This Is Wild

by Natasha Madison

  “Definitely better than being broken,” he says, laughing a bit, “but it still hurts.”

  I laugh now. “Stop being a pussy,” I tell him. He full-on belly laughs, and it just makes it even better.

  “I was just wondering …” he says softly, and I wonder if he’s lonely.

  “Did you want me to get you something?” I ask him, suddenly hoping he says yes but not wanting him to say yes. The thought of seeing him and spending the night with him is very high on my list, but I know it won’t help me get through this crush I have on him. I need to stop looking for him in a crowd. Stop watching the hockey games just to catch a glimpse of home. “I can swing by on my way home.” The words come out even though my head just said no.

  “I don’t want you to go out of your way,” he says.

  “Just tell me what you want to eat, and I’ll bring it over,” I tell him, ignoring every single sign telling me not to.

  “You don’t have to,” he says, and now he sounds more awake.

  “I’m already stopping for myself, so I’ll just get you stuff also.” I mean, I was going to have to stop, ignoring that I planned on having leftover pizza tonight.

  “I don’t want you to just dump and go,” he tells me.

  “Aww, aren’t you sweet? Are you asking me to have dinner with you?” I joke with him, laughing. “I mean, I thought we established that you just don’t cut it for me.”

  “Hilarious,” he tells me. “You know, if the real estate thing doesn’t work out, you can always work as a comedian.”

  “Whatever,” I say and hang up on him. After the driver stops at the place around the corner from my place, I think about going home and changing, but I veto it, expecting to just dump and go. When the car drops me off, I bring in the big bag of soup and then grab the other bag with assorted sandwiches. I didn’t call him, and when I buzz, it takes him a bit to finally let me in.

  “Sorry,” he says to me when I make it to his front door and then see him in shorts and nothing else. He’s walking with crutches under his arm, but all I can do is take in his perfectly sculpted body. I don’t think I notice anything else. I don’t take in the couch where it looks like he’s been sleeping or that the lights are dim. I notice nothing but him. The way his back muscles ripple while he uses his crutches to get to the counter. “I don’t know where you want to eat,” he says. After blinking a couple of times, he looks over at me, and his eyebrows are pinched together. “Are you okay?”

  “Um …” I snap out of my daze. “Why don’t you go sit on the couch, and I’ll bring the soup over?” I tell him, walking into the apartment and slipping off my shoes. “And if we can maybe turn on some lights, so I can see,” I tell him, and he just stands there at the counter.

  “Whatever you want to do, we can do,” he says, smirking.

  “Also, maybe put a shirt on in case you spill the hot soup.” And I about groan as soon as the words come out of my mouth, but I don’t face him. I put the bags on the counter, and then slip off my jacket. “Or not if you’re good with burn marks.” I look up and see the twinkle in his eye for the very first time.

  “Does me being shirtless bother you?” he asks. I really fucking hope I don’t drool all over his floor.

  Instead, I roll my eyes at him, avoiding his eyes. “Did the puck hit your head after your foot?” I ask him, turning my back on him and grabbing two bowls. “Leave it off. It doesn’t really bother me,” I tell him, grabbing the tub of warm soup. I open the cabinet and take out a pot to put on the stove. I hear the stool scrape the floor and then look at him.

  “I would help, but I only have one foot,” he says, turning and then putting the injured foot on the stool next to him. “Fuck,” he hisses.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, and he just nods. I turn and start the stove, emptying the container into the pot. “I got sandwiches.” I point at the paper bag on the counter next to him while I grab a spoon to stir the soup. “I got a couple of different ones since I don’t know what you like.”

  He opens the bag and takes out some of them. “What is your favorite?” he asks me, and I look over my shoulder at him.

  “I’m good with just soup,” I tell him, grabbing a bowl and then filling it up. “How much soup do you want?” I ask him and see him taking a bite of the sandwiches, and he moans. “I take it that’s good.”

