Chapter 4 – First Perio
Breaking the Ic e
October
Amelia
If I thought Bash would take things slowly, I was sadly (not really) mistaken. I’ve got to admit, Jaxson’s version of affection feels more like he’s just ticking boxes: wake up (? ), brush teeth (? ), text wifey (? ). The friendship Bash offers is… nice.
Do I feel guilty? No, I feel gutted.
At first, I called, texted, and left discreet messages with the team office, but Jaxson never called back.
Within the first few weeks, a woman even answered his cell phone.
She gloated that she had been asleep in their bed while he was in the shower.
Then she told me never to call again. That's when I decided I couldn't put myself through this anymore.
Not because of her, but because wanting to be with him hurt more than letting go. So, I stopped calling.
Clearly, Jaxson has checked out of the marriage, and I'm the one left behind. How long am I supposed to wait for him? Do I even want to wait for him?
The NDA explicitly states that the couple must complete six sessions of marriage counseling and wait until the hockey season ends before either party can file for divorce.
You gotta love a man so arrogant he plans ahead for the problems he creates. He thinks he can smooth things over, that everything will fall back into place. He's delusional. All he's really done is prove to me how little I matter to him, and that won't ever change.
What a messed-up situation I find myself in. I can't even contact my husband. Sure, I could check the team calendar and track him down, but what would be the point? He's already made things crystal clear. If he wanted me, he'd show it.
I almost laugh, thinking of what I'd even say.
Hi, remember me, your wife ?
I caved to his ultimatum, agreed to an open marriage, and even signed an NDA that trapped me like a fool, all because I loved him and hoped he wouldn't go through with it.
Even if I do manage to find him, who knows what I'll uncover? The woman who answered his phone could be a girlfriend, a permanent fixture in his life. I refuse to be humiliated like that. Seeing a steady stream of hook-ups parading in and out of his hotel room isn't something I can stomach.
My hands are tied until the season ends. I'd rather bury my head in the sand, ignore the problem, and try to have some innocent fun with friends.
So, ask me again if I feel guilty. No, I feel like a broken and abandoned plaything just left to gather dust.
When Bash and I exchanged phone numbers that night, we agreed to keep our personal lives separate and anonymous.
I'm not ready for him to know who my husband is.
Some men fangirl over Jaxson as much as women do, and I want to avoid that at all costs.
Otherwise, I'd spend the rest of the time fending off questions about Jaxson or dodging meet-up and autograph requests.
Although I didn't mention the NDA, I still have to consider it. Whatever this thing with Bash is or will be, it needs to stay private and out of the public eye for obvious reasons. I still don't know what his motives are.
We've been texting all week, leading up to our first friend date, and we've decided on Friday. Bash has planned everything while keeping the details from me. I'm not fond of surprises, which makes this a little uncomfortable, but I'll reserve judgment until the evening ends.
I don't want him to know where I live, so when Friday night arrives, we agree to meet at a tucked-away vino lounge to protect our anonymity.
It's an exclusive spot frequented by local celebrities for the privacy and discretion it affords.
Comforted by that thought, I'm not worried about being recognized.
I pull up my coat collar against the wind as I step out of the car.
When I walk into the softly lit place, there's a moment when everything behind me slips away. It's as if I've shed my pain and stepped into another world that's charming, soothing, and inviting .
The spot is cozy and intimate, the kind of place you can slip quietly into your own world.
Soft jazz plays in the background, and the booths are secluded and warm, bathed in dim light.
Dark cherry shelves lined with old wine bottles add a subtle elegance.
Patrons lean toward each other, sharing whispers and confidences, as if there's an unspoken understanding that no one is listening.
And since I have nothing to hide, it feels… almost freeing.
Bash is already seated, relaxed, like he's been waiting for me patiently. He smiles and stands when he sees me across the room at the hostess desk. Gesturing, he points to the empty seat next to him.
“I hope you don't mind,” he says as I walk up, “but I already ordered for us. I wanted to make sure I stuck to the plan and kept all the details a surprise.” He grins bashfully, his dimple popping out.
