Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
BETTSY
I’ve been so wrapped up in my Ellie-filled world that I forgot today is the day Johnny formally regains his captaincy.
And I forgot Liam’s stag do is tonight. A ridiculous day to pick if you ask me, but with the season quickly wrapping up and playoffs looming, there’re few practice-free days, tomorrow being one of them.
But one social nightmare at a time, I tell myself as I root through my pockets for my swipe card, because all I need to do is get through the pre-practice dressing room grilling which I’m confident is coming.
I’m purposefully late, which was a good idea when I woke this morning, but a terrible one when I open the double doors and come face-to-face with Vicky.
She’s standing in the tunnel in a trouser suit to match our primary team colour, a clipboard clutched to her chest, but it’s clear she’s been waiting for me. Her eyes shift to meet mine and her expression remains tight. Like she’s ready for a fight.
I let the door close behind me and slip my access card away, forcing a smile as I come to a stop .
“Hey, Vic. How’s my favourite?—”
“Nice of you to show up,” she says, resting a hand on her hip as she cuts over me.
“I had … car trouble,” I say, flashing her a gappy grin.
“Right.” She narrows her eyes before straightening up. “Michael?—”
“Look, I know what you’re going to say and…”
“Do you?” She raises a brow.
“I—I don’t know, do I?” I say, wincing.
She sighs. “So, you’re doing this, then? Going along with it?”
I tilt my head to the side, and she rolls her eyes.
Apparently, playing dumb isn’t going to work.
“Johnny told me,” she says.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Well, yeah … before you ask, I didn’t bribe her or?—”
“I wasn’t going to ask that. I just wanted to make sure you know what you’re doing. Because Roch?—”
“Vic, come on, will you?” I stop her mid-sentence.
I’m not in the mood for this. I don’t want to hear Vicky’s opinion of Rochelle and how badly she treated me. And I don’t want to—wait.
I study her expression. Trying to work out the meaning behind the look she’s giving me, but I can’t place it. Not at first, anyway. Because it’s not something I’ve ever associated with Vicky. Her eyes are wide and her mouth down-turned at the sides—trembling slightly as she glares at me.
Then it clicks: pity. That’s what I’m seeing. She’s pitying me.
“I just don’t want her taking advantage of you, Mike. I know how you are with women and?—”
“Excuse me?” I snap. “Just because I’ve made a few poor decisions doesn’t mean I’m not capable of making a good one every now and again.”
Vicky’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out for several seconds .
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she says. “Johnny told me you’re actually married. I mean … married , married.”
She stumbles over the words, blinking like she can’t quite believe she’s saying them. Then she settles on a sentence that knocks the wind out of me.
“Don’t you think it’s a little convenient that she showed up in time for you to be named on the Team GB roster?”
I gape at her. Properly gape.
But Vicky doesn’t stop.
“I don’t want her to take advantage of you,” she says.
“She’s not,” I say. “She’s not like that at all. She actually sees me—not just the jersey. In fact, she’s never even been to a game.” I blow out a breath. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s not needed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to suit up.”
I stride past her, long steps towards the dressing room where the low buzz of chatter filters out.
The nerves I felt on the other side of the double doors are gone—burnt up and replaced by rage. My temper’s sizzling, sharp and hot.
The double doors open in the distance, and I stop short of the dressing room, turning to see Vicky hurrying away.
One. Two. Three breaths. So deep I can feel the pressure in my chest—like my lungs are close to bursting.
Then I exhale, pushing out the tension and ill feeling I have, because there’s no way in hell I can walk into this dressing room half-wounded.
What’s wrong, Bettsy? She’s dumped you already?
The guys will have a field day.
So, I do what I do best. I push on the door and force a grin, strutting into the dressing room with my head high.
Then I wait for the influx of questions. The demands for information. The inquest.
But nothing comes. There’s stunned silence as everyone looks in my direction, but no one says a single word .
The guys are sitting in their cubbies, in various stages of undress. As I close in on mine, dropping my bag down and shrugging off my jacket, I’m met with a wall of nothing.
No questions.
No side-chat.
Nothing.
And this is the most worrying thing I’ve ever faced.
Simply put, these guys are never quiet. And I’ve never in my entire life entered a dressing room to render everyone speechless.
It’s only when I sit down and look around the room do I realise no one is looking at me anymore; it’s unsettling.
I tilt my head to peek at Johnny, busying himself with his shin pads. I cast a glance at Hutch, who’s trying to find the end on a roll of tape. I pan across to Danny, lacing his left skate with so much concentration I can practically hear his brain ticking over.
Every single guy in the room is busy.
“Right. What the hell is going on?” I ask the room. “Because there’s no way in hell?—”
And that’s when everyone dives on me. Like they were waiting for the puck to drop—gloves flying, tape rolls launched. A full dressing room pile on that says any more than words could. It’s like we’re kids again.
Everyone’s cheering and yelling, and I’m sprawled out on the floor, underneath a load of bodies.
“Right, that’s enough,” Johnny says. And one by one, the load lightens.
But that’s when the questions pour in.
“When?”
“What?”
“How?”
“Who?”
“Guys, guys, guys,” Johnny says, and he tugs my arm, pulling me from the ground.
“For Christ’s sake,” I say. “Give a guy a chance to breathe. ”
Someone ruffles my hair, and I make a grab for my cap, displaced on the dressing room floor.
“So, what’s the story?” Liam says, raising a brow.
“Don’t pretend you don’t already know,” I say, narrowing my eyes as I sink my cap down onto my head.
He smirks.
“No, but what is the story?” Ryan this time. And I offer him the same look.
He holds his hands up.
“Honestly, I don’t—wait, does Jen know?” He turns and glares at Danny, who shrugs.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Bottom line is … she’s real, like I said.
And we’re just seeing how things go. I mean, we’re old friends and we reconnected recently, and it turns out—” I swallow, looking down at the carpet tiles.
“—we’ve been married since we were eighteen.
” Jaws drop, and more questions surface. I do my best to fill them in.
“That’s all you need to know,” I say eventually. “And she’s really fucking nice, so when you meet her, you’ll be nice back. Got it?”