Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Bex
When I started working for the team last year, we laid some ground rules: I’m allowed to fraternize with the players’ wives, since I’m already friends with some of them; I get to watch home games from the stands; and I’m expected to attend team functions like any other staff member.
Although I have to keep a professional distance and observe my patients with clinical detachment, it doesn’t keep me from socializing with them.
Annaliese, my right hand, is not interested in socializing with either players or their partners.
She’s on duty in the spotter booth tonight, since it’s a home game, and I’ll take over for the road trip.
I kind of like the travel. I’m sure after a few more years, it might get old, but until that happens, I’m going to make the most of it.
Today is a matinee game, and Riley Lucas, Gonzo’s new wife, has attached herself to me like glue.
I like her. We’ve been doing playdates with Vanessa and Audrey and their kids.
I bring the wine. Since most workdays I don’t have to be at the rink until early afternoon, I have plenty of time to hang out.
My godson Leo is adorable, Riley’s adopted daughter Emmy is about the same age, and Audrey’s newborn daughter sleeps a lot.
It also reaffirms my desire to have kids.
Not anytime soon. But I am already thirty-one.
If it’s going to happen, it should probably be sooner rather than later.
It takes time to find a guy, make sure he’s the right one—or right for now—and then conceiving doesn’t always happen immediately.
I don’t have the luxury of time on my side.
At least while I’m traveling with the team, it’s on the back burner. Who knows, I might end up going the adoption, foster, or IVF route, cutting out the need for a man entirely.
But I want someone to come home to at the end of the night. Someone to build a life with. The way Elsy has with Wyatt, and Vanessa has with Sven, and Audrey with Seb. I want that everlasting love. Why can’t I have it all? Why do I have to be forced to pick either baby or boyfriend?
On the ice below, the players skate out for the second period.
“He’s looking good out there,” Riley says, her eyes fixed on her husband’s form.
Gonzo scored a goal in the first period and has an assist on one of Nick’s. Against my will, my eyes drift over to number 52 in black and gold, and I shiver. It’s not the cold in the arena that’s got goose bumps rising on my skin.
“It’s because you’re here,” I joke. “Maybe you should come to all of their games.”
“I wish. Bedtime…” Her eyes drift over to her sleeping daughter. The seven-month-old is tucked into her car seat, padded with pink blankets. Her chubby little fist clutches a stuffed bear. “It’s hard.”
Reaching over the armrest, I squeeze Riley’s arm in reassurance. “You’re doing a good job.”
“Thanks, B.”
She turns her attention to the game, and I do the same. The Grizzlies are up 2–1, and every face-off is a hard-fought skirmish, every zone possession is another battle.
There are plenty of guys on the ice, but no matter what I do, I can’t stop watching the 52 Mitchell jersey.
I’m so fucking aware of him. When he’s back on the bench for a line change, I clock the way he drinks from his water bottle and wipes the sweat off his visor.
And when he’s on the ice? He’s electric, setting up perfect plays for Gonzo and Jenkins to cash in on.
And they do. Gonzo nails a second goal off Nick’s assist. Then Jenkins nabs one of his own.
A glimmer of pride bubbles up within me, and I have to tamp it down. I’m part of the Grizzlies organization, and I’m always happy when the boys win. But I can’t be happy because of him. That’s just not allowed.
He was at the baby-slash-wedding shower we threw last week for Riley and Gonzo, and as soon as I saw him, my day was ruined.
Maybe partly because I was PMS-ing as fuck, and when something sets me off, every little inconvenience incites uncontrollable rage.
No matter how many breathing techniques and reframing I do in my head, it’s still a struggle to move past it and be a normally functioning human being.
Ah, the joys of PMDD. My mom chalked up my premenstrual dysphoric disorder symptoms as “being dramatic” and “milking it,” and it was so fucking validating when my gynecologist finally put the label in my chart a few years ago.
Of course, it intensifies my OCD tics and repetitive behaviors during the premenstrual phase of my cycle, often to a debilitating extent.
Since coming to terms with the diagnosis, I feel so much more confident in my skin.
I can own who I am, mental health challenges and all.
It’s not a moral failing to have a neuropsychological disorder, no matter what my mother thinks. My dad is slightly more receptive to the concept, since he’s a doctor and hands down labels like this every day, but he still shames me for not being in perfect health, inside and out.
Wyatt thinks I’m the golden child, the one who can do no wrong, but he’s so blindsided by his own hurt, he can’t see the way I’m struggling, too.
The weight of their expectations is intense.
I’ve accomplished remarkable things in my career, but now they look at me like, what’s next?
What else can I do? Why am I wasting my time working with head trauma patients when I could be curing the world of cancer?
I let out a huff, hunkering down in my seat as my thoughts spiral in an unending loop, each repetition louder than the one before. Why am I wasting my time? I have no purpose. I’m not good enough. Even the sangria I’ve been sipping can’t drown out the noise inside my head.
The arena erupts with cheers as Gonzo scores the hat trick off another beautiful assist from Nick, and that’s what finally breaks the chain.
The auditory distraction came at the perfect time.
As the final minutes wind down, and Nick does one last lap of the rink, I’m riveted in my seat.
Why does he have to be so good at this? His strong legs, powerful strides, and composure on the ice are sexy as hell.
I wish I could ignore him. I wish I didn’t have to deal with him.
Waving goodbye to my friends, I take the elevator down to the garage level and wind through the players and staff entrance.
After years of surviving Boston with no car, I finally broke down and bought one last year, when I got the job with the Grizzlies.
When we’re getting back from road trips at two or three o’clock in the morning, I don’t want to deal with a sketchy rideshare driver—or worse, a chatty one.
I turn the final corner to enter the parking garage, and collide with a solid wall of muscle. A rich, woodsy scent fills my nose, making my blood hum even as my stomach sinks.
“Watch where you’re—” Nick cuts off abruptly.
My hands are pillowed on his chest, and I force myself back, arching an eyebrow. “What were you saying?”
He scowls, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
He’s dressed in a dark green suit that’s molded to his strong body.
Even in the garage’s dim, unflattering lights, his deep olive skin glows with health.
Damn him for looking so good. His hair is short now, cropped close to his head, and his beard is the perfect length.
I bet it would feel good between my thighs.
No. Bad Bex. Bad, bad, bad Bex. I force myself to break the chain before the impulsive thought can ricochet around in my head any more. I can’t be having those types of thoughts about him. Give me anyone else in the world, and they’re fair game.
“I need a drink.” The words fly out of my mouth before I realize I’ve voiced them.
Nick blinks a few times. “Is that an invitation?”
Yes. Please, yes. Shove me in a bathroom stall, bend me over, and make me see stars. I fucking need it.
“For you? No. Never.”