THREE
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
“Baby, wait! I didn’t mean that—fuck!”
I slam my stick into the wall next to me.
Emerald doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back. Heels click against the concrete as she walks away, each step putting more distance between us.
The words I snarled at her replay on a horrifying loop in my brain.
I didn’t mean it.
Not a single fucking word.
I played like shit.
My lip stings. My fucking head throbs. And I’m exhausted.
We’ve been on the road, and instead of flying home to see Emerald between games like usual, Rick scheduled a last-minute brand shoot in LA. Some pad company I don’t use but wants my face plastered across posters. I posed with a stupid smile on my face and fists raised.
The tagline claimed their gear could withstand a hit from Haymaker Hayden.
That’s all I’ve become lately: a myth. I’m just a creature to defeat.
Fans from other teams can be brutal, but our own fans are even worse. Tonight proved it—we were booed through the final period. Even those in my jersey behind the bench screamed that we sucked.
I’ve been called worse by better. Words are nothing, and they can’t hurt me anymore. Not from my father, not from fans or rivals, not in person or on that stupid social media page Rick set up for me.
My fists do the fucking responding.
I know I disappointed Emerald when I told her I wouldn’t be home between games. My bright sunshine girl suddenly became gloomy and distant. Two weeks. Two whole weeks without seeing my baby.
I wasn’t sleeping well in the hotels, desperate to hold her, to kiss her, to remind myself what breathing free actually felt like. But Rick made the commitment—told me how much they were going to pay—and I couldn’t back out.
I told myself it was just a few more days.
“Do what you need to do, sweetheart. I just... I really miss you, Hayden.”
“I miss you more, baby. Two days and I’m home. I promise.”
The ache in her voice choked me up, and I could only marvel at the patience and love from her. I knew from the moment I met her that she was something special. This extraordinary woman chose me, saw me, believed in me, and never stopped.
Then I came home and gave her this.
“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, Hayden. 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. "
The words were the exact same ones my Dad roared at me at seventeen, after scouts told me I needed to clean up my game.
"So, please, baby, do me a fucking favor, and for once—just stop talking!”
Remembering her face when I said it is like a knife to my skull. I’ve never told Emerald to stop talking; her endless monologues are my favorite thing about her.
I never want her to stop talking. Never.
When she said, “If that’s what you wish…” all I could feel was my temper flare, and my father’s voice battering my skull.
“Jesus Christ, you can’t even follow simple instructions!”
He once followed that by hurling a puck as hard as he could at my head.
It was humiliating. He did it in front of my coaches and my friends, who just watched in shock. None of them said anything in my defense, and wouldn’t. I inherited my Dad’s size, and he was a ruthless, mean brute full of piss and vinegar. It’s why he was a good businessman.
“Emerald!” I call out to her desperately, but she doesn’t stop walking. Everyone’s eyes are on her as she walks away with her head held high, the only sound her heeled boots clicking against the floor and my own heavy breathing.
Like I’ve been ripped from a spell, I’m about to lean down and rip off my skates to run after her when Rick—my manager and agent—stops me.
“Fix your face, Hayden,” he says, sliding up beside me and turning to the cameras with a grin that never wavers. “People are watching.”
They’re always fucking watching.
Fans. Reporters. Those women who won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Rick won’t let me set firmer boundaries with them anymore. It was a battle to tell him that I wouldn't sign body parts anymore when Bullies fans would pull down their tops for me to sign their breasts .
I had flinched the first time that happened, and Emerald had looked shocked before insecurity took over that perfect face of hers. Without a second thought, I firmly told that woman no, flashing my gold wedding band as she looked genuinely annoyed.
Rick had scolded me like a child on a phone call after. But I had spent that night making sure Emerald knew hers were the only breasts I would ever touch, and didn’t stop until my girls' giggles turned into moans.
“They’re your money , Hayden. See her? That’s a nice Christmas gift for Emerald. And her? That’s your next vacation. See these people for who they are,” Rick grins, the sight reptilian. “They buy the jerseys, the tickets, they’re money in your pocket... unless you want to fuck one of them—”
Rick only gets that far before I send him a withering glance.