“I don't mind,” I sigh, settling into the booth. “Actually, I appreciate not having to make any decisions tonight.”
The drink list is extensive, but Bash ordered us a mocktail tasting because he remembered I don't drink alcohol. The selection includes a crisp Elderberry Spritz, a citrusy Mint Jubilee, and a decadent Chocolate Mocktini .
Next, the waiter brings a shareable charcuterie board with delicate slices of cured meats, creamy goat cheese, and tender mushrooms. Crunchy crostini and marinated olives add texture, while a small selection of fresh fruit brightens the board.
On the side, hummus and tapenade come with pita and colorful vegetables.
“This looks fantastic,” I exclaim, scooping a bit of everything onto a plate, eager for a taste.
“Mmhmm,” he hums in agreement, eyeing me with a smirk as he fills his own plate.
The conversation with Bash flows surprisingly easily as we devour the food and enjoy the drinks. I find myself drawn to his genuine personality and easy banter.
“Which taster is your favorite?” he asks guilelessly.
“Hands-down the Chocolate Mocktini,” I concede quickly.
“Of course!” he chuckles. “Girls love chocolate.”
“I don't like being lumped in with other women,” I bite, my voice sharper than I intend, my eyes flashing.
I realize it's not Bash I'm angry at. It's everything else.
The culmination of months of Jaxson's distance, of feeling invisible, of knowing he's chasing other women.
It hits me viscerally, leaving me unmoored and adrift, raw in a way I can't easily shake .
“I'm sor—,” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“No, it's me who should apologize. I'm sorry for being so touchy. Forgive me?” I lower my head and look up into his eyes with remorse.
“Sure,” he replies, flashing that darn dimple with his smile.
After leaving the vino lounge, I drive separately and follow Bash's directions, parking a few feet from the building we're headed to.
The warehouse before me is massive, rising high against the night sky.
Its grey, corrugated metal siding is intentionally tagged with bold graffiti, including split-in-half hearts, oversized XOs, and sledgehammers.
A neon sign blinks above the door— Total Wrecklamation.
Break Stuff When You Feel Broken or Just Because.
My nerves ease when I see it's in a surprisingly active area. Bright lights illuminate the entrance, and two security guards chat casually with visitors as they enter. In some way, it makes the place feel safer.
A figure approaches my car. Bash, walking up to the driver's side window, taps on the glass and gives me a small wave. I roll it down, and he smiles .
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yep. Let's do this."
After stepping into the lobby, I'm immediately reminded of a movie theatre.
The rich smell of buttered popcorn makes my mouth water, even though I'm already full.
A concession stand and ticket booth stretch along the back wall, with seating at the center.
Digital panels line the walls, each cycling through photos and video clips of the rooms in various stages of destruction, from untouched to completely obliterated.
The footage shifts to show groups in hard hats, face shields, and heavy-duty coveralls, unleashing their frustrations on furniture, electronics, and anything else unlucky enough to be in their path. At the bottom of each screen, the room's punny name and theme flash in bright neon.
Wide corridors run the length of the building to the left and right of the concessions. Neon signs hang from the ceiling in each hallway, leading to the ten rooms, with five on each side.
Guests mill about, grabbing snacks from the concession stand, settling at tables, and weaving in and out of the bathrooms. Others purchase tickets or head toward the rooms, safety gear in hand. The atmosphere buzzes with life, a low hum of conversation and laughter filling the space.
I step closer to the screens, reading through the descriptions. The first one, Return to Sender, is a breakup-themed room with the tagline: Leave your EXcess baggage here.
The image shows a room filled with mementos, from plushies and trinkets to other sentimental items. It's a space designed for you to purge the ghosts of your past relationships.
You bring your own keepsakes and let it all out.
Rip up love letters, stomp gifts, torch wedding albums. Almost anything is fair game.
There's even the option of wrecking your wedding dress with scissors, paint, mud, or whatever feels satisfying.
A modern hooded fire pit with a chimney vented through the exterior sits near an outer wall, where flames devour what remains and send smoke laced with old regrets out into the night.
Hmmm, interesting concept. Does that include gasoline? I think sarcastically.