by S. R. Grey
He’s walking with her through a casino, his hand on her elbow.
Oh, and here’s one of him and the same girl in a cozy booth. It’s taken from behind, but I can tell it’s Landen.
Here’s another where he’s chatting with her in a bar, standing far too close for my liking.
“Out with the guys, my ass,” I mutter bitterly.
No wonder Landen sounded so weird on the phone.
No wonder he called so super late.
And no wonder he was apologizing the next day.
Telling me he loves me was just his way of making himself feel better.
I’m sure of it.
God only knows what he did with this chick.
Softly, Bettina asks, “What are you going to do, Cricket?”
Crossing my arms, I reply resolutely, “That’s easy. I don’t play these kinds of games. I’m breaking up with the bastard.”
Fallout
We play a great game and the Wolves win 6-1. But once I’m in the visiting team locker room, things start to go sideways.
First, I try to call Cricket and she doesn’t pick up.
That’s odd.
I know she’s at home watching the game with Bettina, so this makes no sense.
So I send a text instead, indicating for her to call me.
I send another text immediately after, amending for her to wait a half an hour since I have to shower and get dressed.
I just don’t want to miss her call.
But after I’ve cleaned up, dressed, and boarded the team bus that’s now heading back to the hotel, there’s still not one peep from Cricket.
No texts, no calls, no nothing.
Shit, I’m genuinely starting to worry.
Once I’m up in my hotel room, I try her again.
This time someone answers, but it’s not Cricket.
It’s Bettina.
“What?” she snaps.
Tentatively, not sure what the hell is going on, I ask, “Uh, can I speak to Cricket?”
Bettina grinds out, “Actually, no, you can’t. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
This is crazy.
What’s going on?
“Why not?” I ask.
Bettina snorts. “Do you really need to ask such a stupid question? We saw the pictures of you, Landen.”
I’m totally stumped. “What pictures of me?”
“The pictures of you and your little cocktail waitress friend. Those pictures. Ring a bell, buddy?”
My heart sinks. “Oh, fuck.”
“That’s right, dude. And for the record, Cricket doesn’t care to see you, or talk to you, ever again. Unless, of course, it’s in a strictly professional capacity related to the team. Otherwise, stay out of her life.”
I run my hand down my face. “Bettina, it’s not what it looks like. Can I please just talk to Cricket and explain?”
I hear her cover the phone and ask if she wants to talk to me.
I then hear Cricket responding with an adamant “No.”
Damn, that woman is so stubborn.
But can I blame her?
I brought this on myself.
It was stupid to leave the private room with Alana, and even dumber to go to that bar with her afterward.
And though I left, the damage was done.
I know good and well that there are people everywhere with cameras in their phones.
What was I thinking?
I clearly wasn’t.
I was too busy panicking about committing.
And now I got what I thought I wanted—I’m free.
But it turns out, that’s actually the last thing I want.
I try again to get Cricket to talk to me, or FaceTime, or even text.
But she’s adamant, as relayed by Bettina.
At some point, I get the impression Cricket has left the room.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for when Bettina states quietly, “Hey, for the record, I think you’re an ass. But don’t give up on her, okay? That is, if you really do love her, Landen.”
“Bettina, I do. And trust me, I will never give up.”
The trade deadline is the next day, and as expected, we pick up Sebastian Alderman in a trade with the Florida Panthers.
I find this out right before the team is boarding our charter plane to Detroit to play the Red Wings.
The Wolves didn’t give up much, just our backup goaltender and a few low draft picks. Alderman is thirty, so his age probably factored in on that deal.
Hey, we’re still the winners in the end—Sebastian is a really fucking good player.
He proves it the next night at our game in Detroit.
Even after flying in the night before, getting barely any sleep, and attending our early morning practice, he is still fucking on fire.
And the guy’s not even playing his true position of center. He’s filling in at right wing for Blake on my line, just as I suspected he would.
I am really impressed. Sebastian is amazing, a solid all-around good hockey player.
We’re right now in our own end, digging for the puck in the corner.
It pops free, and a forward from the Red Wings tries to corral it.
Lucky for us, one of our defenseman checks him hard and knocks him right the hell off the puck.
It squirts free…to me.
Damn!
I see Sebastian is open at the blue line, so I pass the puck up to him.
Our team starts up ice, making our way into the defenders’ zone in a perfect tic-tac-toe pattern.
It’s like we’re at practice, only this is for real.
I love that I have chemistry with this Sebastian dude already.
It bodes well for the future.
But now is what counts, so when he shoots the puck to me and I see a clear path, I slap-shot that fucker so damn hard.
Annnnd it goes in.
“Fuck, yeah!” I cry out.
I just beat the goaltender like he wasn’t even there.
