7. Othelia
Chapter seven
Othelia
“We should do that when I’m not pregnant anymore.” Sloane sits with her feet spread out across my lap, using her spoon to point at the TV before licking off the remnants of her mint chocolate ice-cream before they drip onto us.
“What, the whole ‘your blood, my blood, our blood bond’? I have to warn you, blood makes me squeamish.” Licking my spoon, I stare at the stunning Sandra Bullock dancing around on the TV.
“No, ew, gross.” She pouts at her empty carton, then puts it on the side table and holds her hand out, waiting for mine. She wordlessly stakes her claim on my ice-cream, and I begrudgingly hand over the Ben and Jerry’s, feeling like my life hangs in the balance.
“Bringing a guy back from the dead? I think Rian may disagree with dying in the name of sisterhood.”
A snort erupts out of her as she continues to scoff down my dessert. “No,” she says with a mouthful. “Midnight margaritas. God, it has been so long since I’ve had a good margarita. Rian tried to make me a virgin one, but it’s just not the same.”
“Charlie made me a pitcher yesterday, had it ready for me at the door when I pulled up.” The memory makes my heart swell a little.
“She’s so nice. I really like her for Lennon, you know.” Placing my empty carton inside hers on the table, she continues. “She really balances out your crazy lifestyle. It’s definitely difficult loving someone that needs to be away for half of the year.” Sadness washes over her face.
Rian hadn’t stayed long after I arrived before running off to have his pre-game nap, then scoffing down a bowl of pasta bigger than my head. He had given Sloane and I both kisses on the head before leaving us to our movie marathon to go play his home game.
This weekend they have back-to-back games against New York. Sloan would usually go, but two games on consecutive nights while being nine months pregnant would probably be too much. Tomorrow we’ll cheer him on together, but tonight, movies curled up on their twelve-person sofa is the plan.
“Yeah…” I chew on the inside of my lip.
“Oh Tilly, babe. I didn’t mean your situation. Clay is a total ass and didn’t even try to make it work with you. If I ever see him again, I swear to God, I’ll hit him over the head with a frying pan and bury him under our rose bushes.” She mimes the whacking motion before grabbing at the stitch in her stomach, laughing.
“You don’t have rose bushes?”
“I would plant them specifically for this. His rotting corpse will help them grow.”
“Wow, pregnancy is really bringing out your homicidal side,” I laugh. “Also, you’re killing it with the Practical Magic themed murder plan.” She holds out her hand out for a fist bump, which I happily accept.
“Thank you, but the point is the same. I would murder him for you.” She screws her nose up in disgust. “I still can’t believe he continued to fuck her after he saw you. What sort of entitled jackass gets caught cheating but still waits to blow his load before chasing after his girl?”
I throw my head back against the sofa. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Those images will play on repeat in my brain whenever I think of him.”
“So you don’t want him back?” she asks softly, trying to gauge my response.
“Fuck no. I don’t think I could even look at him again without gagging.”
Reaching for my beer, I take a long pull before continuing. “I know I have low self-esteem, but being alone is so much better than that on replay whenever he touches me.”
“You aren’t going to be alone, Tilly.” She says it like it’s already a fact. “You are literally the Taylor Swift of the rock world. There are millions of guys willing to throw themselves at your feet for the chance you might even look in their direction.”
I let out a long, slow breath. Yeah, I knew the band was doing great. We sold millions of albums over the past eight years. I had my pick of guys at my concerts. There were always tons of them waving signs, begging for a kiss. Options weren’t the issue. I wanted to meet someone who didn’t care about how much money or fame I brought to the relationship, or what perks they could gain by dating me.
I met Clay at a party through mutual friends three years ago and it just felt like everything clicked. We wanted the same things and were happy in our little bubble away from the world.
We both had messed-up families. I lost my dad when I was just hitting my teens and my mom’s toxic attitude towards life. He had a dad that wasn’t interested in being there for him, and his mom only stopped by when he was passing through town.
I thought we were on the same page about our future, but it turns out we were reading different books.
“Maybe a hot hockey player might catch your eye tomorrow.” She wiggles her eyebrow. “Oh!” She bounces up and down, as much as her stomach allows, clapping her hands like an excited toddler. “Speaking of which, Rian has a new teammate.”
“Hard pass.” I take the last pull of my beer before setting it back down and continuing to stare at the TV.
“Shut up and listen.” She smacks my arm. “He just transferred here from Boston. He’s not just cute; like could have been a model in another life, fucking hot! Covered in tattoos, kinda quiet, but I think behind his hard exterior he’s actually really sweet. He held the door open for me last time I was at a game.”
“You got all that just from him opening a door for you?” I ask but I shouldn't be surprised. Sloane has a sixth sense about people. She can always pick a person’s personality the minute she meets them. I should’ve known better with Clay.
The night I introduced him to Rian and Sloane, she pulled me aside halfway through dinner and asked if I was sure about my feelings for him. Of course, I had denied any issue and brushed off her concern as just nerves; he was meeting two of the most important people in my life. But man, was I so incredibly wrong.
“It was something about his eyes…” A puzzled look takes over her face as she chews on her lip. “He just looked lonely, ya know? There’s something about that guy. I can’t put my finger on it. Though after seeing the way he takes down guys on the ice, I bet he would be damn good in bed too.” Again, with the eyebrow wiggle.
