No Place Like Home

ONE

EMERALD

BOSTON

DECEMBER

The buzzer blares, signaling the end of the game, but I’m already outside the locker room. This is routine for me. I never catch the final moments of the games because my husband always wants to see me first.

As soon as possible, he sprints back to hug and kiss me. He always joked this was his prize for playing well, or, if they lost, I could kiss it better.

That was a time when things felt right—when joy still colored everything between us.

When hockey paid the bills, but didn’t consume our lives. When I came to more away games with him, and we saw it like little adventures. When our marriage came before the sport. That used to be non-negotiable for Hayden.

Now, I’m lucky if I get a quick peck before he’s swept away for interviews, autographs, and photos with eager fans.

The rapidly growing number of them fills the gap between my husband and me.

I have no idea how to bridge it.

Or if I even want to.

He didn’t play well tonight—he looked tired, worn down, sluggish. During that fight in the third, he seemed off. When he used to fight, I was never worried.

My husband is a tank; it’s one of the first things I noticed about him. Six-foot-five, broad shoulders, bricks for biceps, and tree trunk legs.

I mostly winced when he fought because I felt sorry for his opponents.

Tonight, the man he fought landed a punch to his nose and lip, splitting them. I watched as Hayden got that blank look on his face—the one he wears when he’s past anger and into pure rage.

By the time he was done with the guy’s face, it resembled ground beef.

They still lost by 6. Complete shutout.

No one on the team played well. Honestly, they haven’t all season. There’s no leadership—just six skaters moving aimlessly, desperate to score.

Hayden tries, but he’s—admittedly—not a leader. He’s an enforcer, a fighter, the wall defenders hit and fail to break through every time.

Something needs to change, but from what I’ve seen and heard, the front office and players are blaming the coaches, and the coaches are blaming the players and the front office.

And the fans are angry.

No one knows the answer to fix it.

This loss—and the last four—aren’t Hayden’s fault, but he won’t accept that. He won’t hear my comforting words.

Sometimes I wonder if he hears me at all, because he doesn’t seem to hear me when I ask how practice was.

Or when I ask what he wants to eat for dinner.

Or when I tell him that someone messaged me to do my husband a favor and off myself because I’m bad luck.

He’ll tell me practice was fine.

He’ll tell me that Rick will grab them food while they meet with whatever brand wants his face on it now .

He’ll tell me I should ignore the people messaging me because they’re just jealous.

He’ll tell me he loves me, and I hate the twist that appears in my heart when he does because I’ve never doubted those words before.

Not until Boston.

“Fuck!”

Turning toward the angry shout, I see my husband stomping toward me—toward the locker room. If I didn’t step in his path when he was close enough, he might have just walked inside without a second thought.

“This is fucking bullshit,” he growls, throwing his helmet against the wall. The crack of plastic against concrete jars me. “Skating around like chickens with our heads off while Coach just tells us to run the goddamn plays. The plays aren’t working!”

I try to smile and keep my voice gentle as I comfort him.

“Hayden, you played your best—”

He scoffs. “Well, my best made us get shutout—”

I wince at the deprecating tone in his voice. He always—unnecessarily—takes everything onto his shoulders.

“It’s a team sport, sweetheart, you’re not the entire team. You can’t do everything—”

“Not what I want to fucking hear, Em,” he spits, stomping around me toward the door to the locker room. My shoulders slump.

I haven’t seen him properly in two weeks—the longest we've ever been apart. He found me briefly before the game to kiss me. I barely got to finish saying, “I missed you so much,” before he walked right into the locker room.

Noise behind us builds; I already know it’s the media circling like vultures around fresh roadkill .

I should stop talking and leave it for later. He’s irritated, he’s upset, he’s hurting. I’m tired of feeling so damn powerless to help him.

And I’m so tired of feeling invisible.

“Then what do you want me to say, Hayden?”

I know instantly that’s the wrong thing to say.

He stops in his tracks. His entire body goes rigid.

And he turns to face me.

My shoulders tighten as soon as I see his jaw clenched, eyes wide and wild.

He’s known for using his fists liberally on the ice, but I know down to my very marrow that my husband would rather die than lay a hand on me.

But he’s angry.

No, he’s past angry—he’s fucking pissed, and he’s pissed at me.

“Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

His voice is a harsh snarl, echoing through the hallway, bouncing off the stone and concrete.

