THIRTY-SEVEN #2
She nods, and I hold my hands out for her. She steps closer to me, dressed in one of my t-shirts and panties. I scoop her up and sit her on the counterspace, stepping between her legs and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. We linger like that for a bit, savoring each other .
"He's really building an ice rink in town?" she asks, pulling back to meet my eyes.
I shrug. "That's what he said."
She frowns. "What does he get out of it?"
That makes me pause.
Emerald is optimistic to her core, always able to find one single ray of light in the darkness. But, around my father, she's on guard, looking for the bottom to drop out from under her. She's acting like me, and I don't want that for her.
I don't want her light to fade.
I bury my face in her hair. Her scent grounds me, and the arms that wrap around my shoulders feel as strong as iron bars.
I feel safe.
"He said he wants to understand why I love this place," I murmur into her skin.
"Why, though?" she asks, her voice shaky and small. "Why now? After everything?"
"I guess... people reevaluate after terrible things happen."
She sighs, knowing where my mind is. "I don't think we can compare what happened to me to a heart attack."
"I'm not," I shake my head. "Not really. But... I think he's regretful."
"He should be," she mutters, sounding a little like Merry when he growls. I smile and kiss her head, my protective wife. "I like to think that people can change—you did. But... he abused you, honey. For eighteen years. I hate that it makes me feel like a bad person, but I won't forgive that."
"I know. I wouldn't either in your shoes.
I don't... I don't really want a relationship with him.
I don't even know what I want from him," I shrug, stroking my hand up and down her back.
"But I guess if he can put some good out into the world, build an ice rink for this community to use, then that's something. "
Emerald pulls her head back to meet my eye. "Do you think he's actually changed?"
"I guess time will tell."
She frowns at my words, not displeased, just thoughtful, before falling back into my embrace.
"I hope he has," Emerald whispers into my chest, and it sounds like a wish.
I do too.
◆◆◆
I couldn't sleep.
We kissed for a little longer in the bathroom before I carried her into the shower.
The heavy energy of the night my father brought faded into something so light and fun .
I shampooed her hair, my fingers digging into her scalp in that way that made her purr.
I covered her eyes, tilted her head back to rinse out the soap, and then worked on her body.
Using my hands instead of the loofah she had passed to me, I gently washed every inch of my wife.
Then, when she was clean, it was my turn.
Using her hands, Emerald washed me all over, delicate fingers trailing over the scars I've acquired from hockey, from fighting on the ice. My torso is solid, and my old trainer used to say that if anyone tried to give me a hit to the body, it would feel like punching a brick wall.
Emerald's hands danced over my skin, making me hard once more, but I pushed it down. The sex we've been having has been incredible, but this? Feeling connected with my wife again, fully connected, and bared physically and mentally, was indescribable .
Emerald forgives me. She loves me. We're healing.
And yet.
I carried Emerald, murmuring nonsense about carrying my queen around, and pulled one of my t-shirts over her head. I pulled on a pair of flannel pants and slid into bed next to her.
My hands played with her damp hair as we watched television until Emerald drifted off. I was happy she was able to sleep, rest easily, and avoid the nightmares that seemed to be few and far between these days.
Her trauma support therapist said not to fight the feelings because suppression won't help long-term. Work through them; remind her of where she is and who she's with. It's similar to what Dr. Anson says—you don't want to ignore the issue; you want to fill your toolbox so you can manage it.
I couldn't rest, though, the conversation with my father and Ramirez weeks ago, swirling around my head.
The Widower Contingency.
There's been no further development in Rick's case, but there's been an interesting development in the league itself. Other players have been reporting similar harassment from fans that has gone undocumented and unaddressed.
Other WAGs have been sharing their stories online and landed interviews with news outlets, speaking about the misogyny they've experienced from fans of their husbands and some sports journalists.
While multiple news outlets have reached out to my email, we've been advised by Ruby not to speak at this time, as a case is being built against Rick.
Anything we say could compromise a future trial.
But they need to find Rick, and he's seemingly disappeared into thin air. And the longer it takes, the more time he has to get away, which just makes me angrier.
Because how does one single man just slip away from an entire police department? How does one man make enough friends to shield himself behind power? How do people sleep at night knowing they're aiding someone who was planning on profiting off my grief?
As Emerald peacefully slept next to me, I just watched her. She barely moved, her face completely relaxed, mouth slightly parted, giving me a look at those teeth I love so much. The love I have for her feels like it could power an entire grid on its own. Immeasurable and intense.
And I almost lost her.
I know it's not conducive to healing, but I keep lingering on what-ifs.
What if I signed one more autograph? Posed for one more picture? What if I had been asked one more question? What if I had found her dead in that snow? What would my life look like now?
I can't picture it. It's all a blank space. Because there is no me without Emerald.
And I don't think these thoughts are going to go away.
Doyle is going away for a decade for assaulting my wife.
Britney will be sitting in a psychiatric hospital for a long time.
The Bullies franchise is combing through a mountain of bad PR that I think only a change in ownership will fix.
The Boston PD's corrupt officers are being fired left and right, Aisha and Ramirez helping carve out the rot.
The hockey league is taking a closer look at protecting players' partners by assigning additional security and imposing social media safeguards.
All of these are victories, and yet Rick Fox is still out there. Hiding.
The next thing I knew, I was slipping out of bed and grabbing my phone .
Pulling my hoodie over my head, I peek back at Emerald's sleeping form before slipping outside onto the balcony. I stare into the pitch black of the forest, listening to the silence.
My fingers unlock my phone, and I go back into mine and Rick's text messages. Scrolling back to the beginning, I see our correspondence.
Short and abrupt on my end, usually answering his questions about appearances with yes or thumbs-up emojis. Rick's language was always flowery and complimentary, and with fresh eyes, I can see the manipulation clearly.
I'm gonna make you a star, kid.
You are going to be rolling in it.
They love you, hotshot. They want you back for another campaign.
Just tell your wife you're sorry for missing date night. Want me to send her flowers?
This is for your future, she'll understand.
He was fanning the ego I didn't even realize I had grown.
I back out of that and go back to my contacts, looking at the number I kept unblocked.
He answers after the third ring, sounding like I woke him up.
"Hayden—"
"Do you want to help me?"
"Yes," he says eagerly, sounding fully awake now.
"Then find Rick Fox."
Hal is silent for a long moment, but when his voice comes over the line, he sounds a lot like the father I used to know.
"I'll find him, Hayden."