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Watching Lily dance with that ginger asshole made me want to break him in half. It was the first time I believed Lily might actually move on, away from me, into the arms of another man, and I couldn't let it happen.
I won't let it happen.
And I'm terrified.
I'm terrified I'll fuck this up like everything else I've ruined except my hockey career. I'm terrified Lily will see how fucked up I am inside and run away screaming. I grew up on a steady diet of dysfunction and pain so I don't know how a normal relationship works. I feel like I'm destined to fail. But maybe the worst I can do is try?
I strip out of last night's clothes and crank up the hot water in the shower, relishing the sting of water hitting my body and letting it wash over me. I take my time drying off and change into a pair of board shorts and a tee so I can go down to breakfast and talk to her.
A beeping at my door draws my attention. It swings open, and Luke walks in with a fresh ice bucket. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It's only seven-thirty. My guess is most guests are either still in bed or hungover.
"Oh good, you're up," Luke grumbles, striding towards me. He hands me a bottle of water and ibuprofen before he fills a Ziplock bag with ice. "According to my wife, sister, and parents, I owe you an apology."
I just glare at him, lightly pressing the bag of ice to my eye and wince. It's sore and tender, and I probably look like garbage.
"And according to you?" I ask before throwing back the pills with some water and swallowing.
"According to me, my best friend was making out with my little sister at my wedding."
"She's not twelve anymore, Luke. She hasn't been for a long time." I don't think Luke likes my reply because he makes a growly sound at the back of his throat and cracks his knuckles.
"She'll always be my little sister, and I'll always be her big brother," Luke says, running a hand through his hair. I notice bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and I don't think it's because he was up all night enjoying his new wife. "I always thought we were on the same page. We practically grew up like siblings. I thought you saw Lily the same way I do. Like a sister."
"I might be fucked up, but I'm not that fucked up. If I had a sister, I wouldn't be kissing her."
Luke laughs and shakes his head. He looks me in the eyes—eye—and sighs before sitting on the bed with me.
"How long has this been going on? Because I swear to Christ, if you tell me that you and Lily have been sneaking around for months, I'll lose it."
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicated it for me."
"Lily and I have always been close. We're friends. Even when we were kids, we had a connection. You were my best friend, but she was my light. After my mom died, your family became the only good thing in my life, and Lily was at the heart of that. She was younger and may not have understood what she was doing at the time. But for every welt, bruise, and cut she helped to bandage, she literally put me back together."
Luke asks about my dad, not meeting my eye, as if asking about it for the first time is a mistake on his part. Like he's ashamed for not asking sooner as if there was something he could have done to stop the abuse.
"Jeff Wilder is a sad, pathetic man," I say, swallowing hard. "He wasn't always that way, but after Mom died, everything went to shit. Every time he looked at me he was reminded of her, and I think he hated me for it. It started with a spanking here and a smack there. But it just got worse."
I think back to the first time my dad ever hit me. Really hit me. It was one year after Mom died, and I'd just got home from a game. Luke and I were in our third year of AAA hockey and in the playoffs. We'd lost a game to a team below us in the standings, and Dad was pissed. I'd missed a shot in overtime, and he saw the loss as my fault.
The car ride back home was completely silent. I was distraught. Not because the team had lost but because I'd let my dad down. As soon as we walked into the kitchen, I dropped my hockey bag, shoulders sagging and said, "Sorry." He didn't say anything back. He just raised his hand and slapped me so hard my teeth rattled. Then he made me get up off the floor and hit me again. He screamed at me and told me Mom would be ashamed of how I played and that if I kept playing like a loser, I'd never make it to the NHL like she always wanted me to.
"My mom made Dad promise to see my hockey career through, so in his own twisted way, I think he thought he was helping."
"Helping you by beating the piss out of you?" Luke scoffs, disgusted.
"He'd only really lay it on after games. If I'd miss a shot, mess up a pass, or not skate hard enough back-checking. Remember that year your mom bought me new equipment because she thought mine wasn't good enough?"
"Yeah," Luke says hesitantly, knowing what comes next.
"My equipment was fine, but my dad wanted to teach me to be tougher, so he forced me to stand in front of the net with no gear and deflect pucks. If I missed, I'd take a puck anywhere my dad thought it would hurt most. It's why I'm so good at deflecting pucks now."
Luke's eyes are full of pity. I fucking hate it, so I ignore him and keep talking.
"But no matter what, when I'd come to your house, there was Lily, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to help bandage me up. When I went away to London for junior, I thought for sure she'd forget about me, but she didn't. She'd send me the most ridiculous stuff, cheering me on, and we became friends. For a long time, she was still Little Lily Valentine, my biggest fan. But when I came home the spring after our first year in the NHL, she wasn't little Lily anymore. She was a woman, and I knew I had to get the hell out of there.
"Your family is the only real one I have. I didn't want to disrespect you by tainting Lily with my sullied hands. She deserves better."
