Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Zaan
After the comeback win of the season, we were on the plane back to Vegas when I saw the first video.
What. The. Fuck.
I stare at Lexi.
Vaulting herself off the stage.
The crowd catching her.
Two guys subsequently letting her fall.
Jonny Gold rushing in to grab her and carry her backstage.
I’m not jealous.
I’m thankful he was there—but where the hell was security?
And why did she do it in the first place?
I’m terrified, hurt, and angry.
Terrified that she’s more injured than she’s letting on. Because I know my wife. If she can put on a show of being fine, she will.
Hurt that she’s been shutting me out and didn’t even send me a text to let me know she’s okay.
Angry that she would put herself—and our baby—at risk like that.
I’m beyond frustrated by the time we land. Thankfully, the rest of the team seems too self-absorbed to have noticed, so I’m able to head home without anyone asking me questions.
Because I don’t have any fucking answers.
It’s the middle of the night. The team opted to fly home instead of staying in Seattle, and Coach canceled practice today, but there’s no way I’m going to sleep.
It’s four in the morning.
I should be dead on my feet, but all I can do is stare at the ceiling.
Hold my phone and imagine the million texts I want to send.
Finally, I type one out because I won’t be able to rest until I do.
ZAAN: I hope you’re okay. Please call when you wake up.
Then I put the phone on my nightstand, crawl under the covers, and try to sleep.
I don’t know how much later, but I’m awakened by movement in the bed beside me. I know my wife’s smell, the way she breathes as she curls against me, and how it feels when she needs me. This isn’t the time to talk. Or argue.
This is a time for comfort and rest.
So I wrap my arms around her and pull her close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers just before I drift off again.
I know.
I don’t know if I thought it or said it aloud, but the next time I open my eyes sunlight is streaming through the cracks in the blinds and Lexi is still curled in my arms. I stare at her for a few minutes, taking in her beautiful profile and porcelain skin.
The golden hair draped all over both of us.
The splashes of color from the tattoos that cover her entire chest. Before she’d been able to get breast implants that her body didn’t reject—there were several rounds that didn’t work—she’d gotten the extensive tats to cover what she considered ugly scars.
Then, when she was able to get breasts, she updated the tattoos to accommodate the larger area of skin.
In my opinion, both her breasts and the scars she considers so ugly, are beautiful. They’re part of her. Part of the woman I love with my entire soul.
That’s why the conversation we’re about to have is going to be so difficult.
I’m not some macho alpha male who dominates his woman. Not even in bed, although we dabble in that sometimes.
Generally speaking, we’re equals.
We both work, we both contribute financially, and we make ninety percent of all decisions together. Sometimes, one or the other has to make an executive decision because someone is out of town. When that happens, we tell each other what happened. The rest of the time, we figure it out together.
Also tricky is the fact that this is a professional decision.
Obviously, I don’t ask her opinion if I want to try a new brand of skates or if I change my workout routine. She doesn’t know much about the minutiae of being a professional hockey player, so I wouldn’t consult her on day-to-day decisions.
Just like she wouldn’t consult me about changes to the set list, stage choreography, or the designs on new band merchandise.
Which makes this a slippery slope.
What she does on tour has nothing to do with me.
Except when she puts herself—and our baby—in danger.
“Stop staring at me,” she murmurs in a sleep-addled voice.
“I can’t help it,” I say, stroking the side of her face with my fingers. “You’re so beautiful.”
She smiles, though she doesn’t open her eyes.
“I’m so comfy,” she says, “but I really have to pee.”
Because we’re about to have what will probably be a disagreement, maybe even a fight, I slide out of bed and then scoop her up in my arms.
“Zaan.” She doesn’t even react, so accustomed to me doing things like this. “I can walk.”
“I know. But I want to spoil you.”
“Because you think we’re going to fight.”
This is one of many reasons why we’re so good together.
We know each other intimately.
Way beyond anything that has to do with sex.
We’re best friends, lovers, and partners.
To the point we often read each other’s minds.
I set her down on the toilet and then turn to brush my teeth and wash my face. I might as well take off some of yesterday’s grime. I was so stressed when I got home, I didn’t shower or anything before bed.
Lexi does her business and then follows suit.
“You done with what you’re doing?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
I scoop her up again and carry her back to bed.
“You going to carry me for the next seven months?” she asks lightly.
“Whenever you let me.”
We settle in bed with me on my back and her nestled against my chest, just under my left shoulder.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks after a moment.
“Maybe a little?”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t yell at me. Everything makes me cry the last few days. Well, cry or pee.”
“I’m not going to yell.” I stroke my hand along her side. “But I need to know what you were thinking, babe.”