  “I haven’t eaten today. I tried to order something and then gave up,” he says, and I put the plate in front of him. “Then I napped.”

  I sit on the empty stool next to him with my own soup. “I love this soup,” I tell him. “When I got sick last year, Zara got it for me, and I was waiting for the fall to come, so I can ask her where to get it.”

  “Glad my injury could help in a way,” he tells me, laughing while he takes a spoonful of soup.

  “Well, he did score an empty net goal because of it.” I look over at him, and he gives me the side-eye.

  “I thought you didn’t watch hockey?” he says, and I have to really think fast.

  “I turned on the television and was working, and I didn’t realize I didn’t change it from when Zara was over. When I looked up, you were looking like you were proposing to Evan.”

  “I thought my foot was broken, and you thought I was proposing,” he says, shaking his head and eating more soup. “This is really good,” he says.

  “Good. I got you some for tomorrow,” I tell him and finish my own soup. “This was exactly what I needed.”

  “Dinner with me?” he asks, and I look over at him, and he winks at me.

  I put my hand to my stomach. “I suddenly think I’m going to barf.”

  “Thanks again, Zoe,” he says softly to me. I move over to bump his shoulder, but instead of going away from him after, I just stay there, next to him. Our arms touch shoulder to shoulder, and all I smell is him all around me. It would take nothing for me to lean in, and my lips would be on his. I look up into his eyes, seeing if he is thinking the same thing, but before anything happens, his buzzer rings. I spring away from him as if I got caught doing something I shouldn’t be.

  He looks at me and then at the door. “Did you invite any hookers?”

  “Yeah, a whole harem,” he jokes. “That’s why I’m shirtless.”

  I scoff as I get up. “And to think it was all a ploy to lure me into bed.” I shake my head and press the button, asking, “Who is it?”

  “Um, Jeffrey, but I think I have the wrong apartment.” I hear him through the speaker and press the button for him to come up.

  “It’s Zoe,” I tell him and then hear him open the door. I unlock the door and stand in the hallway for the elevator.

  Jeffrey walks out of the elevator and smiles at me. “Well, there is no better sight than that,” he says, walking toward us and pointing at Viktor. He stops in front of me holding out his hand and giving me another fist bump. “How is the patient?”

  “He’s waiting for his harem to come and give him a sponge bath,” I joke with him and walk back into the apartment with the sound of Jeffrey laughing.

  “Hey,” Jeffrey says, going to Viktor. “I thought I’d come over and check on you.” He looks at me. “Looks like you’re in good hands.”

  “I just came over to deliver soup, and now I’m going,” I tell them, and Jeffrey looks at me. “You are saving me.”

  “I’m right here,” Viktor says, and I shake my head, grabbing my jacket.

  “This was fun.” I look at Viktor and then back at Jeffrey. “Especially seeing that handsome face,” I joke with him as I grab my purse and stuff. “You take care.” Then I look at Viktor. “Good luck with the harem.”

  I close the door and walk down the hallway away from the two men who are laughing as I exit. “It was just a good deed,” I tell myself. “The same I would do for anyone,” I say under my breath to no one standing next to me in the elevator.

  Lies, I hear in my head. All lies.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Viktor

  “That was a n
ice surprise,” Jeffrey says the minute the door closes behind Zoe. “She’s a beauty.”

  “I thought you were married.” I look at him.

  “Married isn’t dead,” he tells me, and I just shake my head.

  “Is she going to be a problem?” he asks me. I get up from my stool and hop over to the couch and sit down, putting my foot up on the table on top of a throw pillow.

  “No,” I answer him, and he comes over and sits next to me. “We’re friends.”

  “Well, that is good to hear,” he says, and I’m suddenly pissed.

  “And why’s that?” I snap at him.

  “Because you haven’t started to like yourself yet, let alone have the time to like someone else.” I roll my eyes at him.

  “I like myself just fine,” I tell him.