Sebastian and the other guys come over to celebrate with me.
There are high-fives and pats on the back, a few stick taps too.
Man, I feel good.
I hope Cricket is watching.
It hits me then—why would she watch this game?
She hates me now.
The woman won’t even talk to me, for Christ’s sake.
I’m doomed.
And just like that, my beautiful goal means nothing, making me realize a world without Cricket in my life is a fucking miserable place to be.
The Aftermath
I stand strong in my decision to not have any further contact with Landen. It’s the right thing to do, for me at least.
I just can’t be with someone I can’t trust.
And I can’t trust him.
It doesn’t mean I’m not miserable, though.
The day after our breakup, I’m just going through the motions.
I attend the event at the hospital with the two not-so-well-known players.
They’re really quiet around me.
It’s all “Yes, ma’am” and “No, Miss Nance.”
Yeah, okay, all right.
Clearly the word has gotten out that Landen and I are done.
Amazing.
I swear hockey gossip spreads faster than wildfire.
There are no secrets in this league.
Case in point—Landen’s little tryst in Chicago. It took less than twenty-four hours for me to find out about it. Thanks to Bettina, of course, and her superior sleuthing.
On the way home from the charity event, I consider stopping by Landen’s to pick up my clothes and other things.
I’ll leave him the office supplies.
I’m not that vindictive.
He can think of them as a parting gift.
But I’m sure as hell not setting anything up, nor will I be hanging those cityscape prints.
That crap can all stay in the bags and leaned up against his de
sk.
In the end, though, I just drive straight home.
I don’t have it in me to step inside his house and not lose it.
And I’ve done enough crying for the day.
My eyes are wet even now.
Swiping at a traitorous tear streaming down my cheek, I pull into my driveway and cut the ignition.
Once I’m inside my place, I turn on the TV just to have some kind of sound in the background.
But shit, I forgot today is the trade deadline.
And the TV is tuned to the NHL channel.
Trades are being made all over the place.
Apart from the charity event, I’ve successfully avoided all things hockey today.
But I can’t now.
A part of me just has to listen.
The commentator just announced the Wolves have picked up Sebastian Alderman.
“That was to be expected,” I murmur as I sit down on the sofa.
I may as well pay attention to the details.
I’ll be working with this dude soon enough, right?
“Yep, I will.”
Sighing, I turn up the volume.
Sebastian will be playing on Landen’s third line at the center position. But since Blake is hurt and out, he’ll be filling in at right wing for the remainder of the road trip.
“So Detroit should be interesting tomorrow night,” the announcer says.
“It will,” I agree softly.
The truth is, I can’t help but feel excited for the game.
I want to see the new guy play, sure, but it’s Landen I really long to watch.
He probably thinks I won’t tune in, but he’s so wrong.
It’s just not that easy to move on.
The next day, after a long day of work, I don’t invite Bettina over to watch the game with me.
But I do heat up the leftover wings from the other night.
“Not the most nutritious dinner,” I mutter to myself, “but it’ll do.”
With a bottle of ranch dressing wedged in my elbow, to serve as a dipping sauce, I balance my plate of wings and a can of Diet Coke as I make my way to the sofa.
Success—I don’t drop a thing!
After setting up my dinner on the coffee table, I turn on the game.
It’s the end of the pregame, so the real action is about to start.
First, though, there’s an interview on the ice with the new acquisition.
The reporter says, “Well, Sebastian, you’ve had quite an eventful twenty-four hours.”
“I have,” he agrees. “It’s been wild.”
“So tell us how you got word that you’d been traded.”
Sebastian chuckles, the little crinkles at the corners of his deep brown eyes deepening and making him look quite handsome. “I learned about the trade yesterday morning when my agent called. Of course, there’d been chatter.”
The reporter nods. “There always is. So what happened from there?”
Sebastian blows out a breath. “I pretty much grabbed a bag, threw some things in, and flew up to Detroit.”
“Crazy! And you made it to practice this morning?”
He chuckles. “I did.”
“That’s fantastic. Do you feel ready to play?”
“I do. I’m super psyched to join the Wolves.”
“Well, good luck tonight.”
“Thanks, man.”
Sebastian skates away, and that’s when I catch sight of Landen. He’s skating around with the other guys, warming up.
When he reaches the bench, he takes off his helmet to make an adjustment.
My heart skips a beat.
He looks so cute.
His blond hair is a bit of a mess like always, and he’s biting his full bottom lip as he messes with the helmet.
Sighing, I close my eyes.
I have to, or I may do something stupid like call him and leave him a message that I changed my mind and have forgiven him.
But no, I can’t.
I need to stay strong, no matter how hard it is.
And it’s certainly not easy.
