Chapter Twenty-four
Four days.
That’s how long it’s been since Fabian dropped the bomb and Sawyer stormed out. Whomever said time heals all wounds was either a liar, or maybe ninety-six hours just isn’t enough. Even if it feels like an eternity to me.
The first night, Sawyer didn’t even come home. And just as I was about to try to track him down, Mickey texted me to let me know Sawyer was at his place and planned to spend the night. The surprising text from someone I mean nothing to, turned the hollowness in my chest into a liquid fire of anger.
Sawyer should have been the one to text me. He should have been the one who comforted me and assured me everything would be okay. Isn’t that what a husband, someone who loves you, is supposed to do?
Maybe I should have asked him when he returned the following evening, but I didn’t. Instead, I chickened out and hid in the guestroom. He didn’t even bother to come and check on me. I heard him go straight to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The next morning he left again, still without coming to find me.
I haven’t laid eyes on him for four days, and without my job, there’s nothing to distract me. I’m left to grapple with the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to consume me. I miss him so bad it hurts, and at its worst, even something as mundane as breathing becomes hard. There’s a heaviness in my heart I know only Sy-Sawyer can chase away.
When the hell did I become this dependent on him? In the grand scheme of things, the time we’ve spent together should barely register. Yet it’s all-consuming; it’s everything. Everything I miss, and everything I want. Everything I apparently can’t have.
Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I spend an ungodly amount of hours in the guest bedroom that feels like a glorified shrine—a tribute to a happier time in his life. I’ve studied every picture, smiled as I looked at the pictures of him riding his bike. His cheeks were chubby, but his eyes… they’re the same, yet not. The boy is all smiles and giggles, whereas the man is intense. His gaze is like that of his predator; studying your weakness before pouncing.
Lying on the bed, I look at my phone, reading and re-reading the text from Sawyer.
Sawyer: Don’t come to the game tonight. Fabian’s here.
That’s it. A handful of words after four days of no communication. Sighing, I get up and grab a quick shower. Then I quickly get dressed. Despite Sawyer’s text, I have no intention of not showing up. Not only is it my duty as his wife, but I want to see him. And in public, he can’t ignore me.
While making quick work of getting ready, I tell myself to leave my emotions behind. I can’t show up with heartache written all over my face, or snarling at people because I’m spitting mad. But fuck… I have so much anger inside me. I’m angry with myself for failing to muster the courage to confess the truth to Sawyer when I had the chance, for allowing fear to hold me back from laying bare my secrets.
My anger is not solely directed inward. Remus’ incessant reminders and demands for arrangements to transport Sawyer to Rome only serve to stoke the flames of my frustration. I resent his interference, his intrusion into our already tumultuous lives.
And then there’s Fabian, the catalyst for this chaos, the one who tore open old wounds and exposed shit he had no right to expose. Though I should have seen it coming, his treachery took me off-guard. And now, my anger simmers to a boiling point, a fierce blaze of hatred that threatens to consume me whole. Despite my upbringing, I’ve never wanted anyone dead. Not really. That was then; the me living in the present very much wants his head on a spike.
“Enough,” I tell my reflection as I stop, stealing a moment to make sure I look okay.
My long, fiery red hair cascades down my back in a loose braid, a stark contrast against the simple elegance of my outfit. I’ve opted for a pair of well-worn jeans, paired with sleek boots that add a touch of edge to the ensemble.
A crop sweater—another custom made item with Sawyer’s number on it—its soft fabric hugging my frame in all the right places completes my choice of attire. It’s a look that strikes the perfect balance between casual and put-together, allowing me to blend seamlessly in with the other women.
I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the image staring back at me. My makeup is understated yet polished, enhancing my natural features without overpowering them. And then there’s the glint of my wedding band on my finger, a constant reminder of the tangled web of secrets and lies that now define my life. But all in all, I look good, and not at all like a woman on the verge of giving up.
No, I can’t think like that. I refuse to. I’m not giving up. Not on Sawyer, and not on my freedom. But… as I ride the elevator down, the thoughts I’ve done my best to keep at bay seep in. I have to face the fact that I might not be able to have both my freedom and my husband, not after I neglected to be honest. So if I have to make a choice… there’s no choice at all.
I’ll pick Sawyer because, without him, my freedom means nothing.
As I step out of the taxi, my heart races with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The arena looms ahead, a beacon of both excitement and uncertainty. I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder, my fingers fidgeting with the fabric.
Then I see Jo standing outside, her familiar figure standing by the entrance. I hadn’t expected her to be here, and for a moment, I hesitate. But then I steel myself and approach her.
“Hey, Jo,” I greet her, trying to keep my voice steady.
Jo turns toward me, a hint of concern in her eyes. “Lucia, I figured you’d show up. I’m here to escort you inside.”
I nod, grateful for her presence despite my lingering unease. “Thank you,” I murmur softly.
As we walk toward the entrance together, Jo speaks up again, her tone more gentle this time. “I wanted to apologize, Lucia. I know I was harsh the other day, and I regret the way things went down.”
