Chapter 19
Strangely, I am excited to get back to my apartment. The sight of Atlanta no longer makes me physically ill, and it no longer feels like I'm captive among its streets. After the wild ride of the last couple of weeks, it feels good to have some down time, a few moments of relaxation, even if only for a few days. I toss my suitcase onto the floor, kick off my shoes, and sink into the couch, my stress riddled body beginning to ease. I have three days to breathe before heading back to Arizona, where the Red Wolves face off against the California Redwood Rangers. For now, no more hockey until I can relax and catch up on some much-needed rest.
Unfortunately, even as I try to unwind, thoughts of Elliot gnaw at the edges of my mind. Our night together was intense, passionate, and nothing like I expected. The only thing that did hold up to my expectation was that that night was one time only. Elliot got all he wanted from me–to scratch the “itch.” As I left his hotel room the next morning, I got nothing from him. Not any type of reaction or acknowledgment. I at least hoped we would agree that it couldn't happen again. Nope, nothing. He acted like nothing happened, like we hadn't just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. And since then, I haven't heard a peep from him.
It's infuriating. Here I am, full of a confusing mix of emotions—anger, frustration, and, annoyingly enough, desire—while he seems to have gotten me out of his system without a second thought. I won't fall into the trap of thinking we shared anything more than just a single physical connection. Yet, maybe, deep down, I hoped that there would at least be an unspoken understanding between us. Nope, instead he is just going to pretend it never happened. At least his radio silence is a cold reminder that, to him, last night was just to get past our shit, nothing more.
Groaning, I bury my face in a cushion, trying to shake off the irritation festering inside me. I don't want to care about Elliot St. Germain, his infuriating charm, or his stupidly attractive mustache. I want to focus on my career and prove that I can be one of the best reporters in the business, even if I have no intention of sticking around long-term. But now, every time I close my eyes, instead of pushing the idea of him out of my mind, his image comes rushing back. A reminder of how easily he gets under my skin and how good his touch felt against it.
Determined to distract myself, I grab my laptop and begin reviewing my notes for the next few assignments. I have been brushing up on my technical details, studying game footage, and trying to get a better grasp of the intricacies of hockey. I might never fully understand the sport, but I am getting better. Traveling around, watching team after team, has been keeping me on my toes. I am starting to feel more confident in my abilities, but if I'm really going to leave a mark, I have a long way to go. I need to be at the top of my game, focusing on the story and not on the frustrating goalie who managed to throw me off balance. As I delve deeper into my work, the annoyance slowly begins to fade, replaced by the familiar drive to succeed.
I spend the rest of the night in a rare luxury, doing absolutely nothing. I get into my pajamas, binge-watch my favorite comfort shows, and treat myself to an absurd amount of takeout. It’s a nice change of pace from what life on the road has been like. The second day, however, I feel more restless. It's harder and harder to shake the thought of Elliot from my mind. The way he looked at me, his intensity, and the way he made me feel—both irritated and completely alive. It's a dangerous combination. It’s about time for the Red Wolves' game to start. I'm off work today; in no way obligated to have to watch hockey today, so why do I find myself drawn to the television? I convince myself I need to see how the team performs for research purposes. I curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, the remote in hand, and tune in just as the game is starting.
From the first puck drop, Elliot is on fire. His movements are precise, his focus laser-sharp. He blocks shot after shot with an ease I've never seen before. His presence on the ice is commanding and dominant. It is, without a doubt, the best game I have ever seen him play, not that my opinion really means much here. Even the announcers have dubbed this as his best game ever. Every save, every dive, every block—it's as if he is able to anticipate the other team's next move before it happens. The commentators are losing their minds, praising his every move. Who the hell is this, and where did he come from?
As the final buzzer goes off, signaling the end of the game, the Red Wolves win 6 to 0. The game was an incredible feat compared to how their last few weeks' stats were looking. The camera pans to Elliot. Exhaustion fills his face, but that doesn’t stop him from maintaining that smug sense of triumph. He has snapped out of his funk and helped his team to victory, and it’s impossible not to be impressed.
