The Other Side of Wild

Chapter 15 – Greyson

It’s been a full day since Hannah took off like a bat out of Hell from my parents’ house. I don’t have answers, but I have theories. Number one, things got too heavy, too real, too fast. Number two, she’s way more attracted to me than she lets on and doesn’t know what to do with it. But it’s door number three I’m leaning more towards, and that has to do with my brother. He should have been chomping at the bit to tell me he told me so that she was just another attention seeker and was using me for my name, blah blah blah.

Instead, he’s been oddly silent, which speaks volumes. When Tatum James Wilder is right, he gloats hard. So I do what every loving brother would do: I ambush him at practice.

“Hey, broseph.” I sing as I skip towards where he and Zeke are sitting on the end of the bench. His eyes bug out, and his lips pull into a frown.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is as tight as the shorts he’s rocking.

“Can’t I come see my baby bro?” I jaunt, causing Zeke’s eyebrows to shoot up.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go. I don’t need to be in the middle of a Wilder smackdown.” He yells over his shoulder as he walks away.

“Walk and talk, yeah?” I raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge me. He huffs, throwing his towel down on the bench and getting to his feet. “You know why she left, don’t you?”

“Clearly, you already know, so why ask?” Ding ding ding, Greyson, we have a winner. It is, indeed, door number three!

“I don’t know because she won’t talk to me. She told me we needed to keep our relationship professional and that she couldn’t give me the attention I needed. And since then, I’ve been met with silence. What led me here, though, was your silence. I thought you’d be blowing up my phone about how right you were. So how about you start talking.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother nervous, but right now, with the way his hand is rubbing the back of his neck and his refusal to look at me screams, “I messed up, and you’re going to hate me,” kind of nerves.

“I might have had something to do with it. I tried to fix it last night, and her terrifying pixie of a roommate ripped me a new one. I didn’t know she’d bolt. But better now than later, though, right?” My hand meets the back of his head with a hard smack. The thud is loud in the part of the field we're standing in.

“Where do you get off?” I snap, my anger boiling like a pot of pasta water. “It’s clear you’re not going to tell me what you said so that I can fix it, but fear not.” I jab my finger in his chest. “Her “terrifying pixie of a roommate” is our team's physical therapist. So I’ll just go ask her. But know this, Tate. Hannah is really special to me; she’ll be part of my life whether you like it or not. And in whatever position she decides she wants to take.”

It’s one thing to be anti-women in your own life; I get it. His ex almost ruined his life, and he’s been on some ‘all women are evil’ campaign since. But his problems aren’t my own. To be frank, I’m tired of him pushing them on me.

“She’s not a gold digger; she’s not using me.” I spit every syllable like acid on my tongue. “When I told her about my depression, she said, and I quote, ‘You aren’t exempt. But you also aren’t alone.’ She sees me. So get it through your head that I want her around. She doesn’t judge me; she just lets me be and gives me support in whatever way she knows how. So I’ll only tell you this once. Get on board or get out of my way.”

I turn my back on him, rage flowing through my veins. I don’t know if it's the situation or the melting pot of everything else that’s been eating at me, but I’m freaking done.

But apparently, I’m not out of things to say. I whip around and level him with my big brother glare. “Your problems with women are yours. Don’t push them on me. And certainly don’t push them on to Hannah. She isn’t Nikki or Kara. You’d realize that if you actually took five minutes to talk to her.” His jaw drops before I spin on my heel, jogging to my car.

Now I have half an answer; I need to go talk to Abby. Maybe she’ll be able to figure out how to get Hannah past this. I’m sure as heck not giving up. Not now. Preferably, not ever.

The loud hollow sound my knuckles make as I wrap on Abby’s office door frame makes me cringe. Her head snaps in my direction; a sad smile pulls at her lips. “Hey Dozer. What’s up? Is this an official visit or an off-the-record one?” Her head nods, giving me permission to enter. I sit on the table across from where she sits at her desk.

I lace my fingers together and put them in my lap, my feet swinging like a five-year-old kid. For as angry as I was on the way over here, I sure am nervous now. “I need some help.” She chuckles; it’s light and filled with pity.

