ONE #2
I called Hayden, and he had come running to the library, making sure I was okay before walking Cole outside to “have a chat.”
Anytime Cole saw me on campus after that, he sprinted in the other direction, and I felt so safe.
Because that’s who my husband was.
Protective. Intense. Loving.
Not whoever is standing in front of me right now.
Even though he looks like my husband, and sounds like my husband.
His light brown hair is darker from the sweat, plastered to his forehead. His crystal blue eyes are icy and cold. His squared, bearded jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.
I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen when I first saw him. And I was so endeared by the way he shrank himself to make sure he didn’t intimidate me, the way he carefully sat down in the chair, and it still creaked under his solid weight.
This man in front of me is a stranger.
He lets out an incredulous laugh, and it sounds so mean it takes my breath away.
“Jesus Christ, you can’t even fucking—”
I don’t let him finish.
I’m done.
I think for good.
The heels of my boots click against the concrete as I turn and walk away.
Hayden’s voice yells after me, but I don’t look back.
“Em!”
Oh, he actually sounds remorseful.
Too late.
I can’t stay here in front of the media, the fans, and puck bunnies who will no doubt revel in Haymaker Hayden finally getting rid of the old ball and chain .
The world blurs as I keep walking, my head held high, my teeth grinding to hold back the tears stinging in my eyes.
“Baby, wait! I didn’t mean that—fuck!”
A bang follows the curse, and I can clearly picture him throwing his stick into the wall.
“Emerald!”
I don’t stop walking even when I’m outside.
The cold air is a shock, a heavy snowfall landing on my cheeks, dusting my eyelashes. That’s when I surrender the battle with my tears.
My hand covers my mouth to muffle my sob as I spot fans walking out of the arena, heading to their cars. Not wanting anyone else to see me fall apart, tears and snow blurring my vision, I walk toward the WAG lot.
Halfway there, it all hits me too hard, and I stumble, slipping on ice and rolling my ankle. Not bad, but it’s just the cherry on top.
Hayden’s words reverberate cruelly in my brain, and my own join in.
They were right. They were all right.
What do I do now? Hayden just humiliated me.
Viciously and publicly stripped me down to my bare bones and exposed me like a nerve for the world to jab at until it hurts.
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.
At one time, it was only my job that paid the bills. Plural. Two of them: to afford the groceries for his meal plan, training coaches, sticks, skates, and better pads, because I always wanted him protected, and the school only provided what was necessary .
You don’t fucking understand pressure, you’ve never had to worry about anything day in your fucking life because your Mommy and Daddy would fix it.
That’s accurate. My Mommy and Daddy would fix a problem for me if they could, because they love me.
And they love Hayden, too.
The first time they met him, that Christmas break freshman year, when I brought him home so he wouldn’t be alone, they adopted him right into the family.
They would fix it for me, just as they would fix it for him.
Same with my sister, Ruby.
All of them would do anything for Hayden.
So fuck him for saying that.
I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t walk on eggshells around my husband because of a losing streak. I can’t take the messages telling me to kill myself, that I’m ugly and replaceable. I can’t sit here in this self-imposed prison any longer.
I’m done.
“Mrs. Sawyer?”
The voice abruptly yanks me out of my thoughts, and I inaudibly curse at being recognized. Goddamn this jersey.
Wiping my teary eyes, I shield my face from the snow and turn my head in that direction. I’m in an empty lot. One of the ones under construction right next to the WAG lot.
Suddenly, my knees are hitting the frozen ground. I feel dizzy and dazed.
What?
Warm.
My nose and mouth are warm .
And wet.
And I taste metal.
Why do I taste metal?
I reach up to my nose, and when I pull my hand away, it’s painted red.
Why is it red?
Blood.
Oh, I’m bleeding.
That’s when the pain hits. Bright, searing pain in the center of my face moving toward my eyes, my chin, my teeth.
Looking up, another blow strikes me, this one sending me to the ground.
They keep coming, raining down on me. To my face, to my head, to my chest. I raise my arms to protect myself, but in any area I cover, a new one is hit.
I gurgle; more metallic taste in my mouth, something sharp cutting my tongue. I spit it out, along with a mouthful of blood.
Rage-filled, slurred words reach my ears.
“I lost $5,000, you fucking cunt!”
A blow to my ribs.
Another.
“P-Please, stop... stop hurting me...” I cough.
The sound is wet. It shouldn’t sound like that. Why does it sound like that? I cough again, red splatters against the white snow. I lay my head against the cold.
Cold.
It feels nice, a brief relief before another blow to the stomach makes me curl into a ball.
“It’s all your fucking fault! ”
It’s a man’s voice. When I turn my head, my vision spins, but I can still see yellow.
The word Boston.
Jersey.
Hayden’s jersey.
My husband.
Hayden.
“Hayden... help...”
“Yeah, call for your husband, bitch! He’s playing like this because of you!”
Another blow to my face, I reach my hand up, but he kicks it.
Something crunches in my hand. My fingers.
I give up trying to cover myself.
Instead, I just beg silently for it to be over.
When the blows pause, I momentarily hope it’s over. I try to look up, and panic when I realize I can’t move my head.
Moving my eyes, the man is standing there, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly, and his breath huffing in and out of him like a bull.
My eyes lock on the jersey. The number on the arm.
44.
My husband’s number.
My husband’s jersey.
“Fucking whore. I lost all my fucking money,” he growls, spitting at me. I feel it hit my head, somewhere in my hair. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
I cough. “Hayden—”
The last thing I see is a big booted foot stomping down toward my face .
And as the world goes silent, all I can see is his jersey, his number, his face.
Hayden.