TWENTY-SIX
HAYDEN
BOSTON
JANUARY
Rick Fox has disappeared off the face of the earth.
It’s two weeks after Christmas. Aisha texts me almost daily, updating me about the investigation.
They’re combing through Britney’s accounts, and apparently, there is a lot about me in them.
Edits, thirst traps, photos of Emerald and me on the road.
She was the source of the edits posted on my own page.
Britney would film and edit them and send them to Rick. The ones on the Bullies' official account were made by the social media manager. When questioned about it, the manager just told Aisha— sex sells.
Apparently, it doesn’t matter if the person you’re sexualizing has given consent.
The worst was the secret Facebook group she had created—an I Hate Emerald Sawyer snark group where she and a thousand other women gathered to pick apart my wife.
Every single quirk I adore about Emerald—her enthusiasm when she cheers during a game, the silly faces she makes to make me laugh, her beautiful body, her gorgeous face, and the job she loves.
They called it annoying, ugly, performative, and attention-seeking. They called her a gold-digger, a parasite, abusive, manipulative, and ugly. Every single word they use for Emerald belongs to Britney instead.
If only they knew .
But they didn’t. I thought protection meant keeping access away from Emerald, keeping her safe and hidden away. I thought protection was making as much money as I could to support and repay Emerald. I thought protection was trusting my agent, who had experience and connections.
When Aisha told me about the pages, their content, it all made sense. The rabid hate that was sent to Emerald by these women, and probably more. The paranoia only ramps up from them. What if this is not the only one? What if Britney is not the only obsessive one out there?
And now the paranoia is bleeding to Emerald.
Or, I think it’s manifesting from what Dr. Flores said is PTSD.
Dr. Flores won’t share what Emerald says in session, but she has told us how to move forward, the most important being not to rush Emerald through her healing.
Sometimes, there’s even a latency period.
Emerald will seem fine, healed even, but something could trigger a memory or flashback.
You’re never really cured from trauma, but you can learn to manage it.
She’s been experiencing nightmares. She freezes when anyone unfamiliar steps into the room. Sometimes, she just blanks out, staring into space, her face twitching like she’s remembering. And this isn’t something I can just kiss away.
This is scary, but I will be anything and everything Emerald needs through her recovery.
Unfortunately, the city of Boston hasn’t let go of us yet. We’ve been staying off social media and away from the news as we focus on Emerald and her healing. We’ve been getting our updates directly from Aisha or Ramirez.
And now, we’re leaving the hospital, which had become a sanctuary for us over the last few weeks.
“Are you ready, baby?”
Emerald stands in front of the door of the room, her whole body shaking with nerves. She’s dressed in cozy clothes: soft leggings, snow boots, and my University of Michigan Hockey hoodie—the one she says we share custody of.
It’s big enough that the hood covers her head and face completely, but, as always, there’s a swell of pride in my chest at the name emblazoned across the back. Sawyer. Mine.
Emerald looks at me with big eyes, unsure and a little scared. The hospital has been overly accommodating since the picture was released, which was quickly taken down. Ruby had said it might be tricky. But the hospital, facing bad press, threatened the tabloid.
The rag would go bankrupt against the hospital. The unfavorable public reaction outside Boston was already costing it subscribers, so they took it down and issued a public apology to Emerald.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice soft as I step closer to Emerald, staying in her line of vision as I approach.
I learned that lesson two days ago. One moment, I wasn’t thinking—just acting out of habit—and I tapped Emerald’s shoulder to get her attention.
The noise she made sounded like a wounded animal.
It was one of the most terrifying sounds I’ve ever heard, and I never want to hear it again.
So, I don’t approach her from behind anymore. I make sure no one else does either. I keep my footsteps light, my voice soft. I place myself between Emerald and the door, which seems to ease her anxiety.
Emerald writes something on the whiteboard.
Just want to go home.
She doesn’t mean the rental house we’re heading to. We have another week before the wiring can be removed. Then, we can go back to Michigan. Her mom still has friends at the hospital near home. She’s already setting up everything: physical therapy, oral surgery, follow-ups.
Just getting the wiring out of her mouth is the beginning of reconstruction.
“I know,” I nod, holding my hands out for her to take. She places the whiteboard down on the table by the door, almost reluctantly. It’s been a tool for her over the last few weeks. I know she’s reluctant to let it go. “But we’re almost to the next step.”
