Chapter 5
Chapter Five
BETTSY
“Did your friend find you?” Hutch asks.
He pops up from the sofa when I enter our apartment.
He’s in exactly the same place he was when I left him this morning, sprawled out, and sinking into a box set marathon.
Today is a non-practice day, which means Hutch has morphed into lazy mode, apart from a run he likely has planned for later this evening, because he’s weird like that.
I head straight for the dining table, grabbing my laptop before striding into the kitchen, where I set it down on the breakfast bar.
“I need a drink,” I say. “Do you need a drink?”
Hutch stares at me, then watches on as I grab a whisky glass from the kitchen cupboard before rooting for a bottle of whatever I can find. I have a feeling there’s a rogue half of a bottle of something at the back of the cupboard from Christmas.
“Shit, what’s going on?” he says.
I find a bottle of whisky, dust off the cap and the liquor hits the glass and then my throat in less than five seconds. I slam the tumbler down on the worktop then I flip open the lid of my computer—pouring myself another drink while I wait for it to boot up.
“What’s going on?” Hutch says again, getting to his feet. “Did something happen?” He walks over to the counter and leans against it, trying to make eye contact with me.
I do everything in my power to avoid him, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and focusing on my laptop instead.
“Shit—she didn’t tell you that you’ve fathered a child, did she?” Hutch says.
I huff in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake. Why does everyone think I’m going around getting people pregnant? No.”
“What then? Who was she? Because you’ve never headed straight for the bottle before … except when—shit. It was Rochelle faking an accent, wasn’t it? Oh, mate. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It wasn’t Rochelle,” I say, genuinely relieved it wasn’t.
Whatever shit Ellie brought to my door is nothing compared to the crap from Rochelle in the past.
Hutch continues to watch me as I log onto to my computer, and as I pull up a browser, his glare intensifies.
I let my fingers hover over the keyboard, but I type nothing. I don’t even know where to begin. This morning, I was going about my business, worrying about the next couple of weeks with Team GB and now, I’m sitting here wondering if I’m married or not.
Fucking married. I mean … I’m not sure I actually believe it.
Maybe this is all one big joke to add to the shit storm I’m already in. Things happen that way, don’t they? Everything in threes. Which means there’s something else about to rear its ugly head.
I look at Hutch, still gaping at me, I quickly decide this is not something I want to get into right now. Not until I know it’s legit—and even then, I’ll have to consider if I want anyone finding out .
I can hear the guys now… ‘Bettsy the fuck up’… ‘Bettsy’s done something crazy again’… ‘Typical, Bettsy’.
Hutch dips his head. “You don’t look good, mate. In fact, you look?—”
I force my best fake smile as I cut him off. “Nah. Everything’s fine.”
“Who was the girl then?”
“Just an old friend. She was just passing and wanted to say hi.”
“So why the…” He looks at the clock on the oven, “… early drink?”
I’m already primed with a reply. “Hair of the Dog. Keen to get rid of the hangover and this fucking headache. Hey … speaking of headaches, guess who Johnny has marked for the other defensive slot?”
I mentally pat myself on the back for diverting the conversation.
“Go on…” Hutch says.
“Langer.” I fix my eyes on the screen of the laptop and dance over the keyboard with my fingers, typing his name in.
Hutch winces. “Patrick Langdon? I guess that answers my next question…” He flicks a glance towards my laptop. “So, I guess you need to make sure you’re in a good place for prelims?”
“Yeah … he reckons Sean Knowles is in too, but let’s face it…”
Hutch scoffs, breaking my flow, before launching into a speech about keeping your enemies close, and I’m grateful for the distraction actually.
Before I left Johnny’s apartment earlier, Cap was adamant that I spend some time reviewing footage of Langer with an aim to understand his weaknesses, and now with Hutch watching me, I’m forced to do just that. I guess if Johnny asks, Hutch can vouch for me.
I pull up a clip from his most recent game and hit play, forcing myself to stare at the screen, hoping I can distract myself completely with the playback .
Focus on Langer, Betts. Focus.
“God, I didn’t realise how much of a goon he is,” Hutch says, peering at my screen.
Focus, Bettsy.
I observe the way he plays the puck, how he always plays further forward than his pairing, his blue-line presence on the forecheck, and how he …
“I think we’re married, Mike. And you knew about it…”
I study the way he works the corner—not overly a strong point for him, that’s for sure, and how he looks slow to pivot…
“I’ve had that document for eight years, Mike. Eight years…”
“—and that’s all you can do.” Hutch taps the screen, and I shake my head, trying to push Ellie’s voice away.
“Huh?”
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” he says.
“I, uh … I think I need to take a lay down,” I say, snapping my laptop shut.
Hutch stares at me before nodding. “Look, mate. I know it’s stressful, but you’ll be great—you know you’re better than him, right?”
“I—thanks. It’s just a bit … I don’t know. I feel a bit stressed and overwhelmed, I guess. Maybe I need to take some time to myself, you know, clear my head a bit.”
“That sounds like a great idea. You get your head down and I can help you prep when you’re feeling up to it,” he says.
I stand up and grab my laptop, tucking it under my arm before retreating to the safety of my bedroom. And if Hutch’s got any sense, he’ll assume I’m going for a tug and not bother me for a while.
After I settle myself down on my bed and pull up my social media accounts, quickly checking my message requests.
I skim through all the crap before finding Ellie on the list—at least I assume it’s her because despite her name being her name, the profile picture isn’t the one I remember from the last time I went snooping.
Instead of a photo of a silhouetted figure on the beach, it’s a logo for some sort of beauty salon back in my hometown.
I click on the profile and have a peek, taking my time to dig through her life—what’s available to the public eye, anyway.
I definitely didn’t get the correct profile last time. Not only are there photos of Ellie in the depths of a shared album that I would have noticed if I’d looked at the correct profile. The other one said she was engaged—this one says ‘single’, and I scoff at the irony.
Navigating back to my cluttered inbox, I click into her message and tap the ‘accept’ button.
Ellie
Hey, Mike. I know this is random, but please, could you text me? It’s urgent.
She’s dropped her number underneath, and I stare at it for a moment, wondering if I should call her, try to reason with her. But instead, I save it in my contacts and open a fresh browser.
Married.
The word floats in my head—almost in big neon lights, highlighted by my monumental cock-up.
I’m restless and I can’t figure out where to start, so I launch into procrastination mode, pulling up some porn to distract myself, only to close it a second later.
I’m not in the mood. I’m not in the mood for anything. I feel like I’m stuck in a state of limbo where the path forward is muddy and uncertain.
No matter how hard I try, my conversation with Ellie creeps back in, determined to not let me forget.
“Then why the hell did you ghost me? ”
But I didn’t. My phone didn’t work properly while I was out in Germany, and when I got back, I texted her several times.
I texted her. I know I did. And if I remember rightly, I called her too, only to be told to ‘never call this number again’.
It was that phone call which put me off knocking on her door, and since we didn’t have school together anymore …
I sigh. Tossing my laptop aside and lay back on my bed, running over the conversation again.