Wild for You

by Kendall Ryan

  I glance her way. “So, last night . . .”

  She bites her plump lower lip and her gaze darts over to Hobbes. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  I’m not sure what to make of her comment. Does she not want to talk about it? Or does she not want me doing so out of obligation?

  I clear my throat and start again. “All right. Uh, how was your day?”

  She launches into a story about a client she had today, a woman who was nine months pregnant and suffering from lower back pain. She thought she needed a prenatal massage, but it turned out she was in the early stages of labor. Ana waited with the client while she called her doctor, and then her husband.

  Ana looks up at me, a slice of pizza in one hand. “What about you? Keep yourself busy?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I, um, actually have a little bit of an update for you. I talked to Coach today.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls. She’s bracing for bad news, just like I did.

  Clearing my throat, I push my plate away. “The suspension is still in place for seven more games, but Kress is moving down. He’s headed to Wisconsin.”

  “Wow.” Ana’s shoulders drop as the news sinks in. “That’s . . . unexpected.”

  Nodding, I touch her shoulder. “I know. But it’s good news, right?”

  “It is,” she says quickly, meeting my eyes.

  A zing of electricity bolts through me at the memory of last night. Fuck.

  The sex between us was off-the-charts incredible. But we can’t do that again. It was all kinds of inappropriate of me to cross that line. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret it. Even if it’s never happening again.

  She works her bottom lip between her teeth while she considers the news that Jason is leaving. There’s a brightness to her eyes I can’t look away from.

  Drop it, dude, she’s not yours. Never will be.

  Rising to my feet, I carry my plate into the kitchen. “I’m tired. Think I’m going to turn in early tonight.”

  Ana watches me with a curious expression from her spot on the couch. “Okay,” she murmurs while Hobbes settles in by her feet, begging for a scrap of food.

  “Good night,” I say as I head off.

  The truth is, I’m not even a little bit tired. I just don’t trust myself to be alone with her right now.

  Ana isn’t my toy to play with, and I need to remember that.

  13

  * * *

  It’s Time to Be a Grown-Up

  Ana

  The stunned silence that settles around me after Grant flees to his bedroom under the guise of being tired is deafening.

  I lift Hobbes from his sleepy spot by my feet and cuddle him to me. “You’ll keep me company, won’t you?” I murmur, pressing my face into his fuzzy little chest.

  He looks at me and yawns.

  Releasing a sigh, I set Hobbes down again.

  Grant played it off well, but I could sense something was off from the moment I came inside tonight. He was strained and uncomfortable, and trying to put distance between us, like increasing our physical proximity would somehow quash the growing attraction between us. It didn’t. Not for me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at compartmentalizing. I don’t have much choice.

  I can’t hop from one relationship to the next—from one hockey player to the next. God, what would people say? I have more dignity than that. I can practically hear the rumors flying now about how I’m sleeping my way through the team roster. And I won’t be that girl.

  Instead, I’m going to be the girl who gets her shit together, the girl who gets her life back on track and won’t allow one asshole ex-boyfriend to sabotage all her plans. And just because Grant is a gorgeous, thoughtful man doesn’t mean he’s the right man for me. He provided a level of comfort and care last night that I didn’t expect to need—but I did need it. And he freely gave it, generously and without judgment.

  But I need to focus on myself and rebuilding my life. Simple as that. I can’t let a moody, decidedly sexy man deter me from that goal.

  • • •

  The reflection staring back at me in the mirror makes a sour face.

  I’ve worn this pink sweater twice a week since I started staying with Grant, and I don’t even like this sweater that much. It was just the first thing I grabbed out of my closet that night when Grant swept me away to his condo. That and an assortment of yoga pants and spa T-shirts for work, one ill-fitting pair of jeans, and underwear of the un-sexy variety. Not that there’s any occasion for sexy underwear.

  Grant’s out of town, at another away game, and I might be sulking.