“She’s scared, Wilder. The last thing she wants is to come between family members. She’s doing what she’s always done, throwing herself into her work. Trying to perform her way out of her feelings. Prove she’s good enough.” She pushes her laptop to the side, folds her arms over each other, and leans forward. “Your brother is a jerk.”

The smile that spreads across my face is so big it hurts. “He is; I just surprised him at practice and didn’t get much out of him other than ‘I may have had something to do with it.’ Oh, and he thinks you’re a terrifying pixie.” Her head falls forward as she cackles so loud it echoes down the hall.

Shaking her head, she looks back up at me, “She’s stubborn as a mule. She’s got it in her head that you guys won’t work. So if you think otherwise, you’re going to have to prove her wrong.”

“But how do I do that when she won’t talk to me?”

“You’re smart, Wilder. Get creative.” Is all I get before the office phone rings, effectively dismissing me. Creative? Alrighty then.

I can’t breathe; I can’t even see straight. I don’t know how I ended up here at midnight on Tuesday, eight hours before I’m supposed to be on the plane to Washington. But here I am, standing outside Hannah’s door, mid-panic attack. It’s really more of a lean because both arms are braced up against the door frame to keep me from collapsing into it. I’m sure this isn’t what Abby meant when she said. “Get creative.”

I hear Harley on the other side; she’s whining and scratching at the door like she knows I’m here. I can’t say anything; my words don’t work. My head hits their door with a loud thud. A hushed “Oh my God” is heard from the other side before it swings open. “Greyson! Hey, are you okay?” I can’t get my body to move.

Sensing my sudden lock up, she steps out, holding the door open with her hip. She peels my right hand off the door frame, placing it around her shoulder as she grabs the left. Dang, this woman is strong; she’s all but dragging me to the couch. She sits me down, lowers my top half down to a pillow, and then swings my legs up so I’m lying flat. “Give me a second; I’m not leaving you. I’m just going to get a cold towel for your head.”

Harley has been right by me since the door opened. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. My eyes are moving, and I’m aware of where I am, but I feel completely paralyzed. It’s like my body knows I’m somewhere safe and finally gave out. My breathing is shallow, and I feel like I could fill a bucket with sweat, yet I’m shaking like I'm naked in an ice rink.

My furry companion puts her head on my stomach, and I’m so thankful she does because it’s helping to ground me. I focus on that sensation and beg an arm to move so I can pet her. It doesn’t, but luckily, Hannah comes back. She climbs behind me, places the towel across my forehead, lifts up my head, and places it in her lap.

“Hey, Dozer, I’m here. I know your mid battle royale right now and that’s okay. Just focus on my voice; I’ll tell you all about my day.” She runs her fingers through my hair while simultaneously telling me about her day, h ow she took Harley to the groomer, and how she threw a fit because she hates the water. Then, we moved on to some of the last-minute changes to the carnival and how everything is currently being set up. By the time she gets to the smutty romance novel she’s reading, my body decides to cooperate.

“You’re reading a pretend book about a hockey player when you have a real one right here?” Her face breaks into a smile; her eyes glow as she looks down at me.

“Welcome back, Mr. Wilder. What do you need?” She whispers in the sultriest tone I’ve ever heard from her. Her voice wraps around me like the finest silk on the planet. It’s softer and warmer than it is on a normal day. It feels like coming home, like the guiding light pulling me out of the darkness.

You. I need you. “Yeah, I’m back, Kitten.” I roll to my side and put my hand over her thigh, rubbing my thumb over her knee. “Thank you for talking to me through that; I’m sorry for showing up here so late. Or early, depending on how you look at it.”

She leans over the top of me so she can see my eyes, “Don’t ever apologize for asking for help. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why you’d leave?” She reaches over the back of the couch and grabs her cup off the side table.

“Do you need some water? It’s flavored; if you don’t want that, I can get you regular water.” Taking the cup from her, I take a few large gulps, immediately feeling less clammy.

