Chapter 13 – Major Penalt
Cheap Shot s
Christmas Morning
Jaxson
As I lie in bed, staring at my phone, it hits me that my obligatory text to Melly never went through this morning. I check again, frowning. The messages haven’t been going out for nearly a week. And now that I think about it, I haven't received a single text from her either.
At first, she texted constantly, but most of the time, I ignored her. Eventually, her messages became about mundane things, like home repairs or paying bills. Nothing personal. Now it's just replies to my daily texts .
I've been avoiding thinking about her altogether. Because doing so makes me feel homesick, I miss her. I'm ashamed of what I've done to us. If I can keep her out of my head, I can live with myself.
From the very beginning, I've stayed blitzed out of my mind to avoid reality. When I'm sober, I feel everything, and not being around her guts me.
Under pressure from friends and groupies, I decided to open my marriage for a while and live a little.
But it wasn't what I expected. I still catch myself looking for her in the stands, but she's no longer there.
She's not waiting in the tunnel after the games to congratulate me as we head home for our own private celebration.
This has become my coping mechanism: partying every night and waking up with Mandy beside me. But today isn't a typical day. It's Christmas. It's Mandy, and her friend, Tessa. I still can't believe Mandy brought Tessa with her. That's not her typical style.
How did I end up here, without Melly on Christmas? She's my family.
An ache I usually manage to drown with alcohol surges in my chest. Nausea rises in my throat, but I fight it back.
That's when I decide to do something I haven't done in months. I send Melly a real text .
Me: I miss you, Melly.
The message just sits there, Sent. I wait. She usually replies instantly, but this time, there's nothing. No Delivered. No response. Just silence.
I type another one.
Me: I love you, Melly.
I hit send.
Still nothing.
My stomach clenches as an empty pit opens inside me. I call her.
It goes straight to a generic voicemail recording.
Leave a message. Beep.
I stare at my phone as I disconnect the call. The screen shifts to a photo of Melly and me, smiling at the camera, taken months ago.
Holy smoke show, she's beautiful. And she's so much more than the jersey chasers I've been wasting time with. What's wrong with me?
I drop the phone on my lap and blow out a breath. Pressing my hand between my pecs. What is this unrelenting pain? It can't just be missing her. It never used to feel like this. Not really. I stay busy drinking and chasing women to keep her off my mind .
So why is it all falling apart now? Why can't I shake this awful sinking feeling that my life is about to burn down?
My stomach twists as I bury my face in my hands, digging in until my cheeks and lips stretch uncomfortably. The pain is hollow and deep. I want to scream, but all I can do is gasp for air as it hits me like a freight train.
I desperately miss my wife.
And… I think she's either avoiding me or has blocked me.
Oh, no! No, no, no, no. I refuse to admit it.
I can't. If this is true, everything I've done for the past four months is putting my marriage at risk.
I'm living under the illusion that I want an open marriage.
But I don't want this at all. I never should have asked for it.
My wife is my one true love, and everything I'm doing could undermine our relationship.
I thought I was missing out and needed to sow my wild oats, convinced that without a double-digit body count, I'm not a real man.
I chased the thrill and attention I got from other women.
But now I realize that, by giving in to my baser desires, I weaken the only real connection I have.
These shallow, meaningless encoun ters only tarnish the special experiences I share with my wife.
What if I've harmed my relationship with her? I haven't actually talked to her in months because of my shame.
But she always replies to my texts, saying that she loves me. Doesn't she?
I grab my phone to check the text thread, only to realize it's gone. I hadn't paid much attention to it in a while, anyway. I'd hear the alert, see it was from Melly, and never even read it.
Now that I think back, were her messages always the same? Is that what the PR team was trying to drill through my thick head in the meetings we had?
I scramble to open the screenshot I took—the one I sent Coach and the PR team to prove I'd kept in touch with her.
As I open the photo, I realize, in horror, that the exact same text from Mellie is repeated , almost as if it were automated, too.
After her last text in September about the final payment to close up the pool, her replies become rote, arriving at the same time each morning, immediately after my preprogrammed message to her.
Me: Morning, Melly. Love you.
Melly: Morning, J. You too !
My gut clinches.
She's been sending automatic responses since late September, three months .
That jabbing pain in my chest feels even deeper. It hurts to think she didn't even send me a real text. It doesn't say, “I love you.” It just says, “You too.”
Then the irony hits me. I started this with automated texts, keeping her at a distance while convincing myself I was staying connected, and now I'm hurt that she matched my energy.
If there's one thing I've always been sure of, it's been Melly's love. Our love. It's been my true north, my anchor, and suddenly, I feel rudderless, adrift.
She's my stay-at-home wife, even though I never make it there anymore. For the past several months, we've been like strangers, really; it's just a place to store my things—my clothes, my car, my toys… and, well, my wife.
Since we agreed to the open marriage, I haven't seen or spoken to Melly except for these texts. I can't really say it's her fault, though. I tend to ignore her when she calls because of my current activities. I'm always busy with hockey and partying.
I don't bother calling her back or returning her messages. The guilt is so heavy to begin with, but I stifle it wit h alcohol and girls. Still, it seems to rear its ugly head anyway, the moment I get a clear thought, like this morning.
I track her by her phone, though, so I know she doesn't go anywhere. She stays right there at home. I guess DoorDash or grocery deliveries are her go-to right now.
