21. Ollie
ollie
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about her ex.
She hadn’t given me much—just that he was an alcoholic and someone she used to be with.
From the way her voice had gone flat when she mentioned Chicago, and how she’d paused when the subject of team staff came up, I had a pretty good guess.
They probably worked together, maybe back when she was with the hockey team there.
I didn’t follow hockey much—it wasn’t exactly a big thing here—but I knew I could probably find out everything with a quick internet search. That idea sat wrong. It felt like I’d be sneaking around her truth instead of hearing it from her.
It was ironic, really. We’d spent the entire day together at Camden Market, talking about everything from favorite songs to childhood stories, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask the one thing that nagged at me.
Was her ex someone I’d recognize? Did he have a place in her life, even just a shadow of one?
I told myself it didn’t matter, but deep down, it did.
Because if my plan was to keep her close—to eventually have her in my place, in my life—then I needed to know.
What if he showed up one day and took her away?
She was so scared of me leaving her, but I was terrified she’d leave me.
And that thought, more than anything, made it harder to ignore the unanswered questions.
We paused at the car, and before I held the door open, I grabbed her hand, stopping her. “I need to ask you something heavy.”
“Alright . . .”
“Who is he?” I gestured down to her belly before my eyes went searching hers.
Every time I looked at her belly, I had an inexplicable mix of protectiveness and dread. What kind of man had hurt her enough to make her flinch at the thought of being loved again?
I didn’t need to know every detail of her past, but this part . . . this part mattered. Not because it defined her, but because it defined how I could show up for her. How I could be what she needed.
What if he found out about the baby and decided he wanted a second chance? She was so tightly wound into my every fucking move that the idea of her leaving—of someone else having the chance to hold her, to be the one she called when things got too heavy—wrecked me.
And yet, I couldn’t demand to know. I couldn’t push her in a way that made her close up. She was fragile, and I’d been patient. I needed to ask, even if the answer scared me.
My hands went up to her curls as I waited for her to respond. Her fingers found their way to the buttons on my coat.
I finally breathed out with an exhale. “Is he someone I would know?”
“Do you watch a lot of American hockey?”
I shook my head, and she shrugged.
“His name is Austin Hart.”
Her last name. Of course.
Without a word, she pulled out her phone, typed something in, and held it up for me to see.
“What—?” My words were cut off as I stared at the screen.
Dozens of articles. Photos. Headlines.
The first article stopped me in my tracks.
A headline about Austin Hart caught doing coke off someone’s arse in a bathroom, complete with a grainy photo.
When I zoomed in, my stomach twisted—I recognized those tattoos, but mostly I recognized that arse.
It was my arse. The one I’d memorized that had bumped up against me when I slept yesterday. Mine.
Holy shit. He’d been caught doing blow on her? In a bathroom?
My pulse hammered as questions flooded my mind, but I stayed silent, glancing at Nova. Her face was unreadable.
“Keep scrolling,” she murmured.
I did. It only got worse.
Articles detailing their whirlwind wedding, their messy divorce, and finally a painfully awkward video conference where he admitted to his mistakes. I clicked the link. His voice came through, hollow and apologetic, as he promised to retire, get clean, and head to rehab.
The lump in my throat grew. I couldn’t believe what I was reading, what I was seeing, what she’d lived through. It took a lot to render me speechless, but this? This left me reeling. What the hell was I supposed to say to this?
“It’s too much for you. I told you I’m complicated.”
I shook out of my stupor and handed her the phone back.
“I’m going to take you home,” I said softly.
I wasn’t in the mood to keep having this conversation, because truthfully, it was complicated. I knew all these things, had accepted them in theory, but seeing them play out so publicly was something else entirely.
She shook her head and turned to open the door and get inside.
I was being a fucking coward. Say something.
I got in the car, and before I started it, I looked over at her while she wrung her hands in her lap. “Did you do coke, too?”
“Once,” she admitted. “In the photo I presume you saw.”
“Oh.”
I loved going to a pub. I loved a good party, but I was as straight as they could come, never doing anything to jeopardize my career.
“I don’t do it now. I only did it the one time. I was . . . trusting. I was promised an escape, and it turned out to be a nightmare.” She sniffled. “I lost my virginity the moment after that photo was taken.”
“In a public loo?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I hate myself for it.”
“The only man you’ve ever slept with is the one whose baby you’re carrying?”
She huffed out a breath. “I guess when you say it like that, then yes.”
Oh bloody fucking hell. I shook my head, gripped the wheel, and turned toward Richmond after starting the car. I needed to process all this. I knew she was complicated—she was pregnant, for God’s sake—but this was another level.
She’d told me it was only once, and I believed her. But seeing how low he’d driven her, how much pain she must have been in to even try it once—it tore me apart.
I hated him for that. Hated that her marriage had left scars so deep she’d reached for something that could’ve destroyed her. What if it ever happened again? What if one day it all got too heavy, and she thought she had to carry it alone, like she had back then?
That was the thought that terrified me. Not that she’d done it once, but that she’d ever feel that desperate again.
The entire journey, I was consumed with the image of her broken, hurting—and the fear that if I wasn’t enough, she might slip that far again.
“Did he hurt you?”
“By hurt, you mean rape?”
Fuck. Fuck. My heart pounded so hard, I thought it might collide with the walls of my chest. It hurt, like it was pinching, and maybe because it was stuffy in the car. I rolled down the window, bringing fresh air in.
“He didn’t sexually assault me. I technically consented to it.”
“You were high. You had no idea.”
She looked down at her hands. “I-I can’t talk about this, Ollie.”
“We always talk about heavy stuff.”
“I-I can’t talk about it because I don’t know how to,” she whispered. “Because I’m terrified of saying the words aloud.”
Her voice cracked, fragile and raw, and it hit me right in the chest. I didn’t push her. I nodded, pulling up to her apartment. She needed the space to process, and honestly, so did I.
“I’ll call you,” I said as I shifted the car into park.
Her wide, glassy eyes turned to me, surprised. For a moment, I thought she might say something, but instead, she looked down and reached for the door handle. “Oh,” she breathed. “I had a nice time today.”
She stepped out quickly and shut the door behind her. Watching her walk toward the entrance, my chest felt heavy with all the things I couldn’t say.
Before I could let doubt creep in, I turned the car around and headed toward Will’s place.