Chapter 17
MARNIE
I drive home with shaking hands.
The taste of him is still on my tongue. The feeling of his hands in my hair, the way he’d looked at me when I had my mouth on him—perfect. All of it was perfect.
Until he said “your turn” and my brain immediately supplied every guy who’d tried before.
Patient at first, then confused, then frustrated when nothing worked.
“Are you close?”
“Just relax.”
“What do you need me to do?”
That last one is always the worst. The genuine concern that shifts into impatience when they realize I’m more work than they signed up for.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel at a red light.
Roman hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been careful, attentive. He would have tried.
That’s what scares me.
Because I’ve had guys try. It doesn’t work. And then sex becomes this thing they’re determined to fix instead of something they want to do.
My phone buzzes.
Roman
Are you okay?
Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.
I should answer. Should explain. But I can’t figure out what to say that doesn’t sound like I’m broken.
Roman
Marnie. Please.
I’m home
“You look like shit,” Jake announces the next day when we have a quiet moment between sessions.
“Thanks. You look great too.”
“I’m serious. Did you sleep at all? Also, Cap’s been texting me asking if you’re okay.”
My stomach drops. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’re fine and he should ask you himself like an adult.” Jake gives me a look. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Marnie. He didn’t come to morning skate today. Roman never skips morning skate. Ever. Then you show up looking like you cried all night—”
“I didn’t cry all night—”
“—and won’t make eye contact with anyone. So clearly something happened.”
I grab the tablet to review the week’s schedule and glare at it while it loads too slowly. “I’m fine.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and I’m straight.”
My phone chimes from across the room.
Elliot
Brunch. Now. We’re outside. Bring your purse.
I have work
Elliot
Jake’s covering. We’re kidnapping you. Goldie’s driving.
I look at Jake, who’s suddenly very interested in his phone.
“You called them?”
“I texted Brody saying you seemed upset. What they chose to do with that information is between them and God.”
“Jake—”
“Go. I’ve got your sessions covered.” He makes a shooing motion. “And Marnie? Whatever happened, talk to him. He’s making everyone miserable with his aggressive moping.”
I look down at myself—team polo, leggings, hair in a messy bun for two days straight.
I look terrible
Elliot
Perfect. You’ll match our vibes. Get out here.
Goldie’s SUV is idling by the staff entrance. Elliot’s in the passenger seat holding what looks like a book with a shirtless hockey player on the cover.
“Get in, we’re going to day drink and discuss literature,” Goldie calls through the open window.
“It’s 11 AM—”
“That’s why it’s called day drinking. Now get in before we make a scene.”
I slide into the back seat. Elliot immediately turns around, holding up the book.
“New book club selection. ‘Ice Hot.’ It’s about a team captain who falls for the athletic trainer and they have to hide it from management.” She grins. “Very on brand for current events.”
“I hate you both.”
“You love us.” Goldie pulls out of the lot. “Now. Spill. Because you left my house with Roman weeks ago looking very cozy, and now Brody says he’s biting everyone’s heads off at practice.”
“I didn’t—it wasn’t—”
“Marnie.” Elliot’s voice is soft. “We’re not idiots. Something happened. And you’ve been hiding ever since.”
I lean my head back against the seat. “We had dinner at his place last night.”
“For coffee?” Goldie asks innocently.
“For sex, Goldie.”
“Okay, not-coffee got it,” Elliot says. “And?”
“And I gave him a blow job and then shut down completely when he tried to reciprocate.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
“Wait, you shut HIM down?” Elliot turns around so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “Roman Varga. Six-six, has been staring at you like you invented sliced bread. That Roman?”
“It wasn’t—it’s more complicated than that—”
“How is rejecting reciprocal sex complicated?” Goldie demands. “Either you wanted to or you didn’t.”
“I wanted to. We were making out, it was going great, and then—” I stop, my face burning. “And then he tried to reciprocate and I panicked.”
Goldie glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Because you forgot to shave? I do that ALL the time and Dex swears he doesn’t care. Says he likes it ‘au natural.’ I don’t know what his deal is but I’m not complaining.”
“It wasn’t—” I can’t help but laugh at her. “It wasn’t a shaving issue.”
“Then what?” Elliot asks.
“I just—I can’t. With partners. I’ve never been able to and I didn’t want to waste his time trying when I knew it wouldn’t work so I just shut it down.”
They’re both quiet for a moment.
“Okay,” Elliot says finally. “But did you explain that to him or did you just reject him without context?”
“I said I was good and he shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Oh honey,” Goldie says. “That’s not explaining, that’s deflecting.”
“I know. And now he’s confused and I’m mortified and I’ve been ignoring his texts.”
“Hockey players are so fucking weird about sex,” Elliot announces to no one in particular. “Like, can you even imagine what Luca’s into? He’s probably secretly a dom or something.”
“Luca?” I blink. “Goalie Luca?”
“The most intense, routine-obsessed, probably-has-a-color-coded-refrigerator Luca. Yeah.” Goldie grins. “I bet he’s the type who makes you call him sir.”
“That’s—really specific,” I say.
“Goalies are weird,” Elliot says with authority. “It’s a known fact. But captains are supposed to be straightforward. Which is why you shutting him down makes no sense unless there’s more to it.”