Everything shifts, and things become clearer as I finally open my eyes and remove my head from my arse. I feel myself staring down a figurative tether, the soulmate bond that connects Melly and me, but she's no longer there.
This thing I've been doing… I can't even admit to myself what this cluster is.
But it's time to face it. I shouldn't have ever crossed that line with Mandy!
Melly didn't want this. And it doesn't feel right, not anymore, not at all, not like I thought it would.
In reality, I feel heartsick… no, homesick.
I should be with my wife at Christmas. Melly! What the actual heck am I doing?
I know Gord, Melly's dad, texted me telling me to stay away from Melly at Christmas, but I shouldn't have let that sway me.
Honestly, I'm not sure I could've faced her anyway.
Still, I felt more relief than I had any right to when Gord ordered me not to show up.
Now, I realize I needed to fight for her, reach out, and make things right so I could be with her at Christmas.
I look at Mandy, the blonde on the right, and the brunette on my left, both sleeping nude beside me, and the whiskey I drank last night threatens to come up.
I hastily claw my way from under them. Their whining about being disturbed sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Nothing feels right this morning, I think as I barely make it to the toilet in time to throw up.
What was I thinking? How could I have thought that this was a good idea?
I sit my naked butt on the cold tiles and shiver. Draping my head and arms over the bowl, I break out in a clammy sweat. Bile rises again in my throat as a bad feeling sinks in the pit of my stomach.
This wasn't my best idea.
I stand unsteadily, grab one of the hotel robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and put it on. Walking toward the balcony, I pick up the pack of cigarettes on the table and light one. Blowing out the smoke, I open the balcony door and walk out. The icy breeze smells of snow.
I think about Amelia and wonder how I'm going to fix this. Though she's never said a word since the day of our fight when she begrudgingly agreed to an open marriage, I know I did damage. I can see that now.
Leaning with my hands on the banister, I take another deep drag of the cigarette as the door opens behind me. When I turn, I see Mandy walk out wearing nothing but her smile. The brunette follows, also naked. They both saunter up and start tugging at me, slipping the robe from my shoulders.
I put my hands up, one on the shoulder of each girl, and push them back.
“Ladies! I need you to stop.” My voice comes out harsher than I expected, but I don't apologize. I can't do this. Not anymore.
“Come on, Jax,” Mandy whines.
“Yeah, Jax,” the brunette coos. “Wouldn't you like another round?”
“No!” I push them away, firmer this time. “No means no, even if it comes from a man.”
They exchange a look, then burst out laughing.
“Jax, you're so funny, even sober,” Mandy says.
“I thought you were serious for a second,” the brunette adds, giggling.
I keep protesting, but they just laugh, pulling at me, kissing, trying to drag me back inside. Eventually, they g et my robe off, and Mandy tosses it over the balcony.
“Oops,” she says, laughing while the brunette starts climbing up my side like a cat.
“Are you crazy?” I seethe. “It's flippin' cold out here.”
I give up and head back inside, the girls clinging to me like barnacles.
Unbelievable!
Slamming the door behind me, I finally manage to scrape them off. They lie in a giggling heap on the floor. I storm to the bathroom to grab another robe and put it on.
“Jax!” they call out, laughing.
“No,” I snap as I return covered up. “Get out!” I shout at Mandy, pointing toward the door.
Moans and curses come from the sleeping forms scattered across the room.
“Jax,” Mandy soothes, sidling up to me. I shake her off.
“Leave!” I yell in frustration.
“What's your problem, Kingston?” my teammate Rod shouts from the pile of flesh on the other bed.
“I'm done! I want everyone out of here. ”
Soft groans fill the room as bodies begin to stir. The heavy stench of sweat, sex, and alcohol lingers in the air.
Mandy and the brunette glare at me as they gather their clothes from beside the bed.
My stomach churns as I take the bag of clean laundry housekeeping dropped off and retreat to the bathroom.
I strip off the robe, the second robe, and step under the spray, letting the hot water run over me.
As I soap my skin, my gaze drops, and I see bites and marks scattered across my chest. Lingering reminders I can't wash away.
Freakin' fantastic! I finally decide to go home and try to fix things with my wife, and I look like this!
When I leave the bathroom, I take in the trashed motel room.
Before, I'd have looked at this disgusting mess with fond memories of the fun night I'd had.
Not now. Today, I'm ashamed. I don't like what I see.
Every surface is stained with body fluids or spilled alcohol.
There isn't even a clean spot to sit and put on my shoes.
A feeling of disgust settles heavily inside me.
“Kingston,” Rod growls from the bed where he's packing his bag. “What's up with you, man? You look like you're ready to murder someone.”
“I'm heading home,” I snarl .
“You can't, dude, we've got that charity exhibition tonight.”
He's right. There's a special Christmas Day game that several players from different teams agreed to play this afternoon for charity.
Participation wasn't mandatory, but I foolishly signed up.
The PR team encouraged me to do so in an attempt to rehabilitate my image.
But I realize now I only agreed to avoid facing Melly.
There are activities planned all week, and our families are even invited to join us, but I've been too busy pretending everything is fine.
So, the only place I'm going to is the next city. I rub my face roughly and look down at my phone again, dejected.
I've ignored her for this long; what's another day?
Sighing, I pick up my cell phone and try to call Melly again. “Come on, Melly, pick up,” I beg, but it goes straight to voicemail once more.
“What the actual h…” I throw the phone against the wall, shattering it.