Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
ADDISON
Now
Older me wants to shake the shit out of younger me for walking out on them that night.
What was I even thinking?
I brush off memories of the night they won the championship more often than I’d like to admit. I have to because walking away from Roman for a second time still gnaws at me.
“The ceremony’s at Highland Lodge in a couple of weeks. We need to reserve some cabins if you want to stay—they said availability’s limited.”
I’m slumped in my parents’ living room, which looks like Santa’s workshop threw up everywhere, thanks to my niece and nephew.
There’s wrapping paper all over, screaming kids, fake snow, glitter that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there five minutes ago, and a battery-powered reindeer blinking like it’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
You and me both, buddy.
“Highland Lodge is less than twenty minutes away,” I mutter into my hot chocolate. “Most people will just drive back to town.”
“Well, I thought it might be nice, you know, in case you and Mikey…”
Ah, yes, Mikey. My soon-to-be ex-husband, who I wasted almost two years of my life faking orgasms for while he panted over me like a pug with asthma.
“What is wrong with you?” I stare at my mother like she’s grown a second head. “Seriously? You know what he did.”
I caught him four months ago, butt naked and flailing like a dying trout, inside Whitney, my closest friend turned backstabbing bitch. And I say “inside” in the loosest possible terms because, honestly, two pathetic pumps and a groan like he stubbed his toe hardly qualify as mind-blowing sex.
Hats off to the guy though. It takes a real overachiever to disappoint two women at the same time.
Now Whitney’s in the trash pile where she belongs, and Mikey—thanks to his wandering dick—is back living with Mommy and Daddy while I get to keep the house we shared.
So no, Mom. I’m not staying in some cozy fucking cabin with my cheating ex just because he scored a pity invite to my father’s ceremony. But thanks.
“I blame that floozy for flaunting herself at him when your back was turned.” Mom sniffs like she’s discussing a slightly overcooked pot roast instead of my blown-to-shit marriage. “And you know how he is. I don’t think he was ever happy working for his father.”
“Okay, first of all, he messed up his hockey career by being a lazy, entitled dipshit who thought talent excused effort, which is why his sorry ass came crawling back to town in the first place. And second, as a woman, you should know better than to blame the woman.”
“She was your friend.”
“And he was my husband.”
“No relationship is perfect, sweetie.”
“Mom, stop.”
“Would you have stayed with Dad if he’d hooked up with Evie Quinn?”
“You know I can’t stand that woman! Why would you even say that to me?” Mom snaps, turning to glare daggers at Willow.
“Exactly,” my sister says, cutting straight through Mom’s dramatics. “Stop sticking up for the man, especially when said man is a walking, talking sack of crap.”
I catch Willow’s eye and feel that rush of gratitude I always get around my big sister these days.
There’s something about the decade between us that works now—she’s flirting with forty, and I’m closer to thirty than twenty, but we’ve finally found our rhythm.
We’re just women now—women, sisters, allies, and, right now, she’s my favorite person on the planet.
“I’m sorry, but I just want to see you happy and settled, especially because… well, you know.”
Because I can’t have kids.
Mom’s greatest fear is that I’ll end up alone, as if my empty uterus is some kind of man repellent. But Mikey proved you can be plenty lonely, even with a ring on your finger.
“Listen, let’s not worry about me and what I’m doing. I’m fine.”
This conversation feels way too heavy when Mariah Carey is demanding her Christmas list in the background like a sugar-high toddler. At least she knows what she wants—all I want for Christmas is a time machine to go back and cockblock myself from ever touching my ex.
“So, is there an invite list, or are the awards people handling that?”
“They’ve asked your father about who he’d like there, and of course, he went through friends, family, and old players. Not that they’ll necessarily come, considering he trained a few that made it to the NHL. I imagine they all have fancy lives now.”
I nearly choke, marshmallows and hot chocolate threatening to shoot out of my nose. “Wait—what? Why is the guest list going that far? I thought this was just family and friends.”
