Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“They were. The flight was rough. This woman next to me was terrified. She started listing all these things she’d never done because she was scared she’d never get a chance to do them.”
“Like what?” Paul asked.
“Buy a new car, get married, stop faking it in bed.”
Alison’s eyebrows shot up. “She told you she fakes it in bed?”
“Yes. She said she always dates nice guys who don’t know what they’re doing, and she doesn’t want to hurt their feelings, so she doesn’t say anything.”
“Damn, she really spilled her guts,” Paul said.
“She did.” I couldn’t help chuckling at the memory. “I had to hold her hand and try to calm her down.”
Alison laughed too. “You held her hand? Did she know who you were?”
I shook my head. “Not a hockey fan. Although she did tell me I was too hot to die.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Of course she did.”
Finishing my beer, I took out my wallet and grabbed a ten for the bartender. “I think I’m gonna take off. I’m exhausted, and I need my beauty sleep.”
“Wait until you have kids,” my brother said. “You don’t know the meaning of exhaustion until you’re a parent.”
“That is a life choice I don’t plan on making.”
“Ever?” Alison sounded surprised. “You don’t want kids?”
I shrugged. “Maybe someday in the distant future, when I’m too old and decrepit to play hockey anymore, and I’m bored of things like sex, sleep, loud music, and doing dumb shit whenever I want.”
My sister-in-law clucked her tongue. “Forget I asked.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said with a grin. After leaving the ten on the bar beneath my empty beer, I headed outside.
On the walk back to my car, I wondered again about Mabel Jane Buckley and hoped she’d gotten home okay. Was she already tucked in bed, her cat curled up beside her? Was she watching TV? Scrolling social media on her phone? Would she search my name? Did she even remember it?
She was still on my mind when I got into bed in my hotel room. After undressing completely and sliding between the sheets, I grabbed my phone and typed “Mabel Buckley museum curator” into the Google search bar.
The top result was the staff page on a website for something called the Cherry Tree Harbor Historical Society. I clicked on it, and there she was, looking just as cute but much more relaxed than she had on the plane. It was a headshot that sort of looked like a yearbook photo. The top half of her hair was tied back from her face, and her smile showed off that dimple in her cheek. She wore her glasses with the thick black frames and a pearl necklace that immediately put a dirty thought in my head.
You’re a dick, I told myself. Put the phone down and go to sleep.
I set my phone on the charger, turned off the lamp, and stretched out on my back. It felt great. I liked taking up the entire bed, and I didn’t like anybody clinging to me during the night. Courtney used to practically strangle me.
I didn’t even miss the sex, which hadn’t been that good in the end anyway. She’d started playing all kinds of games, pretending like she wasn’t interested, using sex as a weapon, becoming infuriated when I refused to beg for it, accusing me of “getting it somewhere else.” There would be a lot of door slamming and tears and reminders about how hard it was to have a boyfriend who was gone all the time and emotionally unavailable even when he was home. I’d always end up apologizing, even though I wasn’t sorry. But the accusations got worse and the arguing more frequent, and finally, I’d had enough. Before the season was over, I told her I wanted out. The stress was starting to affect my game.
She called me a self-centered, egotistical bastard and threw a plate at my head—which I blocked with an elbow, but it still fucking hurt. “You never loved me!” she sobbed. “You only ever loved the game!”
I didn’t argue.
She screamed a few more insults, told me I’d end up miserable and alone, and stomped out. I hadn’t heard from her since.
Which was fine by me.
My apartment was mine again. Quiet when I wanted quiet. Loud when I wanted loud. I could play video games without her sulking because I was ignoring her. I could grow a playoff beard and not hear complaints that I looked grungy. I could cook my dad’s pasta with meat sauce for dinner without listening to her whine that she couldn’t eat carbs. I could come and go as I pleased without any hassle. And I slept better at night with the bed to myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t planning to be celibate, just single. If I met someone who was up for a no-drama, no-strings-attached good time, I’d indulge. Otherwise, being alone suited me just fine for now. I got my fill of love from the game, from the fans, from the crowd. I respected what my parents and siblings had, but that didn’t mean I had to follow in their footsteps. I liked the idea of being my own man. Forging my own path.