“Thanks. But stop deflecting.” She moves her hand to my shoulder and starts to run her fingertips from behind my ear to the top of my arm. I’ve come to realize it’s her go-to method for comforting me.

“Is that what caused thi s panic attack?” The regret in her voice is heavy and I wish I could take it from her.

“Not entirely...” Deciding I’ll give her a few minutes to get her thoughts together, I tell her about the bigger picture behind the anxiety I currently have.

“I can’t get past the feeling that something is going to go terribly wrong during this trip. Kara hasn’t stopped; I’ll be changing my number as soon as I get back.” I try to convince myself that she’s still trying to play mind games with me, not actually trying to get back together.

“To be completely transparent with you, I’m having an extremely hard time loving the game of hockey right now. My head isn’t in it; it’s focused on whatever plan she might have while I’m there. That’s a feeling I’ve never felt before, and it’s terrifying.” I mean that, there’s never been a time in my entire professional career that I’ve felt this way.

She’s quiet; I can almost hear the gears in her head turning. She’s not a knee-jerk reactor; she thinks through things before she says them. She knows the power words have, and sometimes, I think it holds her back. Never wanting to say something if it might upset someone else, even if not saying it hurts her.

“How can I offload some of that for you? I know physically there isn’t anything I can do, but how can I walk with you through this in a way that actually helps?” What? How in a world of billions did I cross paths with a woman who asks the questions I didn’t even know I needed to be asked?

I sit with that for a minute; what is it that I actually need? A hug? Her to come with me? A brain transplant? “Talking to you helps; music helps sometimes.” I pause, realizing I’ve been mindlessly petting Harley for the past few minutes. “Harley is helping, too.”

“Yeah, Harley is my unofficial therapist. She gets more out of me than Megan does. Her fur is like a siren, pulling you deeper until you don’t realize you’ve spilled your entire life to a furry angel who has no idea what you’re saying.” My only response is a low hum.

The only thing worse than not being able to control these feelings is the soul-crushing guilt that comes after every single time. Sometimes, the anticipation of guilt makes everything twenty times worse. Like you start to spiral before the spiral even starts. It's such a vicious cycle that I’d love nothing more than never to go through again.

“Music helps me too. I have an anxiety playlist. I also have a sad and angry playlist, which consists of 2000’s emo songs. Sometimes, it helps me when someone else screams at me about their problems, making mine seem a bit smaller.”

She pauses for a second, her hand resting on my hip. “I can confirm my mom did hear me belting out all the Hawthorne Heights songs about eight thousand times when I was in high school, but she was not a fan.” I roll flat on my back and look up at her as I try to imagine high school, Hannah.

“I need a visual. Can you act it out for me?” She thinks for a second, and a mischievous look spreads across her face. She taps my shoulder twice, telling me to get up; I groan my displeasure.

“You asked for a show; I’ll give you one. But I have to get in character first.” Oh, my sweet Lord, this is going to be good. She skips off towards her room, and I’m left grinning like an idiot. Harley watches her walk away, then returns her attention to me. “You’re a great therapist, little fur ball.” I continued my earlier motion of running my hand down her back, p icking my hand up, putting it on her head, and running it back down.

As I sit in the quietness of her living room, my head starts to wander. Would I fall this fast if my brain was normal? Am I throwing things at the wall, trying to see what sticks? Is there a purpose to this? Do I have a purpose here? Would I be as good of a hockey player as I am if I didn’t have the ability to harness my negative emotions and put them into my game? What would happen to me if I couldn’t play hockey? What would I even do? I think for a second, and my thoughts go back to the mental health booth we’re setting up for the carnival.

I think I’d be an advocate for kids' mental health. Maybe I’ll start a charity of my own once I retire. Giving others the resources I didn’t know I had. I think it’d help a lot of people. Having an athlete be open and vulnerable with their struggles might help kids who are struggling in silence. Just like that, a sense of purpose blooms deep in my soul.

Kara made me believe if I didn’t play, I didn’t have a reason to be here. Sometimes I wonder if she’s right. The number of times she told me to “work through it.” I just needed to be happy and thankful for all the things I had in life. She really messed me up; she knew she’d get away with it too.