Her words catch me off guard, and I glance at her in surprise. “You do?”
Jo nods solemnly. “Yeah. You took me, all of us, by surprise, really. But despite everything, I care about you. I just want what’s best for you.”
I swallow, feeling a lump form in my throat. It’s unexpected, this display of concern from Jo, but it touches something deep within me. “Thank you, Jo,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. “I appreciate that.”
“Look, I talked to Tom and pointed out there’s nothing anywhere in your contract that makes what happened grounds for firing you, and—”
“Jo,” I say, cutting her off. “It’s fine. I lied, so I get it.”
Turning to me, she frowns. “Don’t you want your job back?”
I shake my head. “If we’re being honest, I don’t care. The only thing that matters to me now is Sawyer.”
Her eyes widen. “So it’s all true. You really are in love.” She says it more to herself than me.
“I love him,” I confirm, deliberately not commenting on how he feels about me.
When we reach the area for family, she turns to me. “Okay, then.”
“Okay,” I echo.
“Let me know if anything changes,” she says with a wry smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be a part of my team.”
Before I can overthink it, I hug her. For a second, she doesn’t react, and I almost pull back. But then I feel her arms close around me. “Thank you, Jo.”
“Take care of yourself, Lucia.”
As Jo leaves, I’m left standing alone for a moment, the echo of her words lingering in my mind. But before I can dwell on them further, I hear someone calling my name. Turning, I see Amy, Peter’s girlfriend, waving me over.
“Lucia, there you are!” Amy exclaims, a bright smile on her face. “We’ve been waiting to hear all about your wedding to Sawyer!”
I offer her a small smile and join the group of women. Everyone is eager to ask me questions, not even pretending they aren’t shocked about our marriage. “Tell us everything!” Sam, another one of the girlfriends, chimes in eagerly. “Was it romantic? Did Sawyer cry?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “No tears. But it was... unexpected, to say the least,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the weight on my heart.
“I still can’t believe it,” Mandy says. “I don’t think any of us thought we’d ever see Sawyer settle down.”
“Why not?” I ask, feeling a touch of defensiveness. “I mean, it’s not like he’s a monster or anything.”
Amy links her arm with mine. “That’s not what we mean,” she assures me. “We’re just surprised he found someone that was around long enough to see past his… facade.” She says the word like she isn’t sure it’s the right one to describe my husband, and she’s right.
“I get it,” I say, softening my tone. “I just hate that everyone seems to have such a negative opinion about him. Underneath it all he’s really… not sweet, but…” Trailing off, I search for the right word.
“Hot? An alphahole?” Amy laughs as she unhelpfully makes suggestions.
“You’re not wrong,” I say, unable to hold my own laughter at bay. “I can’t explain it because he isn’t nice, and he isn’t the heart and flowery kind of guy. But he’s everything that matters, you know?”
Winking conspiratorially, she nods. “I get it. Peter’s the same.”
We’re interrupted when the buzzing anticipation around us reaches new heights as the players file onto the ice, their skates carving sharp lines on the pristine surface. The crowd erupts into cheers as the starting lineup is announced, each player skating out with purpose and determination.
Sawyer takes his place among his teammates, his movements fluid and confident. His eyes gleam with intensity as he scans the opposing team, his focus unwavering. When some of the wives and girlfriends jump up, all calling their man’s name, I join them.
The referee blows the whistle, signaling the start of the game, and the puck drops with a resounding thud. The players spring into action, their bodies colliding in a flurry of motion.
In the midst of the chaos, Sawyer stands out for his aggression. He’s relentless in his pursuit of the puck, barreling through the opposing players with brute force. At one point, he delivers a bone-jarring hit that sends an opponent sprawling to the ice, earning him a penalty and igniting a scuffle between the teams.
Despite the tension on the ice, Sawyer shows no signs of backing down. He’s determined to assert his dominance, engaging in several more heated exchanges with the opposing players. Each confrontation only seems to fuel his intensity, driving him to push himself even harder. The crowd loves it. They cheer him on, making it known they love that he’s showing the Canadians up.
When he scores his third goal, the crowd goes wild. Everyone throws their hat onto the ice in celebration of the hat trick. Since I’m not wearing one, I just jump up and down with the others while screaming myself hoarse.
The spectacle from our area gets Sawyer’s attention, and he looks up. Shock registers on his handsome face, but then an opposing player strikes him with his shoulder, breaking the moment. I want to curse at myself. I shouldn’t have looked at him like that. Or, at least, I should have looked away. He needs his head in the game and not on me.
As the game reaches its climax, Sawyer’s aggression becomes more pronounced. He’s in the thick of every scrum, throwing punches and trading blows with anyone who dares to challenge him. It’s clear that tonight he’s not playing to win—he’s playing for the fight.
“Did you criticize his stick or something?” Sam giggles, elbowing me gently.
“He seems more aggressive than usual,” someone remarks, voicing what we’re all thinking.
“Yeah, I wonder what’s gotten into him,” Sam adds, apparently not willing to let it go.
