Chapter 28
Something is off with Ziggy. Lately, her responses have been terse, almost cold. I don't get it. The last time we were together, everything was good. The sex was great, and even when we weren't together, we were talking more. I rack my brain for some reason why, if anything has happened. I don't understand why she is acting weird and distant. Between games, practices, and recording sessions for Hit Behind the Net , I am barely functioning. I’m scraping along, trying to find the time to eat, shower, and sleep. It seems like every waking moment is dedicated to hockey, and when it isn't, my mind is filled with thoughts of Ziggy.
It’s starting to worry me how much Ziggy occupies my thoughts, especially when she seems indifferent. She has my balls in a vice, and it's a problem. I haven’t touched or even thought about another woman since we got together—nothing, nada. Ziggy is all-consuming, and her indifference is pissing me off. It's like she’s cast a spell over me, and no matter how hard I try to focus on hockey or my podcast, she’s always there, lurking topless in the back of my mind.
In just the few short months since I've known Ziggy, the things I have done for this woman have been nothing short of astonishing. I find myself constantly texting her, calling her, and genuinely wanting to know about her day. It's as if I've developed a genuine concern for her well-being, and that’s the worst part of this whole thing. She has brought pure madness into my life. Hell, I even subconsciously, or perhaps intentionally, got a tattoo for her. Marking her permanently onto my skin forever. There is no way I can let her leave that type of mark any deeper than my skin.
The night of the tattoo was absolutely insane. We had just pulled off an incredible win, the kind that makes you feel invincible. The energy in the locker room was electric. The boys and I were in a new city with nothing to hold us back. We decided to hit the town to celebrate and that led us to a tattoo shop. Once we each had new ink and were riding the high of victory, we ended the night getting stupid drunk. I am not covered in ink from head to toe or anything, but after getting a full sleeve and covering large chunks of my back, side, and abs with tattoos, I am no stranger to impulse decisions. Especially when the group tattoo is just the pregame before the boys and I have a rowdy night out. It seemed like a great idea at the time. In hindsight, they really should have never let us into the shop, but whatever. We all choose to see it as a bonding exercise.
As we laughed and cheered each other on, I stepped away from the crowd to give Ziggy a call. I don't know what I was trying to accomplish with my phone call. I knew we would be seeing each other soon. Not only that, but we would be traveling together for the next couple of games. I wanted to let her know I was excited to get back to some semblance of routine with her. I didn't have long before it was my turn to be sitting in the tattoo chair.
"Come on, big boy, it's your turn," the tattoo artist said with a smirk.
Shaking my head, I cut my call short, "Gotta go. Talk soon!" I took my seat in the chair.
Fueled by a dangerous mix of adrenaline, and lust, I lifted my shirt. Before I even knew what was happening, I was pointing at an open space on my lower side and was describing a shark circling the barnacle on the ocean floor. I don't know where the mental image came from, but it felt so right at the moment. Sure, it started as an insult and transitioned into an inside joke, a nod to the nickname she had called me the night we met. But, that very first night had led us to something more, and somewhere along the way, Ziggy, being a barnacle, had become my Anatife.
The morning after the great tattoo incident, I woke up with a pounding headache and a bandaged side. It was uncomfortable at first, sure. But as the days passed and the tattoo healed, I felt a strange sense of pride about it. It was a reminder of that wild night but also of her, forever. While I would never regret my decision to get the tattoo, I'm not sure if I'm ready to really think about what led me to etch Ziggy that deep into my life. So, if I'm not ready to have that conversation with myself, I’m certainly not ready to have that conversation with her. For now, I won’t do anything to cover it, but I'm not going to point it out to her. Despite the pride I feel, I'm not sure if Ziggy will agree. She might freak out, and considering how things have been between us lately, I can't guarantee it's a reaction I’m going to like.
I’m T-minus 8-ish hours away from finally being in the same place as Ziggy again. To be honest, I am stupidly excited about finally having concrete plans to see her again. During the post-yoga rest period of my usual pregame routine, I turn on the sports channel expecting to see a highlight reel of the game or some coverage of Ziggy’s game interviews. There, on the screen, is Ziggy, her radiant smile and easy confidence unmistakable, looking hot as hell. She stands in the postgame interview area, microphone in hand and wearing a jersey. My blood runs cold as I see her wearing another man's jersey. And it isn't just any jersey—it is the jersey of the New Jersey Reapers forward, their star player.