I can’t contain my laughter as I throw a pillow at her head.
“Hey!” she yells, grabbing her own pillow and tossing it in my direction.
Sloane is well known for her terrible aim. It’s a running joke that it’s a good thing Rian’s the professional hockey player because Sloane couldn’t complete a pass to save her life.
The pillow bounces off the couch, completely missing my head before hitting the coffee table, knocking a vase full of orchids. We both cover our mouths, staring at the vase as it slowly rocks from side to side. I lunge as quickly as I can towards it; the glass grazing the tips of my fingers, but the sudden movement of my lunge causes it to tip off the side and smash all over the hardwood floor.
Sloane bursts out laughing. I sit half crouched over the back of the couch, staring at her, confused. “Your mom bought us that vase as a wedding present. Rian is gonna think you smashed it to get back at her.”
“No way. He will totally believe it was your terrible aim.” Fits of giggles erupt from the both of us. “Will he even notice?”
Sloane just shrugs and shuffles herself to the edge of the sofa, supporting her bump with one hand.
“Hey, sit, Mama. I’ve got this. It was my fit of rage that caused it to break after all.”
Her soft chuckles follow me all the way out into the laundry.
“I told you to bring a beanie,” Sloane chastises me as we sit against the glass of the United Center, watching the guys file out into the ice. When she had reminded me at home, I told her I was an adult and quite capable of managing my own body warmth. Now, not even twenty minutes after taking our seats, the tips of my ears are nearly frozen and a pink flush is covering my cheeks and nose. I’m now regretting that choice.
Leaning into her bag, she produces a black and red striped Hellhound’s beanie and waves it in front of me.
“Ooh, gimme!” I say, trying to snatch it out of her hands. She pulls it back, dangling it just out of my reach.
“But I thought you could manage your own temperature,” she mocks.
“Ugh, you’re such a mom.” With a snort she throws it at my head, again missing me and hitting the guy sitting next to me. She winces and apologizes as the guy waves it off and hands me the beanie.
I pull the beanie on my head, ruining the curls I spent forever trying to make look good. I had a tough time getting out of the house today. There were more headlines about Clay and me breaking up. All lies, supposed text messages between me and a secret lover. Hit Weekly had spent the afternoon speculating about who it could be, coming to the conclusion it was obviously a member of the band. There was a secret miscarriage, my apparent drug addiction, and the list went on.
Clay, though, was portrayed to be the heartbroken boyfriend who had plans for forever. The man, my rockstar lifestyle, chewed up and spat out.
I wanted to scream. I was destroyed; it was me who had been betrayed and lied to for God knows how long; I was the one that was used and treated like crap. But now, thanks to social media and the world’s constant need for drama, I’m the villain.
Sloane had other plans. She insisted I get my ass into a shower and to wash my damn hair, so sure that all I needed was a night out with her favorite people, beer, and to scream at the guys as they tear up the ice.
I have to give it to her; she wasn’t wrong. Chirping at the opposition as they skate passed, banging on the glass when fights break out in our corner and cheering as loud as we can when Marcus, the Hellhound’s captain, scores two goals by the end of the first period, with Rian’s assist.
“There he is!” Sloane squeals, smacking me, covertly trying to point to the guy near our section of ice. “Number fifty-nine, Rook Wills.”
My eyes scan the numbers on the backs of their jerseys, landing on number fifty-nine. Even from this distance, I can see he’s tall. He would be tall off the ice, but on skates he seems like a giant, stretching his arms up and flexing his stick behind his head as he waits on the edge of the face-off circle for game play to reset. When the ref skates to the circle, he releases the stretch, leaning forward onto his stick, poised in position like a viper waiting to strike, eyes sizing up the competition, reading the play before narrowing in on the puck; target acquired.
The second the puck hits the ice, he lunges at the player next to him, right as the puck sails towards him, checking the guy before he even knew what was happening. Stealing the puck and he sails across the ice, unstoppable, and I can’t keep my eyes off him.
A quick pass to Rian, then to Marcus, has the slot opening up, the other team falling right into where the guys need them. Marcus feigns left, dropping the puck behind him for number fifty-nine to swoop in, slapping the puck so hard, the crack echoes off the walls of the arena. It flies, moving so fast in a direction the goalie wasn’t expecting, sailing straight into the net.
Sloane and I jump up, screaming alongside every Hounds fan in the arena, banging on the glass as the goal sound blows and the celebration music pumps over the speakers. Rian, Marcus and Fifty-Nine skate up to each other, throwing themselves into a massive group hug before they skate past us. Rian places his hand on the glass to fist bump Sloane and me on his way back to the bench.
Number fifty-nine is the last to glide by. Noticing Rian’s fist bump on the glass, he glances our way. Stormy blue eyes give me a curious once over before he looks at Sloane next to me. His lips tip up in recognition as he gives her a small nod and wave before proceeding back to the bench to celebrate with his teammates.
“What did you say his name was again?” I ask.
Sloane’s wicked smile would typically make me roll my eyes, but I can’t look away from Fifty-Nine’s jersey or his face when he sneaks a glance back.