I don’t know how much time passes before she comes back out of her room, but when she does, I lose every ounce of heaviness I have been carrying. I cannot tell you the last time I laughed so hard. She has on ripped black jeans that fit her like a second skin with black high-top vans; her hair is pulled to the side in a braid.

The makeup under her eyes looks like she’s rubbed her fingers through it to ruin it a bit. The kicker, though, is her shirt; it’s baby blue, and in rust-colored writ ing, it reads “Ohio Is For Lovers,” and it’s tied in a knot at the side, showing a tiny bit of her toned stomach.

She walks over and stops in front of me, bringing her hand up like a microphone, “Tampa!! ARE YOU READY?!” I’m trying hard to get a handle on myself because I really want to enjoy this, but my stomach is cramping like I did two hundred sit-ups. She presses play on her phone, and the song picks up; she doesn’t miss a beat.

Her head drops to the floor for a few seconds as the intro picks up, then it snaps up quickly but not all the way. She glared at me through her lashes, her chin still angled down, and she mouthed, “Hey there,” in perfect sync with the song. She’s so serious, never breaking character.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit record. She jumps around, lip singing, dancing, perfectly imitating the primal screams coming from her phone, all while never cracking a single smile. My shoulders are still shaking when the song ends. Walking over to me, she sits down on my knee and asks, “Feel better?”

I wrap my arms around her waist and press a kiss to her temple, “This is the best Warped Tour performance I’ve ever seen.” It’s like the heavens have opened, the brightest light shining down on the two of us. She laughed, I laughed, we laughed, and suddenly, I forgot why I was anxious in the first place. “You’ve effectively danced your way around my original question. Time’s up.”

She’s picking at her nails, eyes trained on the couch. I need to see those pretty greens. My hand finds her cheek as I raise her face to mine. “Please, Kitten. I’m dying here.”

“I can’t tell you, Gre y. It’s just not a good idea.” Her voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. The tears welling tell me she doesn’t believe her own words.

“I know Tate had something to do with it; both he and Abby confirmed that. I just need to know how I can fix it.” She shakes my hand off her face, returning her gaze to the couch.

“What if you can’t fix it?” Her voice cracks, and that breaks me. I wrap my arm back around her shoulders and rub circles on her skin. There’s a wet spot forming on my shirt, and suddenly, I want to burn the world down. More specifically, I want to hunt Tate down and kick him in the nuts for making her cry.

“Let me be the judge of that, please.” The shuddering breath she lets out vibrates through me. I think she’s going to give me what I want, but instead, I’m met with silence. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this again, to have to yank teeth every time there’s confrontation. “If you aren’t going to let me in, I don’t know what to do. I can’t build a relationship by myself, Hannah.”

Silence.

I pat her back a few times and stand to my feet. I look down at the woman who was just in my arms, she looks so small. So fragile. I start to walk towards the door when I hear her choke out, “I’ll never be good enough for you.”

I freeze to the spot I’m in. Did Tate tell her that? “What?”

“I’ll never be enough for you, Greyson. I know that. I work too much; my priorities clearly aren’t conducive to a relationship. I don’t even know what a healthy relationship looks like. I’m not enough; I never will be. We’re better off as friends.”

I spin on my heels and drop to the floor in front of her. “Says who, Hannah?” I cup her face in my hands, needing her to look me in the eye and tell me she believes wha t she’s saying. “Because everything you’ve said so far seems like an excuse. So what are you scared of? You said you didn’t know what you were doing, but you wanted to do it with me. What happened to that?”

Her eyes are wide with panic; her chin quivers as she speaks. “I did, I do.” She lets out a frustrated groan, a tear escaping her right eye. “Freaking A, Grey. I’m not going to be what comes between you and your brother. He doesn’t like me, he...” I shoot off the floor, hands flying in the air before I pace the length of her living room.

“He doesn’t like anyone.” My hands fly out of sheer frustration; can’t she see how right we are for each other? “And to be quite honest, I don’t care what he thinks. This isn’t his life; he doesn’t get to make decisions for me.” My words come out laced with irritation, the volume of it is way louder than I intended, but it’s hard to hear over how loud my freaking breathing is.

