by Kendall Ryan
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason turned back to me, shaking his head and glaring at me like I was an imbecile. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Don’t ask stupid questions.
Fred winces beneath my touch, and I pull back, reentering reality.
“Uh, could you go a little lighter?” he asks kindly.
“Of course, Fred, I’m sorry. You’ve got some serious tension back here.”
“It’s sitting at that dang desk all day . . .”
After Fred leaves, it’s already lunchtime. I see Georgia, the other female massage therapist at this hotel spa, waving at me from behind the glass windows of the hallway. We have lunch plans to walk down to the neighboring strip mall and eat at a Mexican-American fusion restaurant—a personal favorite of mine.
But my thoughts aren’t on burrito bowls or potato-chip nachos . . . they’re trapped on an endless repeat of last night’s events. When Jason gets like that in public . . . well, I’m embarrassed and helpless, and nothing I say or do is ever the right thing.
Good thing Grant was there.
Since I moved to Seattle with Jason, I haven’t spent too much time with the team, and certainly not with their huge, beast of a team captain, Grant, so he had no reason to check up on me or intervene at all. But he did, and I’ll always be grateful. And then driving me home afterward . . . I should really send him flowers or something.
What do you send a wall of dense, sinewy muscle as a thank-you? A gym membership? Protein-packed chocolates?
After Georgia and I have placed our orders, we sit down across from each other at our favorite window booth. She frowns at me, her chin propped on two fists as she leans on the table with her elbows.
“Are you okay? You seem super quiet today.”
I sigh. “I’m exhausted. The banquet was last night and—”
“Oh my God, right! How was that? I’m sorry, you were just about to tell me. I’ll shut up. Go, go, speak.” Georgia cringes and waves me on with one hand while using the other to pick up her fountain drink and take a long, occupying sip. We joke a lot about her inability to keep her motormouth from running, but it’s nice to see her trying to control it. Emphasis on trying.
“It’s okay.” I giggle, finding myself in a much better mood. Bless this woman.
By the time our orders arrive at the table, I’ve filled Georgia in on the basics. Jason was in a shit mood all day, and he couldn’t shake it off for the event. He got too drunk, made a complete ass of himself, and one of his teammates had to intervene. I got a ride home and spent most of the night waiting up, sick with worry, waiting for Jason to stumble back in, which he only did at four in the morning. When I got up this morning to get ready for work, he’d already left for practice.
“Jesus Christ!” Georgia blurts, unable to control herself. “I don’t understand why he’s like this. He’s got a contract with one of the best teams in the league, he’s making good money, and he’s got an awesome girlfriend. What’s his problem?”
I smirk at her compliment. “He’s really hard on himself, so when he gets down like that, it’s difficult for him to snap out of it. It usually escalates, especially when there’s drinking involved,” I say, parroting a mixture of what I’ve read online and my own justifications for staying with him.
Georgia reads my mind, because her next question echoes the very thoughts I couldn’t shake last night, not long after Grant brought me home.
“Ana, babe. Do you really see a future with this guy? I’m sorry to ask, I just . . . I’m worried about you. I’m not convinced he’s good for you.” The little space between her eyebrows is creased with anxiety. “After hearing about last night, it’s obvious.”
I bite back my impulse to say something defensive, like, Why else would I be with him? Don’t you think I have the emotional wherewithal to think about that?
But that’s the difference between Jason and me. I can control myself and see things as they really are. Georgia is concerned, as she should be. She’s my friend. She’s just looking out for me.
“I don’t know anymore,” I hear myself say, heaving out a slow breath. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud, and a chill of trepidation trickles down my spine. “Sometimes, I think about leaving and moving back home to be close to my dad. I could start over . . .”
When I pause, Georgia fills in the gaps like she always does.
“You’d rather run away than break up with him? I’m not a therapist, or at least a brain therapist,” she says with a little smirk. “But I think that’s a pretty big red flag.”
I swallow, unsure of where this conversation is going. Is Georgia trying to tell me to break up with Jason? Is that what I want?
“Well,” I say with a sigh, “as tired as I am of his tantrums, I’ve made my bed and I’m going to lie in it. At least until I decide what to do.”
I dig into my lunch, a signal to the ever-perceptive Georgia that I’d rather not continue this conversation. My gaze is glued on rice, beans, and protein when I feel a hand touch mine. Georgia squeezes my fingers between hers.
“Okay, Ana. Just tell me if you ever feel unsafe. I’m with you through all of this. You might still think of Seattle as your new home, but it is your home, and you shouldn’t be run out of here.”
My chewing slows and I meet her eyes. “Thanks,” I murmur through a mouthful of beans.
“And let me know if you ever need a massage. To alleviate some of that stress. Free of charge,” she says brightly with a wink. “I know someone, and I’ve heard she has magical fingers.”
I wash my food down with a cold gulp of water. We’re always offering each other massages, but neither of us has taken the other up on it. It’s just a simple way of saying I love you without really saying it.
“You too, Georgie.”
• • •
That afternoon, my keys rattle in my hand as I struggle to open the door while holding leftovers from lunch and a small grocery bag in my arms.
