Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
ELLIE
He’s barely said more than a few sentences all morning, and absolutely nothing since we got into my car. He normally glances over at me while driving, but he hasn’t looked my way at all. All he does is stare at the road ahead, his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel at ten and two.
I turn my head to look at him again, trying to assess the expression on his face—is he pissed off?
Upset? Anxious? I mean, they won both games on the weekend, so I don’t think it’s that.
Could it be something to do with Team GB?
Or is this something completely unrelated to hockey? Is it me? Did I do—or not do—something?
Oh, my God … did he work out that it’s me behind the hashtag?
“Mike? Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods. Keeping his attention on the road ahead.
Okay, time for plan ‘B’.
“Kelly’s been teaching me about hockey,” I say, trying my ‘casual conversation’ approach. “I still don’t think I have a firm grasp on the delayed penalty thing, though. ”
I pick a topic I know he’ll have an opinion on, but he says nothing. His jaw remains tight—clenched in an emotion I finally pick out as nervous.
What’s he nervous about?
“She explained the referee can delay any penalty, technically, by letting play continue until the opposing team loses possession.”
Still nothing. Not even a comedic gasp of shock that I’ve remembered and relayed a hockey fact.
“She said that due to the fast pace of the game and how quickly the opposing team usually gains possession or clears the puck, delayed penalties are rare in the grand scheme of things. Refs whistle most penalties because the opposing team usually ‘touches up’ soon after the call.”
Nada.
“Don’t you think ‘touching up’ is a weird concept? Because you can’t actually touch the puck, right? I mean, not unless it’s flying through the air and you catch it to throw it back down…”
… nothing.
“But what I find most interesting is that you get sent to the box for like an adult time-out and …” He keeps his focus forward—still grasping the wheel tightly… still ignoring me. This is very much not Mike. Something is wrong and I need to know what it is so I can help.
“Mike? Are you listening to me?” I say.
“Yeah, of course.”
But he still refuses to look at me.
“Right, I’m done,” I say. “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? You’ve never been this quiet before—I usually can’t get a word in edgeways.”
He exhales. “Do you want a brew or anything? There are services coming up.”
“No, I don’t want a brew. I want you to tell me what’s going on. ”
He flicks down the indicator switch with his ring finger. A single swipe down before his hand reverts to ‘ten’. Then he checks his mirror, a brief glance in my direction, but only because he has to.
He pulls off the motorway, meandering on the single-track road to the parking area where he finds a spot at the farthest point from the entrance, cutting the engine.
“Kitch,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “I?—”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. This feels like a moment relived. Except that time we were on the forecourt of a petrol station, and I was in the driving seat. “You’re not going to ask me to go along with another wild idea of yours, are you?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Then—”
“If you knew something about someone doing something or someone they shouldn’t be doing … would you tell someone about the something?”
Mike shifts in his seat.
“If I knew something about someone doing something or someone they shouldn’t be doing…” I repeat. “Do you know something about someone, Mike?”
He groans. It’s the type of frustrated, deflated groan that makes me want to comfort him.
I reach out for his hand, clasping it in my own.
“Yeah,” he says, looking down at our intertwined fingers. “Yeah, I do … and—I…” He looks at me. The first time in what feels like forever. There’s a fear in his eyes—like what he’s about to tell me is going to change things and he’s not sure how I’ll react.
“Mike?”
“I think you know by now I—uh, I love you, right? Like I really love you. And I know we’ve not been together together for long, but I feel it in here…” He uses his free hand to rub his chest, right where the branding of his team logo sits on his hoodie. “…like I feel it and… ”
“I know,” I say. I unclip my seatbelt and lean over the centre console to wrap my arms around him. “I love you, too.”
“You do?” he says.
“Of course, I do. I mean…” I break off, leaning back to look at him because there’s more to this; his expression is still just as stoney … still just as tense.
“Sweetheart … I don’t want to hurt you or anything,” he says. “And I know things aren’t good with you and Kathryn at the moment, but if you make up and then?—”
“Mike? What’s going on?”
“Your sister’s been cheating on Greg,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you and it’s been fucking eating away at me and?—”
“What?” I say. “How—I, what?”
“I thought you should know because it’s not right, is it? I mean, I know this Greg guy sounds like a complete ass, but no one deserves that. No one.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I say. “Kathryn’s cheating? With who?”
“Rick Langdon. I saw them at the hotel together. You know, the one we were staying at for the Team GB stuff … and I thought I recognised her, but I haven’t seen your sister in such a long time I?—”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I guess it makes sense. I mean, it’s just something she’d do, right? Sleep with her fiancé’s best man.”
I let the words float in the air as I wait for something … anything to make sense. I wait to feel—to feel angry, upset, deceived, but instead of those things … I burst out laughing. A hard laugh that comes right from my stomach, causing my eyes to water.
Because the whole thing is just … Kathryn . Snide and vindictive. And completely Kathryn .
“Kitch—”
I’m in hysterics, cackling in a way that has me gasping for air while Mike watches on in confused-horror. Like he wants to join in but doesn’t at the same time.
“Kitch?”
“You know why this is so funny?” I ask once I’ve composed myself. “Because it isn’t funny at all, really.”
“Do you think we should tell Greg?” Mike asks. “Because I’ve been cheated on before and?—”
“No,” I say.
“No?”
“No. Because he won’t believe us. He’s so invested in whatever him and Kathryn have, he won’t believe us—well, he won’t believe me, anyway. He’ll assume I’m trying to sabotage their wedding.”
Mike nods. “I guess that makes sense. Ruined nail polish and a wedding? What’s next for Eleanor Kitchener?”
“Eleanor Betts,” I say.
Mike stares at me, a flicker of something in his eyes before he breaks out into a smile, though only for a second before his face falls.
“What?” I say.
“This is?—”
“Is it too much? I mean, I don’t have to use it, I?—”
“No, no, it’s not that.” He reaches for my other hand, pulling me closer to him and planting a kiss on my lips. Heat ripples through me. “I really like it … like, I really fucking like it. But, my mam called…”
“Yeah?”
“She’s been up in the attic, and she found my old paperwork and boxes and stuff.”
I lean back to look at him. “Oh, my God. Do you know if?—”
“No, no. And neither does she. She said she’s brought them down and put them in the spare room, ready for when I can visit and look. I take it as a kick up the ass. No more hanging back.”
“Right.” I look down at our hands. Our rings .
“Hey,” he breaks his right hand free, placing his index finger under my chin and lifting my head, meeting my eyes. “We said that we’ll deal with whatever it is, yeah? And it doesn’t have to change anything, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Now let’s get a brew.”