“There is more to it. I just don’t know how to explain it without sounding broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Goldie says firmly. “But you do need to actually talk to him instead of avoiding.”
“So what’s the actual problem?” Goldie asks once we’re settled at a trendy little brunch place with mimosas. “Like, mechanics-wise. Do you know what you like?”
“By myself? Yeah. With someone else watching and waiting for me to finish? My brain won’t shut up long enough to even get close.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Elliot says. “Happens to a lot of women.”
“Yeah, but most women figure it out eventually. I’ve tried with multiple guys and nothing works.” I take a long sip of my drink. “So I just accepted it. Solo is fine. With partners I just focus on them and call it a win.”
“That’s not a win, that’s you being scared,” Goldie says. “And I’m not judging, I’ve been there. But Marnie, if you’re with someone who actually gives a damn, they’re not going to be okay with only getting theirs.”
“Roman definitely seems like the type who’d be annoying about it,” Elliot agrees. “Like, obsessively focused on figuring it out.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. What if he tries and it doesn’t work and then it’s just awkward forever?”
“Then you figure something else out,” Goldie says. “But you won’t know until you actually talk to him instead of hiding.”
“I know. I know I need to talk to him. I just—” I gesture vaguely with my wine glass. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Start with ‘sorry I’m being weird,’” Elliot suggests. “Then go from there.”
“What if he’s already decided I’m too much work?”
“Then he’s an idiot and we’ll help you murder him,” Goldie says cheerfully. “But he won’t. Brody says Roman’s been moping around like someone cancelled hockey. That’s not a man who’s decided you’re too much work. That’s a man who’s worried he fucked up.”
“He didn’t fuck up—”
“You didn’t either,” Elliot says firmly. “You just need to actually communicate instead of avoiding him.”
The waiter brings food and we eat in comfortable silence for a moment before Goldie’s phone buzzes. She checks it and grins.
“Dex wants to know if we’re corrupting you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we’re getting you day drunk and giving unsolicited advice about your sex life. He approves.” She types something back. “He also says to tell you that Roman’s been ‘aggressively sad’ since he showed up at the rink. His words, not mine.”
“Aggressively sad?”
“Apparently he’s hitting harder than usual but looks sad while doing it.” Goldie shows me the text. “Very confusing for everyone involved.”
I choke back a laugh. “That sounds awful.”
“It is awful. You both sound miserable.” Elliot signals for more wine. “So maybe stop avoiding him and actually deal with it?”
“I will. Eventually.”
“Or he’ll corner you first and you won’t have a choice,” Goldie says. “My money’s on that happening within the next 24 hours.”
Back at the facility, I’m marginally tipsy and significantly less panicked.
The WAGs are right—I need to talk to Roman. I just need to figure out how.
Rodriguez saunters into the training room, slightly sweaty and holding a water bottle.
“You smell like booze,” he observes.
“I had brunch.”
“Day drinking during working hours. I approve.” He drops onto the bench next to where I’m updating charts. “So. I need advice.”
“Medical advice?”
“Girl advice.” He grins when I look up. “There’s this girl. She’s cool. I’ve been trying to talk to her. But I don’t know if she’s actually into me or just being nice because I’m, you know—” He gestures at himself. “Hockey player with a social media following.”
“Rodriguez, I don’t think I’m qualified—”
“You’re a woman who’s successfully navigating a relationship with Cap. That makes you extremely qualified.” He leans forward. “Seriously though. How do I know if she actually likes me or just likes the idea of dating a hockey player?”
I set down my tablet. “Does she ask about your games or about you?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Does she want to know about your stats or does she want to know what you’re thinking about? Big difference.”
He taps his fingers on the table, processing. “Huh. That’s actually really smart.”
“I have my moments.”
“Also, speaking of Cap—what’s going on there? He’s been like a wounded animal today.”
“Nothing. We’re fine.”
“You’re definitely not fine if you’re day drinking and hiding from him.” He studies me. “Whatever happened, that guy’s crazy about you. Like, annoyingly so. Won’t shut up about you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He stands, stretches. “Anyway. Girl advice appreciated. And hey, if you ever need someone to just hang out with who isn’t all intense and brooding, I’m around. Could use more friends who don’t spend all their time talking about hockey.”
“Thanks, Rodriguez.”
“Anytime, Doc.” He heads for the door, then stops. “And seriously. Talk to Cap. Whatever it is, you two will figure it out.”
I don’t talk to Roman.
Instead I go home, check on Mom—she’s sleeping peacefully for once—and sit in my apartment staring at my phone.
Three texts from Roman, all from this afternoon.
Roman
You’re avoiding me
We should talk about the other night
Marnie. Text me back.
I type and delete five different responses. Each one sounds wrong—too casual, too serious, too much like I’m completely spiraling.
So I do what I always do when things get complicated: I turn off my phone and pretend the problem doesn’t exist.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Or the next day.
Or whenever Roman finally corners me and forces the conversation I’m not ready to have.
For now, I’m just going to sit here with my wine buzz and my anxiety and convince myself that avoiding things has ever actually worked.
Spoiler alert: it hasn’t.