Reporters who were following him don’t come any closer, but they linger, surreptitiously pointing their phones at us. Fans who hope to get an autograph from Haymaker Hayden watch us, taking out their own phones too.

Beautiful women, dolled up in their Sawyer jerseys, watch with interest, some taking out their phones and texting, some checking their hair and makeup for when they get a photo with him.

One blonde in particular makes my stomach twist. She’s all too familiar—known online as @mrs.haymaker.

Britney Willingham.

Her entire online presence is dedicated to my husband, fan photos of them together after games and events. Some boudoir shots of her in Hayden’s jersey and little else, tagging my husband in them and hoping he sees.

She giggles at the scene, fluffing her hair and smoothing the fitted jersey over her body.

I think of the last Instagram post she tagged me in, a photo of them after the game in Utah. I know the smile on Hayden’s face is the one Rick coached into him. The pleasant, but rugged enforcer grin. He uses it when he takes photos with any fan.

I’m the only one who can pull a genuine smile out of him.

But from the outside—and this kills me to admit—my husband and Britney look like a good match.

The buxom blonde WAG and the handsome hockey pro.

So many of her friends comment on the photo, telling them they look perfect together, and ask when the wedding is.

@mrs.haymaker: when he divorces that ugly hag wife

That one stung sharper than most.

And now, we’re being watched, recorded, and made into a spectacle.

Of course, Hayden will be understood as the passionate hockey player being nagged by his bitch wife after a tough loss.

Oh, will somebody please come save this man from her?

This will be on social media in an hour. My hands shake at the thought of the barrage of messages I’m going to get in my inbox.

Doesn’t matter how many people I block; more just come through. I can’t just close my inbox because my business is run through social media.

I’ve made new accounts after trolls mass-reported others, but reporting harassment never leads to any results. I cringe thinking how many people have pretended to be potential clients just to get close to my husband, or send abuse telling me to free him.

“Honey—”

“No, you don’t, Em. You don’t have to worry about anything, because my job pays the bills.

My job makes sure you can even support yourself.

My job pays for everything, Emerald. Everything.

You don’t fucking understand pressure, you’ve never had to worry about anything a day in your fucking life because your Mommy and Daddy would fix it. ”

Each word hits like a blow, relentless in its impact.

Bam-bam-bam-bam.

I flinch so hard I stumble backward and trip over my feet.

My entire body goes cold, and it has nothing to do with the arena's temperature. I’m in my normal gameday attire—jeans and the custom Boston Bullies jersey he had made when he was drafted.

He had MRS. SAWYER stitched on the back, and I always loved wearing it, not feeling owned so much as taking ownership of him out there.

I’ve always felt secure with Hayden. Safe. Complete trust in my husband, even when he was away on the road.

He’s had women come up to him and ask him to sign their chest, and he’s flat-out refused.

“It’s disrespectful to my wife,” he would tell them with a firm voice, not caring about their pouting expressions.

Now, he has Rick smooth that over with his ‘no body parts’ rule because he doesn’t want to alienate the fans.

“That’s what I pay Rick for.”

“And I earn every penny of my 10%,” Rick had laughed, and Hayden joined in, nodding his agreement.

“Don’t worry, baby. You know I’m only yours.”

Do I ?

He used to set firm boundaries.

He used to passionately stick up for me.

“Hayden—”

”So, please, baby—do me a fucking favor, and for once,” his voice finishes in a yell so loud it makes me jump. “Just stop talking!”

The cruel words echo off the walls and cut through the hum of chatter around us like a hot knife through butter.

Humiliation feels like acid in my mouth, and my face is too hot. I don’t need a mirror to know I’m burning bright red.

I turn to see the spectators of our fight, and they all look like sharks that just smelled blood.

Everything they message me comes true in an instant.

Worthless. Useless. Nothing.

He deserves better.

Too ugly for him.

He deserves someone like me. Someone who can treat him right.

I’ll suck his dick better than you ever did.

He won’t even remember your name when he’s moaning mine.

“If that’s what you wish...” I whisper, meeting his red-rimmed blue eyes.

I’ve never seen the look on his face directed at me before, only at other hockey players, or that one guy I tutored back in college. Cole Samson. He copped a feel of my tits in the tutor center, which he explained away as an accidental brushing while he reached for a book.