I immediately feel bad when I turn in time to see her cower, wrapping her arms around her stomach as her chin tucks into her chest. “Shoot, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” Wave upon wave of guilt crashes over me as I watch her tears fall faster.

I move in closer, but she shakes her head before I can pull her into me. “Can’t you see it? I’m meant to be alone.” If her dad weren’t already dead, I’d find him and finish him myself. Who breaks their kid so bad they actually believe they were meant to go through life alone? And screw my brother for making her believe that.

“You aren’t meant to be alone. I’m broken, too; we can be broken together. Don’t shut me out. Let me be the lighthouse I so badly want to be for you. Let me help you rebuild what your dad broke. Let me take every lie he told y ou and fill it with truth. Just let me in, please.”

She looks up at me, eyes full of hope. Like she can’t believe someone finds her worthy enough to fight for. “Okay, I’ll try. But you’re going to have to be patient with me.”

“I can be patient. I just need you to stop running, talk to me, heck just tell me you need some time to work things out in your pretty little head. Work with me. I spiraled when you left me guessing.” She nods, leaning forward, she presses her forehead to mine.

Tears are still flowing in steady streams down her cheeks. Slowly, I reach up to wipe them away; she gives me a soft whimper followed by “I’m sorry.” I want to tell her it’s okay, that I know she’s hurting, but I can’t. At this moment, I’m terrified even if I don’t show it.

The silence in the face of conflict is a giant, waving red flag. One I'm choosing to ignore. Time will tell if that’s a wise decision or not. The internal battle is in full swing. Is this real, or am I just projecting my hopes and dreams onto someone else? Am I imagining things? Am I willingly looking the other way again?

Once she settles enough to stop crying, I get ready to leave, only to be stopped by her next words. “Do you want to stay here? I can sleep out here. If you’re tired, I don’t want you to drive; it’s 1:30 in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep out here, only if I can keep Harley.” She nods and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“What time do you need to wake up? I’ll set an alarm so I can be up to hug you before you leave.” My heart is no longer my own. She owns it; I just pray she doesn’t shatter it.

“I have to be on the pla ne by eight, so I need to leave at about six thirty.”

“See you then, Wilder. Goodnight.”

“Night, Kitten.” She starts to walk away, but I grab her wrist and pull her emo self into my chest; I gently touch her lips with mine, wanting her to know I still want this. I want her. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Ditto, Grey”

She brought me an actual pillow instead of a decorative one and the blanket she used the first time I was here. She lowers herself until her face is level with mine, leveling me with a stare that is filled with affection and wonder. “Thank you for trusting me.” She gently kisses my lips before pulling away, meeting my gaze. She squeezes my shoulder and walks toward her room before I can say anything.

I’d like to say sleep evaded me, but the emotional hurricane I went through earlier took a lot out of me. With Harley lying on the couch by my head and the blanket that could be mistaken for a polar bear, I pass out. Even on a couch, it’s one of the most peaceful sleeps I’ve had in a really long time.

“Grey.” I’ve started dreaming of her; it’s like she’s here with me. I can feel her, hear her. “Greyson.” Her hand on my shoulder feels so real. “Wilder, it’s 6:28. I don’t want you to miss your flight.” Her words act as ice-cold water. Shooting up off the couch, she barely has time to move before I narrowly miss smacking her head with my own.

She smiles; it's soft and warm. “Good morning. I got you coffee and a blueberry muffin.” My eyes go wide as I take in the bag from Beautiful Pour. She got up extra early to get that. She did that for me.

“You went to Beautiful Pour? At this hour?” Her smile grows, and I swear my heart sprouts wings and takes off.

“I did; I asked Natalie for your usual order. I hope she got it right.” She hands me my extra-large iced coffee, taking a sip. A groan leaves my throat; it’s deep and low, almost sounding like a growl.

“It’s perfect, Kitten, thank you.” Putting the coffee down on the table, I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into me. She giggles and wraps her arms around my neck, nuzzling into the space under my chin. I take a moment to breathe her in.