“I wasn’t,” she says simply. “I know it was stupid, reckless, probably dangerous—but it was instinctive. The show was going really well. The crowd was excited, singing along to the new songs. A group of guys down front started calling to me to do it, and my body had a mind of its own. I jumped before I knew what was happening. And nothing bad has ever happened before.”
“But you were never pregnant before.”
“I know.”
“Lexi, you can’t tell me it wasn’t in the back of your mind. You just said everything has been making you cry or pee. Peeing is very physical—so you must have been aware, somewhere in your subconscious, that you are pregnant.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Lexi?”
“What do you want me to say? Yes, of course, I know I’m pregnant. It’s impacting every freakin’ thing in my life. My moods, my body, my career, even our relationship! I’m very aware of this damn pregnancy!”
There’s a moment of stunned silence.
“This damn pregnancy?” I shift slightly, looking at her in confusion.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I think you did,” I say, interrupting and slowly sitting up. “Do you not want this baby, Lexi?”
“Of course I do.” She gnaws the inside of her cheek, which is a nervous tic she has. It’s also a tell when she’s lying. “It’s just—”
“There shouldn’t be just anything. The timing is off? It’s inconvenient? It’s stressful? Just what, Lexi?”
“Well, yes. All of that.” She sits up and faces me, pulling the sheet around her as if protecting herself. “It is inconvenient. Do you know how many records we’ve sold in the last month?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Approximately nine hundred thousand. You’re about to go platinum.”
“Sasha thinks we hit it last week. But the numbers aren’t in yet.”
“Great. Congratulations.” There’s only a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
“That sounded sincere,” she snaps.
“Are you going to terminate?”
“No!” She throws up her hands. “But it’s a lot. There’s so much to consider, so much to do, and neither of us has the time to do it.”
“Well, I think that’s your answer right there.”
“My answer?” She frowns. “What’s the question?”
“The question about whether or not to go on tour.”
She narrows her eyes and scowls. “Seriously? That’s where we’re going with this?”
“Where else would we be going?” I demand. “You think it makes me happy to watch you give up something you love? But our baby has to come first. It’s a year. Maybe a little more, depending on how delivery goes, but—”
“A year.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You want me to take a year off starting the week our album goes platinum.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Uh, you know—going on tour. If I was a teacher, would you be asking me to take a year off?”
I sigh. “Lexi, that’s not what I mean. Your job is different. You can’t just sit at a desk and read kids a book or limit how many patients you see a day. This includes travel and a physically challenging performance every night. Being away from your doctors and support system. Being away from me.”
She stares. “So… are you going to take the next year off too?”
I know where this is headed, so I tread carefully.
This is turning into the fight I’d hoped to avoid.
“One of us has to work.”
“Why? We have plenty of money to get us through a year off.”
“I can’t just take a year off. It’ll be impossible to stay in shape and keep my place on the team. Plus, I would be in breach of contract.”
“Not true. There are clauses for family and medical issues. If I’m not well enough to work, then I’ll need you home to take care of me.” She cocks her head. “Right?”
“You’re purposely being difficult.”
“And you’re purposely being obtuse. You want me to give up my dreams for a year—maybe more—while you give up nothing.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that.
“Babe, I can’t carry the baby for you.”
“No, but you want me—and my band—to give up everything. Because you’re more comfortable with me being at home. Like this is the 1950s or something.”
“You know that’s not true. But last night proved—”
“What did last night prove? That I made a mistake? Yes. Absolutely. I admit to it. It was a bad fucking decision, but we talked about it after the show, and we are taking stage diving out of the show. We’re also going to change the set in a few months to add a few slower songs that will give me the opportunity to sit at the piano more.
I’ll have a stool on stage at all times, just in case.
We talked about a lot of adjustments to accommodate my pregnancy. ”
“So, you’re going to do what you want no matter what I think?”
“I’m going to do what’s right for me. Just like you would do if this was a hockey thing.”
“Seriously?” I don’t lose my temper very often, almost never with Lexi, but I’m having a hard time with this. “It’s my kid too!”
“It is. But unless and until you’re willing to make the same sacrifices you’re asking me to make, I’m the one who has to carry it, so I’m going to be making the decisions that impact it.”
“You asked me not to yell at you,” I say quietly, pulling on a pair of shorts. “And I love you enough to respect that. Instead, I’m going to walk away for a while. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t escalate into yelling.”
“That’s the grown-up thing to do,” she says, glaring at me. “Walk away.”
I know it’s childish, but she did ask me not to yell.
And right now, it’s about to explode out of my chest in words that I might not be able to take back.
I love her too much for that.
I put on a T-shirt, slide my feet into a pair of sandals, and grab my phone and keys.
Then I jog down the stairs without looking back.