Yeah, no, it seems as angry as I am with Landen Zehner, the jerk still holds my heart.
Cricket on My Mind
The rest of the road trip goes by faster than I expect it to, especially considering I don’t join the guys in any more late nights out.
When there’s no game or any practice, I just stay in my hotel room, reading and watching TV.
All safe things to do that keep me out of trouble.
At the end of the road trip, the Wolves finish with three wins and one loss.
Not too shabby, which is good since it’s March and these games mean a lot. We’re in playoff contention, but we need to stay sharp and on top of things.
Too bad I have one huge distraction—my promise to myself to win Cricket back.
I arrive home late on a weeknight, having flown in on the team jet from St. Louis, the last city we played in.
I drive from the airport in my Ferrari, thinking about the night Cricket and I took this car out to that desolate road in the still-wild parts of the desert.
She sure was wild that night.
The beauty of her coming apart, her glittery silver dress shimmering in the orange-y moonlight, fills my mind.
I knew I’d always remember her like that.
I just didn’t know it’d be so soon and so bittersweet.
“I can change all that, though,” I remind myself as I pull into my garage. “I can. And I will.”
Since Cricket is on my mind so much tonight, once I’m inside the house, I stroll down the hall to the home office she helped me paint.
I need a reminder of that day and what it led to.
Jesus, it can’t be over.
We’ve only just begun.
I can’t believe it was only about ten days ago that we said “I love you” to each other.
Yet here we are.
That’s when it strikes me that maybe her pulling away is her version of cold feet, not unlike what happened to me.
I mean, I know I was stupid. But why else would she not let me explain what happened in Chicago?
Why will she not see me?
“That has to be it,” I murmur as I step into the home office.
It smells of fresh paint, and a hint of Cricket.
That makes me even sadder.
But I’m heartened when I turn on a light and find bags from an office supply store.
Cricket must’ve been here!
I quickly head over to check them out and find the bags are filled with items I can really use. There are also two framed pieces of what appear to be artwork leaned up against the desk.
They’re turned the other way, so I have to spin them around to see what they’re of.
Within seconds, I’m murmuring, “Wow, no way.”
I slide down to the floor and just stare at the prints.
One is a black-and-white photograph of New York City and the other is of Las Vegas.
I know then that Cricket chose this artwork with me in mind.
It was only last summer I was traded from the Islanders to the Wolves.
And here I am now.
These prints represent the two most recent cities I’ve played in.
I stand then, peering at both prints before me and deciding which wall each will look best on.
“I wish Cricket were here to help me,” I whisper.
I wish she were here for many more reasons than that.
But it would be nice to have her opinion right now.
I’m on my own, though, so I do the best I can.
I place the New York cityscape on the wall behind the desk and the Las Vegas one on the wall to my right. That way it’ll be what you see first when you walk in the door.
It seems fitting, as New York is part of my past.
And Las Vegas is my here and now.
It’s also my future.
But only if I can win Cricket back.
Otherwise, I’m going to ask to be traded.
I just can’t live here without her.
What Friends Are For
I immerse myself in my work, spending extra time at the office and going above and beyond with the events I work.
The next thing I know, the road trip is over and the guys are back in town.
That, of course, includes Landen.
Landen, who’s left me numerous voice messages and texts, all apologetic and asking if I would please meet with him so we can “talk.”
Ha!
He wishes.
I don’t respond to a single message or text.
In fact, I’m pretty adept at avoiding him completely over the next week.
We have no events scheduled together—thank God—and I don’t attend any of the games.
I do watch them all on TV, though.
And I keep wondering where we went wrong.
Why did Landen not say he loved me that morning?
And why was he freaking out?
Something was clearly wrong.
Did we move too fast?
Was that it?
Maybe, as why will I not let him explain himself?
Am I just being stubborn?
Or do I need space too?
“Ugh, I don’t want to think about it,” I cry out.
But I must.
First, though, I need a trusted friend I can confide in.
So for the next game, I invite Bettina over.
We watch the beginning in relative silence.
I think she doesn’t know what to say.
And I’m thinking about stupid Landen.
But enough of that!
The minute the first intermission begins, I mute the sound on the TV.
“What’s up?” Bettina asks, twisting to me.
She’s a few feet away on the sofa.
Sighing, I share my thoughts on the demise of my relationship, everything I’ve been mulling over since the break-up.
Once I’m done pouring out my heart, she tells me that she has a theory.
“And just what is that?” I ask, propping a throw pillow under my elbow and turning to her.
She shrugs, like she has it all figured out and it wasn’t that hard to do.
“I think you both just got cold feet. Things were moving way too fast.”
“You’re freaking nuts,” I snort, not wanting to admit she’s articulating what I’ve been secretly thinking. “That jackass cheated on me.”