“You had a sleepover and didn’t invite me?!” A shrill voice calls from around the corner.

“I brought you coffee, too, Abby.” She darts the rest of the way into the room clapping her hands with a huge smile on her face.

“I guess you’re forgiven. Morning Dozer.”

“Hey, Abby.” Harley is still curled up in a ball next to the pillow I was sleeping on, completely ignoring the insane amount of energy these two women have this early in the morning. “I should head out; I don’t want to be late.” Before I can take my eyes off Harley, Hannah is in front of me, taking my hand in hers.

“I’ll walk out with you.” I give her a sharp nod and say bye to Abby, who calls “Good luck, Bulldozer” from halfway down the hall.

As we walk to my car, Hann ah keeps my hand in hers, rubbing small circles over the top with her thumb. The silence is comfortable; there isn’t a need to fill the space. It’s weird. I don’t usually like silence. That’s when my mind starts to drift. It’s why I keep myself busy, or if I’m alone, there’s always music on.

Before I know it, we’re stopped outside the door of my car. She looks up at me and looks almost shy. “Are you okay, Kitten?” She reaches her hand inside the pocket of her sweatshirt and rocks back on her heels, her eyes not leaving the ground. Pulling her lip between her teeth, she finally looks up at me. I, however, can’t keep my hands to myself.

I pull her lip from her teeth and then replace my thumb with my lips. It’s soft and tentative, but she returns it. When I pull away, her eyes stay closed for a few seconds; there's a small smile on her face. As her eyes open, she pulls her hand out of her pocket, bringing it up to chest level, then opens it. There on her palm is an anchor, but not just any anchor. Nope, there’s a circle where the cross bars meet, and in that circle is the picture of us at the lighthouse. I freeze.

When I finally get my head straight, I look back up at her. Uncertainty coats her features: her eyebrows are pulled low, a small downturn at the corner of her lips, and her eyes look dimmer than they did a few seconds ago. That won’t do; I hope she didn’t take my silence as me not liking it.

I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her in for a bear hug, I take a few deep breaths before she speaks up. “It also has a fidget ring on the top. I thought it might help with your anxiety while you’re gone.” Pulling back, I hold my hand out, silently asking to see it. She places it in my hand and shows me what she’s talking about. Sure enough, o n the top of the anchor where the chain would connect is a ring that smoothly spins.

It's such a small gesture, but one that’s thought out. But how did she make this so quickly? “How’d you get this so fast?” Realizing how gruff and unappreciative that made me sound, I internally cringe.

“Oh, um. I actually ordered it after you took me to the lighthouse. When you got excited about the wall of fame, I wanted to get you something with that picture on it. The anchor felt right to me. I didn’t realize it had a fidget ring on it until it got here.”

I’m staring at the anchor, no, at the picture of us when she whispers, “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it.” No, there’s no room for doubts. I bend my knees until I’m at eye level with her, grabbing her left hand; I kiss the back of it, flip it, and kiss the inside of her wrist.

“I love it more than I have words to explain right now. You have no idea how much I appreciate this. I’ll take this everywhere with me. Thank you.”

She gives me a closed-mouthed smile as she walks into me and wraps her arms around my waist. My cheek finds its favorite spot on the top of her head, and I bask in this moment of peace. Appreciating that my mind isn’t running in five hundred directions at the same time.

“I don’t want to, but I need to go.” It’s barely a whisper, not wanting to snap myself out of the trance this woman put me in. She places a kiss over my chest and then looks up at me with eyes shining; she’s a masterpiece.

“Go kick some butt, Grey. If you need me to distract you with more awful singing, I’m only a FaceTime away.” I chuckle because I don’t know that I’ll ever ge t enough of her “live performances.”

“I wish you and Harley could come with me; she really is the best therapist.”

“I have to agree with you there; there will never be a therapist as good as Harley Girl.” Her eyes shine a little brighter when she talks about her dog; I love it. With one final squeeze, I step away and jump in my car, heading away from the literal anchor I had tied to my sanity for the past 12 hours.