After finishing my shift, I dropped by the market to grab some ingredients for white chocolate and pomegranate cookies—a specialty of mine. Baking always relaxes me, and after a stressful day, I need to relax. I can hear Hobbes whining from his kennel on the other side of the door.
“Coming, baby cakes,” I call out. Hobbes is my Maltipoo mayhem machine, fondly named after the troublemaking stuffed tiger of comic strip fame. One of my mother’s favorites, to be precise.
When I make it inside, I drop the food in the kitchen and immediately head for the kennel. When he’s overexcited like this, I can’t leave him alone for a second too long or he’ll make a mess. I unlatch the kennel and Hobbes bursts out, running laps around the small one-bedroom apartment.
When I first moved here with Jason, he’d lost a lot of money in a bet. That catastrophe, paired with my own measly income, meant we could only afford something small. I actually prefer it. With the packed-to-the-brim bookshelves, secondhand furniture, and tight corners, our cozy little apartment reminds me of home. Or at least a slice of what life used to be.
I walk back to the door, coat and shoes still on, and call for Hobbes. He comes racing to me, jumping and twisting and showing me all of his tricks. It takes a moment for him to calm down, as it always does, but once the initial excitement to see me has passed, I can get him on the leash.
Out to the enclosed courtyard we go, just moments after another dog has left her own mark on the muddy ground. I unclasp Hobbes’s leash, and he preoccupies himself with sniffing for a while before he ventures away to find his own patch of grass.
My thoughts wander back to last night, sitting in Grant’s warm car as he drove me home. How he put his number in my phone, without any reason to believe that I’d use it.
Would I? If things ever got that bad, would I call the team captain? I can imagine how angry and hurt Jason would be if it ever came to that. How betrayed he’d feel.
As I watch Hobbes sniff around, it occurs to me that I shouldn�
��t care about what Jason would think. If it ever came to calling Grant, it would be because Jason had majorly screwed up—like leaving me abandoned last night at the party. It’s at this realization that I pull out my phone and send off a quick text to Grant.
Hey, it’s Ana. I just wanted to say thank you for the ride home last night. I hope it didn’t cause you too much trouble. I appreciated it. Thanks again.
I consider adding a smiley face and then decide that Grant doesn’t exactly seem like an emoji type of guy. And if he was an emoji, he wouldn’t be the smiley face. Though, I don’t think there’s one with a stern grimace and muscles everywhere. Smiling crookedly at that idea, I click SEND and shove the phone back in my pocket.
Hobbes scampers across the courtyard back to me, and I gather him in my arms. I’d rather not deal with the landlord sending yet another memo about mud tracked on the carpets of the communal areas.
I carry Hobbes inside, feeling his tiny little heartbeat racing from all that running around. I wonder momentarily if this is what I must look like to someone as giant and capable as Grant. Just a tiny little animal, unable to properly fend for herself in this big, bad world.
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I pull it out. It’s a text from Grant, consisting of one single word. I chuckle and shake my head.
Welcome.
Back inside the warmth of my apartment, I wipe Hobbes’s paws with the towel I keep by the door and let him loose to pursue whatever shenanigans he’s so eager to get into. In the kitchen, I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands, then I set the oven to 375 degrees and start making the cookie dough.
Flour, brown sugar, two eggs, a few drops of vanilla, and a pinch of salt . . . the methodical measuring of ingredients is calming to me. The tension in my shoulders begins to melt as the unsalted butter does the same, rising slightly above room temperature as I begin mixing. Oats and white chocolate chunks . . . comfort food.
I’m just about to start rolling the dough into little balls when I hear footsteps down the hall. My stomach clenches, which I know isn’t the reaction I should have at the thought of my boyfriend arriving home.
Jason rattles the front doorknob, cursing loudly when he realizes it’s locked. I stand in the kitchen, frozen. I could open the door for him, but my hands are all doughy.
“Ana!” Jason yells.
I jump, grasping my heart with flour-covered hands.
“Ana,” he yells again, banging on the door. “I left my keys at the fucking rink. Let me in!”
I swallow as I hurry to wash my hands. Part of me imagines what it would be like to leave the door locked, wander to our room, and curl up in bed without Jason. The idea is more tempting than it should be, and the resulting guilt propels me toward the door.
“What took you so long?” he mutters, pushing past me when I let him inside. Hobbes growls from the corner, and Jason snaps at him. “Shut it.”
It seems absolutely laughable that there was ever a time when I’d welcome Jason home with open arms, that he’d wrap me in a soft embrace and plant kisses on the top of my head. That was over a year ago, and so much has changed since then.
“I’m sorry,” I say, training my voice once again. “I was in the kitchen and my hands were covered in gunk. I had to wash them first.”
“Why does it smell like gas in here?” Jason asks, his voice more accusing than inquiring.
“I was making cookies.”
“One of these days, I’m going to come home and you’ll have burned the whole fucking building down.” He sneers, dropping his hockey bag and coat on the floor as he heads for the bathroom. The door closes behind him.