Unable to answer, I pretend I don’t hear them as I stare straight ahead at the ice.
“They’re all like that sometimes,” Amy says with a shrug. “I swear they’re like kids on the ice. Sometimes all it takes is a glare and they refuse to back down.”
“Alphaholes,” I giggle, repeating her word from earlier.
I glance at Sawyer, my heart tightening with worry. I can’t shake the feeling that his behavior is somehow connected to the recent revelations about our marriage.
As the game progresses, the women continue to chat, but my mind is elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of Sawyer and the turmoil swirling between us.
“Good evening, ladies.” I’m so focused on what’s happening on the ice that I barely register the voice. “Are you enjoying the game?”
The second the voice registers, I become rigid. But this time, it’s not cold that spreads through my veins; it’s red-hot fury. How fucking dare he show his face? How dare he show up when Sawyer’s playing?
“Yeah, we are,” Sam says, answering Fabian’s question. Then she winces as Sawyer glares in our direction before ruthlessly pursuing an opponent.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Fabian asks, already moving toward me.
No one seems to think it’s weird that Fabian is here, in the family section so I don’t comment on it. Even though I know it’s frowned upon, I get up. “Take my seat. I was just leaving.”
Without looking back, I hurriedly walk away, doing my best not to block anyone. Most hockey arenas don’t allow spectators to get up during a game since it blocks the view of the fans behind you, which in turn puts them at risk of being hit by a puck. But fuck it, this is a special circumstance.
I hope Sawyer’s watching, seeing me leave Fabian in the dust where he belongs. Despite acting cool, my heart thunders in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to not feel at least some sense of panic whenever my ex husband is near.
As I look across the rink, my gaze locks with Sawyer’s, and he gives me a subtle nod. I breathe a sigh of relief, happy he saw me leaving the group. Maybe it’s too much to hope for, but I can’t help hoping he knows this is me choosing him. Now and always.
I watch the rest of the game standing. Though I’m alone, I don’t feel it. Not when Sawyer looks at me every chance he gets. It’s like a security blanket; comforting.
When the final buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game, he skates off the ice with a smirk across his kissable lips. Despite the penalties and the physical toll, he looks happy about the win. As he should be. The Canadians are always favorites, but tonight the Sabertooths showed the league why they shouldn’t be underestimated.
I’m just about to leave when movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. “Oh, my God!” I exclaim as Sawyer gracefully skates right for me.
Without missing a beat, he runs through the opening in the barrier. People have stopped moving, and when he takes me in his arms, dipping me before fusing our lips together, the spectators clap and whoop with excitement.
At first, I think he’s doing it for show. But the longer we kiss, I know it’s more than that. The chemistry between us can’t be fabricated any more than the passion and need in our kiss. And the kiss is one that could burn down forests and make the earth crack.
“My sweet bunny,” he rasps against my lips.
Winding my arm around his neck, I pull at his hair. “I love you, Sy.” I deliberately use my nickname for him, refusing to go back to a place where we act like strangers. “And I’m done with you ignoring me.”
He helps me back up, smiling widely. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, saluting me. As he looks at something—someone—behind me, his smile disappears. “What do you want?” His tone is no longer playful.
“I just came to congratulate you on your performance tonight,” Fabian says. His beady eyes shift between us like he’s trying to work something out.
Sawyer tries to push me behind him, but I stubbornly stay in place, refusing to hide from Fabian any longer. Canting my head, I stare at him through cold eyes. “Vattene.” Leave. “Levati dal cazzo. L’ordine del nostro Don è di lasciarmi in pace. Questo è il tuo ultimo avvertimento.” Get the fuck out of here. The orders of our Don are to leave me alone. This is your one and only warning.
Fabian narrows his eyes as his mouth opens and closes over and over. But he doesn’t say anything. Only stares at me like he’s imagining the ways he’d like to punish me for finally taking a stand.
“Cagna,” he spits, making me laugh.
“What did he say?” Sawyer asks, not taking his eyes off of Fabian.
Together we watch him retreat, and it’s not until he’s out of sight I answer. “He called me a bitch.”
Nodding, my husband looks down at me like that’s what he thought. “And what did you say, sweet bunny?”
Though I was expecting him to ask, I still gulp. Not because I don’t want to tell him, but because I’m scared he’ll get pissed at my answer. “I can’t tell you here,” I murmur. When he takes half a step back from me, I hurry to explain. “I’ll tell you the second we’re home, Sy. But…” Trailing off, I look around. “Not here.”
He looks around, obviously noticing the people still milling around. “The second we get home,” he growls, clearly feeling the need to clarify.
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth before letting it go with a deep exhale. “I promise.”
Thoughts about Fabian’s anger assault me, and the memories of the ways he punished me makes it hard to think about anything else. It takes all my willpower to replace his face with Sy’s in my mind’s eye, and that’s when it hits me. I know how to make up for my lies. It won’t be pleasant, but that’s okay. He’s my chosen husband, and I can endure some pain for him.