Chapter 8 Chase
CHASE
I thought I was finally able to let go of Tim and everything he had done to me. I was wrong.
After dinner at the Sanders house on Thanksgiving, I really enjoyed getting to know Sam better.
In fact, I enjoyed it so much that for the first time since the divorce, I was actually flirting.
I liked who I was able to be, how he made me feel special.
Leaving his house was the lightest I had felt in years – even before the divorce to be honest. Sam opened up a piece of me that I closed off almost a decade ago to save Tim’s ego.
Pulling into my designated parking space at my condo, the guilt swarms over me when I notice the Jeep.
I would know that Jeep anywhere. I bought it for Tim for our last anniversary.
I subconsciously knew there were issues with us for a while which is why I took us off the list for being a billet family the year before.
I apparently just needed to get away from everything to be able to see it all clearly.
“What are you doing here, Timothy?” I sigh when he jogs to catch up to me at the door to my building. “You got to keep everything you wanted in the divorce.”
Including your boy toy…
I can’t even say anything at this point because Sam is probably the same age as Royce and given the opportunity, I would never let that man out of my bed.
I get the appeal of a younger man. Hell, Tim is three years younger than I am.
We met when he was eighteen and I was the oh so mature age of twenty-one.
Now, I’m thirty-nine to his thirty-six and he barely acts like he’s twenty.
“There’s a problem with the house, Chase.”
Rolling my eyes, I open the door and wave him inside.
There’s no point in arguing out here where all of my neighbors will get a free show.
No, I’d rather do it inside where the yelling will bring about a call to the cops and possibly cost me my job.
God, I’m stupid. Hopefully, this won’t take long.
My good mood from earlier just evaporated and I want to be able to somewhat salvage the evening.
“Becky wants a pool,” he continues without even glancing at me. He goes straight to my fridge, tracking filth across my floors, and pulls out a bottle of beer for himself.
“Who the fuck is Becky and why does her desire for a pool have anything to do with me?”
Tim ignores me in favor of opening every drawer in the kitchen before using the edge of the countertop to open his bottle. I paid extra for genuine marble countertops, and this mother fucker is treating my home like he’s the one who put up the quarter of a million dollars to buy it.
Deep breaths, Chase. Homicide is a bad idea.
“Becky is my fiancée,” he proclaims before putting his filthy boots up on my coffee table. “We’re getting married in June – during the off season, of course – and she thinks a pool would be a good idea for the kids.”
“Get out.”
My voice is damn near silent, but Tim freezes with the bottle pressed to his lips. I wish I was in a mood where I could enjoy the look of fear on his face, but I am consumed with rage.
How dare he come to my home to demand that I fix the problem of his future wife wanting to put in a swimming pool for their children when I gave him over a fucking decade of my life with him insisting that he never wants to be a father.
“Baby, you know the guys on the city council will listen to you. And Becks is pregnant. I can’t fight her on this.”
Pregnant.
Now, I have the image in my head of not just the barely legal hockey players in my bed but also the barely legal puck bunnies that flocked to him in an attempt to get closer to the aforementioned players.
“First off, I’m not your Babe. Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” I sneer at him before stomping over to kick his feet off the table.
“You lied to me over and over throughout our entire relationship. You fucked a player in our bed mere months after he aged out of the league. And now this is how you decide to tell me you’re not gay, but bisexual?
By telling me the girl you knocked up wants me to grease some palms to get your future kids a pool at the house I fucking built for OUR forever? !”
“Becky’s not a girl,” he mutters before taking another swig of the beer – completely ignoring every other point. “She’s twenty.”
Oh, for fucks’ sake…
“You are sixteen years older than her! She can’t even drink, Tim.”
Tim stands up to his full height, and I snort in derision.
Why the fuck did I ever cater to this fucking douchebag?
I surpassed his five foot nine inches when I was a freshman in high school.
As an adult, I am a full six inches taller than him.
The only thing he ever surpassed me in was growing a beard, but I never actually liked having more than scruff on my face.
Thankfully, I never had to do the playoff beard as a player.
“If you aren’t going to help, you should have saved me the trip,” Tim snaps at me before throwing his half full beer into the sink to shatter. “Fucking four hours wasted.”
My fists are clenched at my sides, and my teeth are damn near cracking with the force I’m exerting to hold back my temper.
I never fucking asked him to show up, nor did he give me any kind of notice that he was coming.
Now that the rose-colored glasses are gone, it’s extremely difficult to look past this kind of behavior from him.
Did meeting a new guy after all of this time really change me that much?
The slam of my front door is probably the most glorious sound I could ever hear right now, but the pleasure is drowned out by exhaustion.
Carefully, I clean up the broken glass – only managing to prick myself once.
After some peroxide and a small bandage, I slip into my pajamas to call it a night.
Instead of pleasant fantasies of Sam, I am plagued with nightmares of Tim coming back into my life: him taking Sam to bed, convincing Jake that I’m not worth the position, forcing my parents out of the retirement community I set them up in, out in Arizona.
By the time my alarm goes off at six, I have barely slept.
Instead of risking myself and others by driving into the office, I email Jake and the other supervisors to let them know I’ll work from home today.
There’s not much that needs done the day after Thanksgiving anyways, so I shouldn’t face any repercussions for it.
After about three hours of work, I’m extremely glad that I didn’t go anywhere.
I send another email to Human Resources to let them know I will be taking sick leave for at least Monday and will update them further after I get the chance to speak with my doctor.
My temperature has gone up. Food won’t stay down.
And just looking at anything brighter than candlelight is like an ice pick jamming into my eyeballs.
Before I lay down to try and kick whatever bug invaded my immune system, I shoot off a text to Jake.
Me: dunno what I caught but I’m sick. Hope u and Mira and the kids are ok. Pass the message to Sam as well. Don’t want the team getting sick either
I don’t bother to wait for a response and turn the phone on silent, placing it face down on the night stand. Hopefully this is only a minor stomach bug and I’ll be able to see Sam again at the game on Monday.