I stay frozen to the spot until I hear the shower running. Hobbes plants himself outside the bathroom door, growling.
Like a zombie, I stumble back to the kitchen. It isn’t until I place the cookie sheets into the oven with shaking hands that I realize how furious I am.
3
* * *
Broken Glass and Broken Promises
Grant
“I’m happy to go support the Little Rookies charity camp this year.” I nod, opening the notebook I placed on the table in front of me.
“Great, so that’s settled.” Coach Dodd rests his elbows on the conference room table, looking around. “Choose another player to go with you too.”
I grab the water bottle in front of me to take a long drink. We’re halfway through our regular weekly meeting with the team leadership, the one I’m invited to sit in on as the team captain.
I write down the date for the charity camp event on the notebook calendar in front of me. The guys usually tease me, pointing out that there are more technology-friendly ways to keep track of my schedule, but today everyone’s quiet. Maybe they’re just focused on getting through the agenda that Coach has scrawled on the white board at one end of the conference room.
“What else?” Coach says, tapping his pen against the table as his gaze drifts to the agenda. “Oh, right, we need to decide which cause we’re supporting this season.”
Last year we supported breast cancer research, donating a portion of ticket sales to cancer treatment and awareness. Our usual black laces were replaced with pink ones in all the guys’ skates last October.
“We need a decision in the next week. Grant, you got any suggestions?”
“Yeah,” I reply, distracted as my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. “Let me put some thought into it and get back to you by the end of the week.”
“Sure thing,” Coach Dodd says, then launches into the next agenda item as my phone vibrates again.
I pull it out and see a number I don’t recognize. But based on the fact that whoever it is has called me twice in quick succession has my senses tingling and concern tightening my stomach.
“I need to take this,” I say, holding up my phone.
Coach nods. “Sure, we’re just wrapping up.”
I slip out of my seat and head into the hall for some privacy as I answer. “Hello?”
“Grant.” The woman’s voice is a little breathless, and it takes me a second to place it.
“Ana?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to call you out of the blue. It’s just . . .”
An uncharacteristic feeling of worry stirs low in my gut. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”
She hesitates, and I hear her take a deep, steadying breath. “Can you, um, can you come get me?”
“Now?”
She hesitates again. “Yeah, if you could. But it’s okay if you can’t. I can figure something out.”
“Where are you?”
“At the apartment. Second floor, 201.”
“I’m on my way.”
I end the call and stick my head back into the conference room to announce that I need to take off a few minutes early. Coach gives me a quick wave and says it’s no problem. And then I’m on my way to the apartment where I dropped Ana off last night.
Honestly, I never expected her to be back here. Sure, I gave her my number just in case, but I never expected her to use it. Especially not so quickly.
In fifteen minutes, I’m back to the same corner I dropped Ana off at last night. But instead of stopping at the curb and keeping the engine running, this time I’m looking for parking. I locate a spot and leave my Tesla on the street.
I make it up to the second floor and find the door to apartment 201 is open, just a crack. I take it as an invitation to enter, knocking twice as I push the door the rest of the way open.
“Kress? Ana?” I say, entering the space. It’s empty, just a quiet foyer.
I have no idea if Jason is here, and if he is, I doubt my presence here would be welcome. I have the strong suspicion that his girlfriend calling me for help would be a huge problem, and the last thing I need is to come to blows with my left winger in his own home.
We’re cordial enough on the ice, but we’re definitely not friendly away from hockey. First, I’d have to respect the guy, which I don’t. And any idea of getting
to know him outside of the team was destroyed by the asshole display he put on last night.
At first glance, you might think we have something in common. We’re probably the two surliest bastards on the team, but the difference is—I know how to control my temper. I’ve never been the type to let my fists fly without pausing to think through the consequences. He gets into a lot of scuffles on the ice, whereas I only fight when absolutely necessary.
I hear a sniffle and then a distant voice.
“I’m in here.”
As I follow Ana’s voice and find her in the kitchen, I notice several things at once. The smell of something burning. Broken glass littering the tile floor as it crunches beneath my shoes. And Ana, crouched on the floor next to a cabinet with a smear of blood on the white tile at her feet.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, meeting her eyes briefly. They aren’t wet with tears like I expect. Instead, she looks embarrassed.
“I’m okay. I just stepped on some broken glass.”
My expression hardens. “He do this?”
Ana nods. “He came home angry. We fought, and he threw a glass against the wall.”
My gaze tracks up the wall where the force of the impact left shards of glass stuck into the drywall. It would have been about where Ana was standing before she sank to her spot on the floor.
Son of a bitch. He didn’t throw a glass at the wall . . . he threw it at her head.
My fists clench at my sides. Kress has at least a hundred pounds on her. On what fucking planet does he think it’s okay to treat his girl this way? To treat anyone this way? Let alone someone he should lay down his life to protect, care for, and . . .
A bark comes from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, interrupting my thoughts. But it’s not the bark of a guard dog, which is too bad. A guard dog might have done something to protect her. No, it’s the high-pitched yip of a lap dog. Maybe she locked it someplace for safekeeping while Kress went on his rampage.
