Chapter 30
Thirty
Carter
“Ow—Ow—Ow—Fuck! You’re squishing my boobs!” River yells as I pin her to the ground.
I lift off of her a little and press my weight down onto her lower half instead. “Jaxon isn’t gonna care if he squishes your boobs. Now, fight me.”
“But I’m so tired,” she protests. “Can’t we just call it a day? I don’t wanna do this shit anymore.”
Leaning back on my haunches, I drag my hands down my face. “Baby, listen to me.”
“No. You listen to me.” She sits up, resting back onto her elbows. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
I scoff.
“Seriously, Carter. His pride is hurt. I took him down. Do you know how much that had to hurt his ego? Plus, he’s in Oklahoma. Isn’t that what your guy said?”
Lifting myself up from the floor, I stand, towering over her with my arms crossed. “That’s a flawed form of logic that I’m not willing to gamble on. And yes, he’s supposed to be in Oklahoma, but that doesn’t mean he won’t come back here.”
“I’ve been training for months!”
“Get up and go wrap your hands.”
“Stop fucking bossing me around!”
“Kick my ass and make me!” I yell back, sauntering over to our water bottle.
Sweat drips down the side of the bottle, wetting my hand as I pick it up. I squirt the water into my mouth, cap the top, then toss the bottle to her. She goes to catch it, but it slips from her hands and rolls across the floor. She groans and throws herself back onto the floor.
“Are you really that damn tired? Because another thing he won’t care about is if you’re tired or not.”
“Fine! Just get off my ass.”
She heaves herself off the ground and snatches up the water bottle as she leaves the room.
Wow. She’s really grouchy this morning. It’s ten o’clock.
How tired can she possibly be? Placing my hands on my hips, I look down and sigh.
Maybe I’m wrong for pushing her so hard, but I feel like I’m doing exactly what needs to be done.
“Carter.”
My eyes lift to her holding a roll of tape at her side, tapping it against the side of her leg.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re doing your best here, and you only want me to be able to protect myself.
I asked for that. I wanted you to train me.
It’s just that I’ve revolved my life around him for the past six years.
I’ve based every step I’ve taken around my fear of him for so long that I don’t want to do it anymore.
I don’t want him to dictate my life. When I train or even if I train, I want it to be because I want to, not because, in a roundabout way, he’s making me. Does that make any sense at all?”
“I’ll feel better when he’s locked away . . . or dead.”
River takes a seat on the couch and lifts her brow. “You know there’s a possibility that he won’t ever be locked away, right?”
“I don’t believe that,” I argue. “There’s no way. After what he did?”
“I spent most of my marriage covering up what he did to me. I was one of those women who made excuses for him. Felt sorry for him. I don’t know what it’s called but—”
“It’s a form of Stockholm syndrome.”
She inhales deeply then releases the breath, twisting the roll of tape between her fingers. “Yeah,” she whispers. “He eased me into the abuse. Claimed every injury was unintentional, or accidental, until I realized it wasn’t, and before I even knew what was happening . . .”
She trails off shaking her head. “I’ll just say, it got really bad.
I never reported him . . . until one time I did.
I was in a medically induced coma for a few weeks, and by the time I was awake and able to file a report, the evidence that would have put him behind bars was gone.
Erased. His truck was repaired without a financial trace or insurance claim.
Jaxon is smart; I’ll give him that. He knows how to get away with just about anything; I guess those are the perks of being in the line of work he’s in.
Anyway, he ran me off the road. Nearly killed me, and you know who I blame?
Myself. Because I never told anyone what he was doing to me before the day that I woke up.
Sure, my family saw the signs, but I lied and I lied. ”
Hearing her story makes me feel ill, and my heart breaks a little more every time she opens up about this, but I’m glad she’s sharing.
That means she’s healing. Walking over, I sit down beside her and place her hand in mine.
“That was not your fault. It’s not uncommon for victims to become sympathetic to their abusers.
Sometimes you’re in too deep, and you lose sight of yourself. ”
She lifts her gaze, her eyes glistening.
“You really get me. You know that? Ugh. I don’t want to cry about this anymore,” she grits out, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
“I think you’re in the wrong profession.
Don’t get me wrong, you’re a fantastic hockey player .
