerie Tomlinson breezes into the room. She's a short, curvaceous woman with dark hair, darker eyes, and mocha skin. She's probably in her late forties but wears her age exceptionally well.