My stomach does that thing where it feels like it’s trying to escape through my throat. Because old players could mean… No. No way. The universe isn’t that much of a bitch. Except it is, and I know exactly which three “old players” are probably topping that sentimental little list.
“I’m not sure. Your dad handled most of it. He just asked me to look into accommodation for anyone who needs it. Oh, and to help him find something to wear.”
“By help, you mean choose,” Willow says, laughing.
“Yes, you know how he is.”
But I barely hear them because now I’m picturing the past walking back into my present, and all I can think is how emotionally unprepared I am for that.
My father's being awarded for his lifetime achievement in coaching and player development. The fancy plaque will say something about his dedication to building one of the country's most successful collegiate hockey programs, but that doesn't even begin to cover it.
It won't mention the countless midnight phone calls from players spiraling after a bad game, a breakup, or a family crisis, or the way he'd open our home to every kid who needed a couch, a meal, or just someone who wouldn’t give up on them.
It won't talk about the dinners Mom would cook for entire teams or how Dad would sit at our kitchen table until ungodly hours, drawing up plays and reviewing game tapes.
He's a hard-ass, always has been. He's the kind of coach who'd make his players skate suicides until their legs felt like jelly, then turn around and drive them to the emergency room himself if they got hurt.
His players either worshipped him or wanted to run him over with the team bus—sometimes both in the same day—but they all respected him.
Because beneath that gruff exterior and the endless drills, they knew he'd go to war for any one of them.
And now he's finally being recognized for twenty-five years of early morning practices, of molding cocky teenagers into solid men, and building not just a program but a legacy.
I stick around through lunch, working through Mom’s never-ending to-do list. Eventually, Willow and I make our escape, slipping out into the crisp December air before Mom can find another reason to keep us hostage.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but sometimes she lives in this Hallmark movie version of reality where every problem can be solved with a cup of cocoa and a heart-to-heart. Meanwhile, Willow and I are stuck in the real world, where ex-husbands cheat, and happy endings aren’t guaranteed.
Willow buckles Aaron and Hannah in, shuts the back door with her hip, and leans against the driver’s side.
“No matter what Mom says to you, do not go back to Mikey.” I laugh, pulling my coat tighter around myself. “I’m serious. Even if you’re pulling a full Bridget Jones on Christmas morning—wine, pajamas, and ‘All by Myself’ on repeat—do not call him.”
“You don’t have to worry. Not even in my worst state would I go back to a man like that.”
Willow gives me that patented big-sister stare as I tuck my newly shoulder-length blonde hair behind my ears.
The cut was my post-breakup rebellion. Nothing says fresh start like chopping off eight inches of hair, along with the last two years I wasted on a guy I’m pretty sure I never really belonged with.
“You’re doing better than I expected.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you’re stupid enough to stay in a relationship just because everyone else said it made sense.”
“You should’ve told me you weren’t happy.”
“By the time I realized it, everything was already in motion. The wedding, the house, the life I thought I was supposed to want.” I force a smile. “It felt easier to just go along with it.”
“Nothing is ever too late…” She checks her watch. “Except me. I have to get these kids home.”
She pulls me into a quick hug before sliding into the driver’s seat, and I watch her car disappear down the snowy street until it’s just a speck in the distance.
Later, after a hot shower and slipping into fresh pajamas, I crawl into bed. Love Actually plays in the background, the kind of comfort movie I usually fall asleep to this time of year. But tonight, my mind won’t shut the hell up.
What if they come back?
I press my head deeper into the pillow like that might smother the unwelcome thought, but it’s already too late.
What if they show up at the ceremony?
What if they’re not together anymore?
Or worse—what if there’s someone new?
Some other woman they all felt drawn to?
I roll onto my side and stare at the blinking Christmas lights I strung above my window last week.
What if I have to sit there, smile politely, and pretend it doesn’t gut me?
Ugh. Don’t go there, Addie. Jesus.
Still, I can’t shake it.
Whether I’m ready or not, after five years of silence and space, I might have to face the three men who took pieces of me with them when they left to chase their dreams.