  He’s been a complete ghost since we slept together. It’s like we’re back to square one. Not conversationally, though. He’s not withholding or being short with me. It’s more of a physical distance.

  He touched my shoulder last night, and I felt that same lightning shudder through my whole body again. But before I could blink, he disappeared. All I want is to talk to him about what happened between us, but I can tell he isn’t ready to. That’s what I get for crossing a boundary, I guess.

  I tug at the sweater, willing it to fit me differently. When my phone buzzes, I open my messages distractedly. The name on my screen is like a swift kick to the gut.

  Jason.

  My ex hasn’t texted me in days, so I thought he was finally letting go. He’s being forced to move to Wisconsin, thousands of miles away. A huge demotion, to be sure, but at least he’s still playing hockey.

  Memories of Jason—the good ones—live in a dusty, sealed box, tucked away deep in the recesses of my heart. I haven’t dared open that box since the first time he shoved me against a wall. But now that I have the assurance of thousands of miles between us, it feels safer to revisit them.

  With a deep, steadying breath, I open the message.

  Hey. I packed your things in boxes. Georgia is coming to get them for you today. I’m moving to Wisconsin, so I ended the lease early. Let me know if the landlord harasses you. Bye, Ana.

  My heart seizes, and I steady myself against the dresser. With numb fingers, I call Georgia.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Georgie.”

  “Hey, babe, what’s up?”

  “You going to my old apartment today?”

  There’s only a hint of a pause before she speaks again, her voice clear and cheerful. “Yep! Want me to steal anything?”

  I smile, relieved as feeling returns to my fingers and legs. I’m so lucky to have this beautiful, thoughtful person in my life. “Nothing specific. Should I come with you?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got it covered. Well, me and Bertha.” Bertha is what she calls her trusty Jeep Wrangler.

  “But like, should I come?” I chew on my thumbnail, not even sure what I want her answer to be.

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate, considering her question.

  “It might give you some closure.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Well, if you want to come, I was going to head over in about, uh, forty-five minutes? I could swing by wherever you are right now.”

  “Could you pick me up on the corner of 32nd and Harrison?”

  “Whoa, ritzy neighborhood. That’s where you’ve been staying?”

  All Georgia knows is that I’m staying with another friend, and she’s been an angel for not asking for more details. We both know that Jason would corner her if he suspected she knew anything.

  “Yeah. Nice, right?” I chuckle. “I’ll be ready. Can’t have you moving all my crap by yourself.”

  “Okay, I won’t stand in the way of your journey of healing,” Georgia says, only half ironically. “But if you want to back out, even at the last second, I’ve got you. You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I murmur, relaxing with a warm sigh. “I owe you a killer massage.”

  “You really do!” Georgia laughs, and I join her. We both know we’ll never go through with it. “I’l
l let you go. See you soon!”

  “’Bye, Georgie.”

  “’Bye, babe.”

  About five minutes early, I’m standing on the corner. The wind cuts through me, even on this temperate day, and I rub my hands together for a little extra warmth.

  It seems weird, going empty-handed into a trade-off like this. I didn’t take anything of Jason’s with me when I left the apartment, not even anything he gave me. The teddy bear he got for me on our first date has a special place on the media shelf, next to my collection of rom-coms and Jason’s video games. The necklace he gave me for my birthday last year hangs from the jewelry stand in the bathroom, only worn on special occasions. I have no idea what I’ll do with them. Part of me hopes he just threw them out.

  Soon, a gray Jeep is pulling in front of me and Georgia is rolling down her window.

  “Get in, loser! We’re going soul-cleansing,” Georgia calls from the driver’s seat.

  I can’t help but snicker at the reference to one of our shared favorite movies. Leave it to Georgia to make me laugh on a day like this.

  “Love the outfit,” she says. “It’s very ‘look how well I’m doing without you.’ I dig it.”