“I know, I know—bad joke. Sorry,” Rick laughs easily.
He knows I would never, he knows how much I love Emerald, even if he doesn’t understand it. No other woman exists for me like that. No one but my Emerald.
And I might have just permanently fucked it up.
Fuck. You fucking idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s your wife, she was trying to comfort you after a game, she hasn’t seen you in weeks, and those are the words you say to her?
My teammates start walking down the hallway from the ice, looking as broken and beaten down as I feel. I haven’t particularly developed a close relationship with them, not like I did with the guys back in Minnesota.
A couple of them pat my shoulder as I walk by, heading over to a couple of journalists hoping to get a quick clip for social media. A couple of them look as pissed as me, spitting their way into the locker room.
My coach gives me an incredibly unhappy look before heading over to the media room for his official interview.
My eyes don’t stray far from the direction Emerald went, and when I see a brunette in a bright yellow Boston Bullies jersey round the corner, hope flares and dies quickly when I see that it’s not my wife—not my heart and soul—just another puck bunny with my jersey on hoping to catch my attention.
My hands shake at my sides as they clench into fists, and anxiety twists violently in my gut.
“Can you make sure Emerald gets to her car safely?”
I don’t ask so much as I demand from Rick, who’s busy typing out an email on his phone.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll send someone,” Rick says. Without looking up, he snaps to one of the bored-looking security guards hanging around.
Someone calls my name. “Haymaker! Can we get a word?”
“Showtime, superstar,” Rick grins, pushing me toward the cameras and hungry eyes. I see him whisper to the security guard, who nods and heads in the direction Emerald went.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple of the wives lingering outside the locker room, talking among themselves. Back when I was playing in Minnesota, Emerald got along really well with the other wives and girlfriends of my teammates.
A lot of them were Midwest girls like herself, and Emerald felt comfortable there, even with us being as young as we were at twenty-one. Those women took her under their wing, and she loved hanging out with them when we were on the road for games.
The culture on that team was different, too. Loyalty, honor, and fidelity were respected and even demanded by my teammates on the Twin City Tornadoes.
That first year, we were on a long stretch of games, and I hadn’t seen Emerald for a week. I was a drunk mess, blubbering about missing Emerald. Frank, my captain, had been amused as he babysat me at the hotel bar. Then he started talking about his own wife and how much he missed her.
I smiled, picturing Emerald and me ten years down the line. When I asked, he told me honesty, loyalty, and phone sex are the secrets to successful relationships in this line of work. And that he never trusts anyone who can cheat on their partner to have his back in the game.
”How the hell can I trust you to be loyal to your teammates if you can’t even be loyal to the woman you love?”
I felt good with like-minded men, making decent money.
But it wasn’t enough.
I wanted more, more, more.
To buy her a brand new dream car.
To put a huge diamond on her finger, not that stupid onion ring I proposed, which still made her cry happy tears.
To save up to build her the house of her dreams.
After five really good seasons in which we went further in the playoffs than we ever had in the team’s history, I made my mark as Haymaker Hayden with my fights going viral online. People would come to the games just to see me fight, to see me barrel through someone on the ice like a steel wall.
Then the Boston Bullies waved a $4 million contract at me.
All I could think of was repaying Emerald for supporting me. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything; her parents never had to worry about bills anymore, and Ruby wouldn’t be saddled with law school debt.
I could give my wife the world—the one who loved me when I had nothing.
I need to go home. I need to see her, hold her, tell her I’m sorry.
I need to remind her she’s number one in my life, always, forever.
I take one step back from the media and turn in the direction Emerald went.
“No, maybe I should go—”
“Don’t chase her down when she’s upset—trust me, I’ve made that mistake too many times to count,” Rick says, stepping and blocking my path. “Give her space, do the media, then go home and fix it—oh, wait, I booked you for an appearance at Sweat tonight—maybe tomorrow night?”
I frown, shaking my head. “I’m not going to a fucking club tonight, Rick—”
“Smile, LFB Sports is here,” Rick cuts me off with a professional grin, shoving me toward the approaching reporters.