The footage shows Ziggy interviewing him after their win, her voice professional and composed. But all I can focus on is the way she looks in that damn jersey. My fists clench involuntarily. I want to rip my couch apart. I try to push down the surge of jealousy and anger, telling myself it is just an interview, just part of her job. But the image of her in another man's jersey keeps flashing in my mind, taunting me.
I rewind the clip, studying every detail. The way the Reaper's forward smiles at her, the casual way Ziggy laughs at something he says. It all feels too intimate, too personal. Rationally, I know this is just work for her, a routine part of being a reporter. But my emotions don't care about rationality. All I see is my girl looking way too comfortable in another man's colors.
My mind races with questions and doubts. Is Ziggy seeing this guy? Why wouldn't she? We aren't exclusive. We aren't anything really. But why the hell does it bother me so much when we agreed this is just a physical arrangement? The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Ziggy has been distant lately; her texts are brief, and her calls are even briefer. I chalked it up to our busy schedules, but now I am not so sure. Has she been spending her time with this motherfucker? The thought makes my blood boil.
I pull out my phone again, scrolling through our recent messages. Her responses were curt, almost cold. Then there was last night—no response to my texts, no answer when I called. I brushed it off, thinking she was just busy. But now, it feels like a slap in the face.
I pace the living room, my thoughts a chaotic mess. This whole situation is eating me alive. I don't want to admit how much Ziggy has gotten to me. Her undeniable allure has carved its way under my skin. She is all I think about, and seeing her in another man's jersey feels like a betrayal, even if I have no right to feel that way.
Before my brain can catch up with my body, the call is already connected. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Just as I am about to hang up, she answers.
"Elliot?" Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
"Ziggy," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We need to talk."
There is a pause on the other end, and I can almost hear her weighing her response. "About what?"
"About your night last night," I say, my anger seeping into my words despite my efforts to stay calm. "You, wearing the Reaper's forward's jersey. What the hell is that about?"
She sighs, the sound crackling through the phone. "It's just an interview, Elliot. It's part of my job."
"Wearing his jersey?" I snap. "Since when is that part of your job?"
"It's a thing they do," she says, her voice defensive now. "Postgame interviews sometimes involve the reporters wearing the team's gear. It's nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing," I shoot back. "It looks like you're cozying up to him."
"Elliot, you're being ridiculous," she snaps, her tone sharp. "It was a professional interview. Nothing more."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. "I don't like it, Ziggy. It bothers me."
There is another pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. "I'm sorry it bothers you, but can we talk about this later?"
"You bet your sweet ass, we will talk about this later," I admit, my anger only escalating. "My house after the game."
"Okay," she whispers softly.
Anger flares up inside me, hot and uncontrollable. How could she do this? Was this her way of getting back at me for something? I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong, but this is the last time I see her in another man's colors. She is right. I need to get my head right before tonight's game. I can't let myself drown in these feelings and let my team down.
I pace the room, my mind racing. Every scenario, every conversation we've had plays back in my head. The jealousy is eating at my insides, but I can't let it consume me. I need to channel this anger into something productive, something that will make me successful tonight. With a deep breath, I decide to focus all this raw energy on the game. I'll pour my frustration into every play, every shot, every moment on the ice. If I can't control what is happening with Ziggy, I can at least control my performance. Tonight, I will turn this fire into fuel for victory.
Still seething with anger, I grab my gear and head to the rink. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the turmoil churning inside me. I can't shake the image of Ziggy in that Reaper's jersey, smiling and laughing with him. The jealousy gnaws at my restraint, but I push it down, focusing on the game ahead. I arrive at the rink, the familiar sights and sounds grounding me. This is my sanctuary, where I can channel all the chaos into something tangible. Tonight, I'll leave everything on the ice, using every ounce of rage and frustration to fuel my performance. As I suit up, I vow to let the game be my outlet and my escape, if only for a few hours.