  “Really?” I scoff, pulling my seat belt over my coat and chunky sweater. “I’m just excited to get my wardrobe back.”

  “Yeah.” Georgia sighs, putting the car in drive. “Do you want to say anything to him when you see him?”

  I think about this for a moment. Is there anything I haven’t already said to him?

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to anticipate what he’ll say to me.”

  “Ugh, I don’t want to even guess. Do you think he’ll beg for you back?”

  “No.” I shake my head solemnly. “He’s too proud.”

  “I think he only liked you because you took care of him. But that’s just my take,” Georgia says with a shrug.

  “Well, your take would be correct.” I sigh. “I just wish I’d gotten out before it got . . . the way it did.”

  “Violent? Honey, you can’t blame yourself for not anticipating violence. That’s crazy. That shit’s not normal. At least, not in my experience.”

  We sit in silence for the rest of the car ride. Truthfully, I’m grateful she’s giving me the space to think.

  I know I need to brace myself for the worst possible scenario. Jason could get angry and throw something, or worse, hurt one of us. And even though I don’t think that will happen, my stomach is still tied in knots.

  Grant would freak out if he knew I was doing this.

  I frown. Enough of that. I don’t need Grant’s permission, just like I never needed Jason’s permission. This is my life, and I’ll be damned if I don’t call the police next time I feel like someone’s threatening it.

  Pulling up to our old brick building is surreal. It feels almost like an out-of-body experience as we trudge up the steps. I never had Georgia over in the past, so this will be her first and last time at my old place. So weird. Luckily, she doesn’t seem fazed by any of this. Instead, she steps confidently up to the front door and hits the buzzer for number 201. Despite the elements, the tiny card with our last names is still legible: KRESS/WALSH.

  The door buzzes and Georgia pushes through, leading me upstairs. Walking down the hall gives me tunnel vision as memories of shattered glass and hollow screams ring in my ears.

  The door to the apartment is cracked open. Georgia stops, turning back to me. I give her a weak smile when she reaches out to squeeze my hand. With my fingertips, I push the door the rest of the way open.

  I almost don’t recognize Jason when I see him. He sits on the edge of the couch, looking skinnier than ever. His eyes have dark circles beneath them.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he croaks, his gaze flicking to Georgia, who stands like a prison guard at the door.

  That’s kind of what this feels like . . . visitation.

  “I didn’t want Georgia coming here alone,” I say, impressed with the strength of my voice. To be weak in front of this man again . . . well, let’s just agree that I’d rather die.

  “Right.” He sighs before standing, and it takes everything in me not to flinch as he moves closer to me. “Let me help you with the boxes.”

  There’s at least half a dozen, filled with clothes, books, pots and pans . . . all proof that I ever called this sad home my own. I want to object to his offer, but more hands means we can get through this quicker.

  The three of us carry boxes down the stairs, carefully maneuvering around one another. Georgia only takes her eyes off of me to watch Jason when he gets too close.

  But my instinct when I first opened the door is right. Jason is smaller now. Weaker. I wonder how much of that is the stress of his demotion, poor nutrition, regret . . . and how much of it is just my perception of him. He seemed so much bigger when he was throwing me against a wall.

  I’m pulling the rear hatch of the Jeep down when I sense Jason nearing me. Georgia’s in the front seat, her eyes boring into us through the rearview mirror. I spin around. Jason is a foot away, and that’s too close. I take a step back.

  “Can we talk for a sec?” he asks, but doesn’t try to move any closer.

  Good.

  “Okay,” I say with a nod.

  There’s a silence, but I wait it out. If he wants to talk, he’ll have to do the talking.

  Jason doesn’t even meet my eyes. Instead, he stares at my shoes. “I know I ruined things between us.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know. But . . . I just can’t go on living knowing that you hate me.”

  “I don’t, Jason.” I sigh. This feels almost juvenile. It makes my skin crawl.

