Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
BETTSY
T-minus three days. That’s all we’ve got until the playoff finals.
Everyone’s still pretty chill—probably because the reality hasn’t sunk in yet—but Johnny’s already in mother hen mode. He’s flapping around his apartment, clucking over us like we’re chicks in a coop, making sure we’re fed, watered, and mentally ready for war.
We’re all sitting in his living room, crammed in tightly as we watch a replay of last week’s quarter final, trying to understand our mistakes, our weaknesses and, most importantly, how we can tighten our game.
“See this here,” Prez says, pointing to the slot on Johnny’s flatscreen. “This is where we need to speed up our backcheck.”
“And this,” Johnny says, pointing to the trapezoid on the paused frame, “is where we need to watch our positioning.”
I know Johnny’s talking specifically to our third line D, but I nod along and mumble in agreement as his eyes sweep across the room .
Lead by example. That’s what he’s expecting for this weekend. And since I’m a rare entity, sitting on the first pairing with Johnny, this is something I’m keen to deliver.
See, Brits rarely get the ice time they’re so desperate for when the talent pool is full of seasoned imported players. I know my place is something I need to keep grafting for. Hard work and hustle. Head down. Eyes sharp and?—
My phone vibrates against my leg and once I make sure Johnny is busy with the TV, I slip my hand in and pull my phone out of my pocket—not all the way, just enough so I can check the screen.
Ellie.
I tap the screen to open her message, flicking my attention back to Johnny and Prez to check the coast is clear.
Ellie
Can you talk?
I reach for the cushion wedged between me and Danny, trying to make out I’m getting myself comfortable so I can pull my phone out properly. I angle myself so I can shield the screen.
Bettsy
Just in a video review with the team. You okay?
Ellie
Just need to talk to you.
Ah, shit.
What does that even mean? Is it the same as ‘ we need to talk’ ? Because that never leads to a positive conversation .
My gut twists and I wonder if I’m about to see my last meal for a second time.
Did I say something? Did I not say something? Shit—did I forget her birthday? No, no … that’s in June. So, what?—
“—but Bettsy will tell you that,” Johnny says, with a half-grin. “Ask him how many blocked shots he’s racked up this month.”
Heads swivel in my direction.
“I—uh, quite a few,” I say, tearing my eyes away from my phone.
There’s a ripple of hushed amusement.
Johnny frowns, then raises a brow, offering me a ‘I knew you weren’t listening’ look, but the panic rises in my chest, making it difficult for me to care.
Need to talk to you.
I check my phone again, wondering if she’s followed up but there’s nothing.
I tap out a reply.
Bettsy
Is everything okay?
I watch the three little bouncing dots as she types. My heart somersaulting in my chest.
Then things go from bad to worse when her reply comes through.
Ellie
Just call me when you can, please.
This is it. Our game of happy families is over. Done. Finito .
It’s always the case, right? If something’s too good to be true, then it probably is. And this type of stuff always happens to me .
A dull, heavy ache fills my chest and as my thoughts spiral, the conversation around me turns to travel, and the plans for the evening before the finals kick off.
Someone mentions visiting a health club. Hot tub, sauna, full on tranquil environment. Someone else mentions a few hands of poker. Typically, I’d be suggesting both, but I can’t think of either of those things right now; there’s no way I can drag my fate out any longer.
I need to call her.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I say to the room, prying myself away from Johnny’s sofa.
Danny says something in reply, but I don’t register it. Instead, I hurry towards the front door of Johnny’s apartment, ducking out into the hallway.
I take a breath, then press my phone to my ear, the dial tone pulsing like a countdown, mocking me.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is, uh … everything okay, Kitch?” I say.
My voice comes out shaky—an octave too high, too uncertain.
I grip my phone tighter, pacing the narrow stretch of carpet outside Johnny’s place, waiting for her to answer. Praying she lets me down gently.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Mike?”
Ah, shit.
My heart stutters. She knows something.
I freeze, suddenly unsure which secret she’s found. The certificate? The visit to Greg? Both?
Unless she’s testing me.
I feel that familiar burn of panic in my chest, and without thinking, I fall into old habits.
Default to joker. Default to safe. If I pretend everything’s fine, maybe my world won’t come crashing down.
“Is there anything you want to tell me ?” I aim for light and playful, buying myself time .
She sighs, then a heavy silence sits on the line.
“Actually … yeah. There is,” she says.
My mouth drops open as I try to process her words.
Wait … what?
“It’s been on my mind for a while and I’ve sort of been hoping that it’ll go away, but you keep mentioning it and?—”
“Kitch, what’s going on?” I ask, resuming my pacing.
“You know the whole ‘hashtag justice for Bettsy’ thing?” She pauses. “Well, it was me. I started it.”
I stop dead. Halting mid-step, my phone pressed against my ear like I’m frozen in time.
Well, shit the actual bed.
“Mike?” she says.
Her voice echoes through the line, and I take a full second to reboot.
Then I burst out laughing.
“Good one, Kitch.”
“I’m serious,” she says.
“But—but that stuff kicked off before you and I?—”
“I know,” she says.
“But you were?—”
“I know.”
“So, you?—”
“I couldn’t stand sitting back and watching everyone latch on to the crap Rochelle was saying. It wasn’t right.”
I try to piece it all together because this?—
“Wow.”
That’s all I can manage.
She was out there defending me in secret. Quietly. Fiercely.
My chest aches, but differently now. Like there’s a big Ellie-shaped hug wrapped around me from the outside in.
“Mike? Say something, please? You’re not angry … are you?”
But as I try to comprehend my feelings, I realise I’ve never been less angry about anything … ever.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too,” she replies.
“No, you don’t understand,” I say. “Like, I really love you.”
“Mike—”
“I do.”
I let out a shaky breath—and it’s only then I realise I’m crying. A hot tear sliding down my cheek.
She’s quiet for a moment before she clears her throat.
“I know you do,” she says. “Which is why I know you’re going to tell me what’s going on. It’s your turn to start talking.”