  “Do you?” he asks me, and I want to tell him to leave. “How bad do you want to tell me to fuck off right now?”

  “On a scale from one to a hundred,” I tell him. “A million.”

  “Why?”

  It’s a question with three little letters. Why? Except it’s a loaded question.

  “Is it because you like her and think you aren’t good enough for her?” he starts, and I don’t interrupt him. “Is it because all the rules tell you that you can’t fall in love until after a year?” He takes a deep breath. “Or is it because you’re a scared little shit who thinks that a good woman will never ever love you because of who you are?”

  “One and three are the same,” I tell him, and he shakes his head.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he tells me. “One is, are you good enough for her. Three is, can she love you for you.” He looks at me. “Two totally different things.”

  “She knows that it’s not an option, and she also let me know that I’m not her type, so …” My stomach burns while I say this. “We are going to be friends.”

  “She brought you soup,” he points out.

  “So? She’s a good friend,” I tell him, then I finally look at him. “I won’t do it to her. I won’t lead her on or get involved with her because it’s not fair to anyone. I need to fix me. I’m making me my number one right now.”

  “Good,” he says, then looks at the television. “What are we watching?” I toss the remote at him without saying anything. I don’t say anything to him for the rest of the night, and when he leaves, I lie in bed, awake most of the night.

  “The swelling has gone down,” the doctor says when he examines my foot two days later. “How is the tenderness?” he asks, pressing down on my foot, but the pain is dull.

  “Not as bad as it was when it happened,” I tell him, and he goes over to his chart where he starts to write the notes. I hate this part, not knowing what he’s writing in there.

  “My advice is to keep off it for another four to five days,” he starts saying. “But you hockey players never listen.” He laughs, shaking his head. “For it not to give you any other problems, do yourself a favor and just rest it.”

  “But …” I start to say, and he holds up his hand to stop me.

  “I get it. Your team needs you.” He closes the file. “But the season just started, so take the time to heal.”

  I nod my head at him and put my sock and my sneaker on. “Thanks, Doc,” I say to him and walk out with him to the waiting room where I’m shocked to find Matthew. “Jesus. First rehab and now this.” I smirk at him.

  “Figured you needed another ride,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “What did he say?”

  “He thinks it’s healing fine, and that I should stay off it for a couple more days,” I tell him, and he nods at me. We walk out to his truck. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane?”

  “Yeah,” he tells me. “I’m going to grab the private plane with Doug.”

  “Am I dropping you off at home?” he asks me, and I just shake my head.

  “I was going to hit up the gym,” I tell him, and he just looks over at me.

  “How about you listen to the doctor and just rest it for the next couple of days?” he asks, and I roll my eyes. “Take advantage of the break.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, and he makes his way to my place. “You, of all people, know how hard it is for a player to take it easy and not be on the ice with his team.”

  “I know, but you do us no good if you get on the ice before you’re ready,” he says, turning to me. “Listen to the doctor,” he says to me right before I shut the door on him talking and turn to go into my house.

  I let myself in, going to my apartment and tossing the key on the counter when the phone rings in my pocket. “Hello?” I say, not even looking at the name.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Zoe asks me, and I smile as I sit on the couch with the sounds of cars honking in the distance. “Are we keeping the foot, or does he want to cut it off?”

  I laugh. It’s been a couple of days since she brought me soup, a couple of days since I’ve seen or spoken to her. A couple of days since we almost fucking kissed. I want to say I haven’t thought about her, but I would be lying. She is there always in the back of my head. “They just cut it off.”

  “Well, that solves everyone’s problem, then.” She laughs.

  “Yeah, I have to stay off it for the next couple of days,” I tell her. “I’m bored shitless, and”—I sigh—“I’m done with 90 Day Fiancé.”

  “Isn’t it the best?” she asks. I can picture her smiling as she asks me. I can picture her eyes lighting up, and her hands getting animated while she says it. “So what’s next?”