This version of Elliot is a completely different person than the one I saw while covering the team. Focused, intense, and exuding confidence that seems unshakeable, he is almost unrecognizable from the man who struggled to make a save, or who let his distraction guide his play. Watching him dominate the rink was mesmerizing but also frustrating. He has this ability to perpetually throw me off balance. Each time I think I'm getting a good glimpse into who he is, I see a new, different side. I continue sipping my wine as the postgame interviews play in the background. I mindlessly observe them while my head is thousands of miles away. My phone buzzes with a new message. I set my wine glass down and grab my phone. My heart skips a beat as I see Elliot's name flash across the screen.
: I have a proposal for you.
I stare at the message, my mind racing. How does he have my phone number? What can he possibly want? Before I can overthink it, another message comes through.
: You just became my new
ritual. We have to keep having
earth-shattering sex before each game.
After the game is over, we can go back to
hating each other. It can be our little secret.
I blink, rereading the message several times. Is he serious? The thought of more sex, of continuing...whatever this is, is absolutely terrifying and makes me really horny. My phone buzzes again.
: And by the way, what
kind of psycho doesn’t lock their phone
with a password?
A laugh escapes my lips despite myself. Leave it to Elliot to throw in a jab, even in the middle of an indecent proposal. I’m still processing his words when the final message comes through.
: Come on, it will be fun.
What do you think?
I sit back, my mind in absolute chaos over the idea. Sure, the thought of having sex with Elliot is enticing, but it's also very dangerous. It isn't just dangerous. It’s a terrible idea. There is no way that we can tolerate each other long enough to have sex before every game. The entire concept is absurd. It's offensive that he thinks I will just make myself available for him whenever he wants it. To propose I become part of his pregame ritual. I take a deep breath, considering my options. But seriously, what is there even to consider? This is a terrible idea.
Ziggy: Elliot?
You can’t be
serious about
this?
His reply comes almost instantly.
: Yes.
Dead Serious.
What do you say?
I chew my bottom lip, my mind a mess of conflicting thoughts. This is crazy. Completely and utterly insane. Even after the intensity of our last encounter, the way he looked at me, touched me, I know nothing good will come from this.
Ziggy: No. It’s a terrible idea.
: Wrong Answer.
Ziggy: You don’t get to tell me
my answer is wrong.
: Sure, I do. I’m right
and you’re wrong. You will see.
I’ll be patient.
After reading Elliot's last message, I toss my phone onto the couch with a huff, the initial excitement quickly turning into frustration. How can he be so infuriatingly aloof after everything? Each new text that comes in only makes me angrier, a reminder of his dismissive attitude. I refuse to check them, letting the notifications pile up as I pace around my apartment, fuming. It's like he knows he is torturing me, and he enjoys it. Maybe he can sense that he has me on edge, but I am done playing his games. The longer I ignore his messages, the more comfortable I become in my anger.
On my last day off before heading back to Arizona, I decide to give myself a break from everything, especially my phone and the constant barrage of messages from Elliot. I spend the day ignoring my responsibilities and indulging in simple pleasures. I take a long walk through Piedmont Park, relishing the feel of the sun on my skin and the sounds of the city around me. I also treat myself to the bougiest brunch at one of my favorite restaurants, savoring every bite without a care in the world.
I top off the afternoon with some much-needed retail therapy, immersing myself in a sea of designer brands. Walking through the luxurious aisles, I try on clothes and accessories, indulging in the thrill of finding the perfect pieces. The vibrant colors and elegant fabrics provide a soothing distraction from my tangled thoughts. Each purchase is a small victory, a way to reclaim a sense of control. For those few hours, I allow myself to forget about the chaos that is awaiting me and just enjoy the serenity of the moment.