Emerald blinks slowly. Her expression—which I thought I was good at reading before, and now am fluent in—shows she knows my words are true. But it’s just scary. This hospital has become a sort of fortress.
Now we’re stepping out into the harsh reality.
Emerald reaches for me, and my heart jumps as I take her hands in mine. I lean down to press a kiss to the back of each, and crouch my body to her eye level.
“I will be here. Every step of the way,” I promise, before I smirk. “You’re gonna get so sick of me, your finger is gonna be sore from flipping me off.”
Emerald smiles so bright it hits me right in the chest, before her hand comes up to cover her mouth. She’s been doing that a little more lately; anytime she smiles and her lips part, she’ll cover it up.
And I don’t like it.
Even with the wiring, even with the broken teeth, she’s so beautiful it hurts.
I don’t point it out right now—not with her nerves this high, but I do file it away for later.
My phone buzzes, and when I glance at it, I see that it’s a thumbs-up from Tim. He went down to the car with Linda to pull it around back.
Somehow, the media caught word that we were leaving. So naturally, the vultures decided to mob my traumatized wife outside the hospital.
Ever since Christmas morning, when we dismissed that cop, I have refused any security detail that’s not Aisha or Ramirez.
Ramirez even volunteered to sit outside the rental house if we need him. Aisha’s partner is quiet, but he seems to genuinely care about Emerald’s safety above all, even from me.
And for that, he’s a good man in my book.
“Are you ready?”
Emerald takes a deep breath in through her nose, releasing through her mouth, before she blinks slowly once. Yes.
Overcome with admiration, with a feather touch, I gently cup her face and brush my lips to the side of her mouth—the side her teeth broke.
And for the first time in way too damn long, I’m kissing my wife.
And she’s letting me.
I keep it light and brief, but God—winning the Cup, being named MVP, signing the biggest contract in the league—none of it will ever come close to kissing Emerald. I don’t linger too long—because I want to get Emerald safely back to the house.
I pull back but keep my forehead pressed against Emerald’s, and her hands hold onto my wrists like she’s trying to secure me to her. As if I want to go anywhere.
“I love you.”
Her hands squeeze my wrists. Three times.
Fire fills my veins at that. I open my eyes and meet Emerald’s determined green ones. Gently, I pull the hood over her head. It completely shields her face. If it didn’t have my name on it, and I wasn’t with her, no one would be able to tell who she was .
Unfortunately, it’s hard to be incognito when you’re six and a half feet, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting her walk out alone.
Emerald is hyper-vigilant the entire way. In the elevator, she’s practically molded to my side, slotting herself under my arm, shivering slightly. I pull my arm tighter around her, and she burrows in deeper.
There’s a small spark of warmth in my chest. The brave trust she’s giving me after I broke it, the feeling that I am her safe space again—it’s there. But it’s overshadowed by a feral urge to protect, defend, and rip apart anyone who tries to harm her.
I’ve felt it this intensely once before, during a moment that still haunts me.
“I should smack you right in your insolent little cunt mouth!”
“Yes, that's it! Show the world who Hal Sawyer really is. You're a pathetic excuse for a man, and Hayden deserves a better father—”
A flash of a ringed hand coming down toward Emerald’s face.
And all I saw was red.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!”
When the elevator opens, Ramirez is there waiting for us. He stands there, hands on his hips, his right hand inches away from his gun while his left hand rests near the detective badge clipped at his belt. Ramirez gives us both a nod, though he reserves the tiniest smile for my wife.
“Ready?” he asks her directly, and she gives him a thumbs up. The smile widens for a brief moment before he nods and meets my eyes. “They’re out there.”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
It’s even worse than I thought.
As soon as we step out the door, Ramirez barrels in front of us. Hospital security tries to contain the hungry journalists and cameramen. My SUV is fifteen feet away, idling by the curb. Tim and Linda sit in the front. I can see both of them wanting to jump out and fight the crowd themselves.
I pull Emerald tighter to me, one arm wrapped firmly around her, the other tucking her head to my chest.
Our names are called over and over. Someone tries to get a quote, a quip, a shot of my wife’s face. I glower at all of them, curling my lip and sure I look part-beast.
A camera flashes too close to Emerald.