. . incredible really . . . but you’ve done more for me in these past few months than my therapist has in over a year. ”
I don’t even know what to say to that. If that’s the case, then maybe we should find her a new therapist.
“Anyways, I want to do what I want to do. That may seem reckless and a bit selfish to you, and I’m sorry, but I think I’ve earned the right to be a little selfish right now.
I already have the tools to protect myself, and we have the security you hired .
. . plus I have you . . . and you’re all fight club and shit . . .”
She bumps her shoulder with mine, trying to lighten my mood. I can't even form a smile after everything she just told me, but I listen as she continues.
“And you said you have someone monitoring his whereabouts. So, can we just live our life? If at some point we need to pivot, then we’ll pivot.”
I wrap my arm around her and bring her to me, pressing my lips against her temple. “I need time, baby. I know what you need and what you’re asking of me. I’m really trying to give that to you, but there are things that I need too. Things to make me feel like you’re safe and to ease my mind.”
She nods. “I understand . . .”
We sit there for a while, with me holding her before she pops off, “Can we go shower now? You stink.”
I laugh and pull her up. I guess our session is over.
“Hustle! Hustle! Hustle!” Coach yells. “Let’s go one more round.”
My legs are on fire, and sweat drips down my temples even though it’s practically freezing in the facility. I skate backwards over to my position on the ice and wait for the puck to drop between Cal and his back up, Werchky.
Coach blows the whistle, and the puck drops.
Werchky takes possession and passes back to Trevor.
He takes the pass, weaving in and out of players, driving the puck down the side.
He dekes around Aiden, then passes the puck to Jerome who passes to me.
I cut the side and drive the puck toward the center to pass back to Werchky.
Just as I rear back my stick, Coach blows the whistle.
Two police officers, standing at the glass and talking to Coach, catch my attention.
“Graham!” Coach yells.
Taking off my helmet, my wet hair falls across my forehead as I skate over to Coach.
“These gentlemen need to talk to you.”
My brows pinch together, but I make my way off the ice. “Is this about Jaxon?” I ask them. “Did you find him?”
“Sir, we’re going to need you to come down to the station with us to answer a few questions.”
I look back at Coach, and he gives a nod.
“Alright, boys. Back in position!” Coach blows the whistle again.
Tossing my gloves onto the bench, I sit down and remove my skates.
“Let me go change, and I’ll be right out.”
“I think it’s best if you come as you are,” an officer says with a hand on his gun.
I look between the both of them. “Is River okay?”
“Mrs. Graham is fine. She’s already at the station.”
My heart beats a little bit faster. Why is River at the station, and why do they need me to come down there?
“Let me at least grab my shoes,” I say, picking up my skates.
I head to the locker room and look behind me as the officer follows, watching my every move.
What the fuck?
I hold open the door for him, and he steps inside behind me. Digging my shoes out of my locker, I sit down on the bench and put them on, then hang my skates in my locker. The officer doesn’t say anything to me, just turns his head, looking around our locker room.
“Look.” I say, drawing the officer’s attention back to me. “I’m not asking to shower. Just let me get out of these pads at least? Change into the clothes I came in? You’re in here, and I’m obviously not going anywhere without you.”
“Make it quick,” he clips, then watches my every move. It’s unnerving.
Once I’m back in my street clothes, they follow me out to the parking lot, making me lead the way, then cram me into the back of the police cruiser.
I ask at least a dozen questions on our thirty-minute drive down to the station but gain no answers in return.
The car ride is brutal on my nerves. Once there, the officer, whose name on his uniform reads Valdez, leads me down the hallway to an empty room.
“Detective Matthews will be in to visit with you in a few.”
“You said my wife is here. I want to speak to her.”
He leaves, shutting the door without a word.
I sit in a classic interrogation room like the ones you might see on TV.
The clock on the wall ticks in time with the grinding of my molars.
In the corner of the room is a camera that I know is trained on me.
My fingers tap on the metal table in front of me.
Where is my wife, and what the fuck going on?
I sit there, my knee bouncing and my stomach turning with worry and anxiety. Though, I guess I need to look at it as we’re at a police station and not a hospital, so she must be okay like they said.
The air shifts as the door opens. “You’re not an easy man to track down,” a voice says behind me.