  “It seems like you hate me . . .” He runs a hand through his hair and finally meets my eyes, his colored with sadness.

  Ah, there’s the manipulator I knew and loved to a fault. I was wondering where he went.

  “I don’t hate you. But I do think you need professional help.”

  He scoffs. “Like therapy?”

  “Yes.”

  When he sees how serious I am, his expression softens.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway . . .” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry for . . . everything. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “No, I didn’t. Get some help, Jason. Take care.”

  And with that, I turn, walk around the Jeep, and let myself into the passenger side. In the side mirror, I watch Jason shuffle back into the building.

  “Are you okay?”

  The warmth of Georgia’s voice melts my icy defenses into a pathetic puddle. I scrunch my eyes closed as unexpected tears begin sliding down my cheeks. Smothering a hiccup with my hand, I shake my head. I’m not okay.

  “Oh, Ana, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Georgia coos softly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

  It’s an awkward hug, a car hug, but it’s perfect. I’m crying at this point, Georgia’s comforting words soothing me with the promise of acceptance and safety.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’re so strong, the strongest person I know. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I think I really loved him.” I sob, choking on the words. “How could I have loved him when he hurt me like that?”

  “You’ve got a big heart, lady. A big, selfless heart.” Georgia sighs, smoothing my hair back from my wet face. “You deserve the world, and you’re gonna get it. You hear me?”

  I nod, stifling another hiccup. “I hear you.”

  “How about we drown our tears in some margaritas?”

  “It’s not even one o’clock,” I choke out, my shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “Oh, good. Maybe we can catch a brunch special. Mimosas then. Buckle up!” Georgia hollers something like a battle cry as we peel out onto the street, leaving all of that mess and hurt in the dust.

  I roll down the window, letting the brisk air dry my cheeks. With every turn, the boxes in the back of the car rattle and crash ag
ainst each other, but I couldn’t care less.

  I’m free.

  14

  * * *

  Oh, Baby

  Grant

  I shouldn’t be here today. I should have just mailed in that little regrets card and sent along a gift.

  What the hell was I thinking? A baby shower isn’t my scene. If I didn’t know it before, that’s become abundantly clear in the last five minutes.

  Exhibit A is my star goalie, who’s currently blindfolded and trying to determine the dirty diapers from the clean ones using only his sense of smell. Apparently, a few select diapers have been sprayed with something called fart spray from the gag store.

  So far, I haven’t ventured into the living room where the games are being played, preferring to stick close to the kitchen where there’s good, normal things, like beer. And no fart spray. I’m not normally a big drinker, but based on the fact that two of my players just chest-bumped over their victory of dressing a baby doll faster than their fiancées, I’m thankful for beer. Beer is good. Baby showers are bad.

  Ana looks at me from across the room, meeting my gaze with an uncertain look.

  At least she came with me today. Honestly, she’s the reason I’m here.

  Ana seemed thrilled with the idea of coming here today. She showered and then blow-dried her hair into loose waves, which is different from the simple ponytail she usually wears to work, and she smells fucking fantastic. Then she took her time elaborately wrapping a large gift in yellow and pale green paper. That was my first clue that Owen and Becca don’t yet know the gender of their baby.

  Maybe I should have known that already. But to be honest, while he’s one of my best players and a huge asset to the team, Owen and I have always been just teammates. Great teammates, don’t get me wrong, but in terms of friendship, we never really got there. He’s a life-of-the-party kind of guy and has a big circle of friends, as evidenced by the huge group that showed up for him today.

  Good for him. He deserves it. I’m more of the loner type.

  The normally broody center, Justin Brady, is racing to beat the clock as he diapers a doll, and the fun-loving Teddy King is grinning like a loon while he races him. The twenty-five-year-old rookie, Jordie Prescott, is sitting alone at the dining table nursing a beer. He’s always solo to team events like I usually am. The only difference is today I came with Ana, which is obviously a temporary thing.