  “No clue,” I tell her. “I’m going to go through Netflix and see if there are some shows I should binge.”

  “There are a bunch. Ozark is amazing.” She names all the shows I should watch. “Anyway, I have to go and show some houses,” she finally says. “Let me know what you decide to watch.”

  “I will,” I tell her and disconnect the phone. I try to ignore Jeffrey’s nagging voice in the back of my mind. I grab the yellow legal pad that I started writing on and the pen. I thought putting my resentment and fears on paper was a good start, but while writing it, it gets harder and harder.

  There is so much wrong with me, so much that is broken. The first thing on my list was guilt. I felt guilty, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I felt guilty for doing it or for getting caught doing it. I harp on the list, going over and over it for hours. So long that when I look up, it’s dark out.

  I pick up the phone and call Jeffrey, who answers on the third ring. “Hello,” he says, and I can hear him chewing.

  “Hey, it’s me. Are you busy?” I ask, knowing he is probably eating with his family.

  “Not that much. What’s up?” he asks, and I hear the chair in the background scrape against the floor.

  “I’m done with step four,” I tell him. “I mean, I wrote my list.”

  “How was it?” he asks me.

  “Painful,” I tell him the truth quietly. “I kept playing over the past four years, and I was a horrible person.”

  “You probably were.” He doesn’t sugarcoat anything. “The good news is that you can see it now,” he says quietly. “Admitting to ourselves that we aren’t perfect is a hard thing.”

  “I swear there is nothing good on this list,” I tell him. “I look at it, and I cringe at what that person was, what I was.”

  “The big question is who are you going to tell?” he asks me. “Who are you going to choose who will listen to the inventory of yourself?”

  “I don’t know,” I lie because I know who I want to share this list with. I also know who I can’t share this list with, and it’s the same person. Zoe.

  “Sure, you do,” he says. “I remember when I did mine. I sat down, and the whole time I was writing, I knew who I wanted to share it with. I knew exactly who I was writing it for.”

  “You’re better than me then,” I tell him and change the subject. “I’m having a dinner at my house on November first.”

  “Really?” He knows I’m changing
the subject, but he doesn’t call me out on it. “Good. Count us in for two.”

  “Bringing the missus finally?” I joke with him. “Perfect.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “For listening and always being there.”

  “It’s my job,” he says. “And I like you,” he says with a laugh and disconnects. I toss my phone back on the table and get up to go to the fridge. I pop the pizza in the oven and go take a shower.

  It feels like I’m washing my sins away, washing the bad away, except the need to just go into a daze is strong. To not accept it, I never thought letting go of the drug would be this hard mentally for me. I expected to have a couple of days with tremors. I wasn’t expecting the soul searching I would have to do in order to beat it away.

  I stand at the stove and eat my pizza and then collapse onto the bed. I don’t know what to expect, but it’s not to sleep a whole blissful six hours. Six. I have to wonder if it’s because I finally let go of the awful person I was before. To write down all your wrongs and purge it from your soul. And for the next two weeks, it’s the same thing. I sleep just under six hours each night, and I’m finally back on the ice right before the “monster bash.”

  I slip into my costume and then grab the accessories, shaking my head the whole way down to the car as I make my way over to the arena where everyone is meeting. From what I heard in the past two weeks, it’s going to be a party extravaganza. Oliver’s exact words.

  I get out of the car and head to the dressing room, stopping at Oliver, who is just wearing a suit, a short white wig, and a mustache. “Why aren’t you dressed up?” I ask him.

  He looks down at his costume. “I am.” He smiles and puts on dark sunglasses. “I’m Stan Lee.”

  “Oh, dear God.” I shake my head and then look past him at the guys who have arrived. Max leads the way in ripped jeans with his whole body painted green. I look at Matthew, who is dressed as Spider-Man, and I laugh.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Matthew asks me, and I hold up my shield with the American colors and the star in the middle.