Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jason
When Hailey brought up that we lost to Edmonton last time, it felt like a jinx. But we manage to pull out a win.
But I’m exhausted as I drag myself out of the locker room after the game. “We’re all heading out to the Salmon again,” Abernathy says on our way out. “You and Hailey should come.”
“Oh, well, uh …” I start, but he gives me a look and shakes his head.
“No isn’t one of the options, Chalmers,” he says. “Tina’s been counting on this. She made sure the nanny’s on until late tonight. You’re coming.”
“Got it,” I say, forcing a smile. I hope I can convince Hailey, too. Guess we’ll find out in a minute.
When I get out to the area where friends and family are waiting, I pause, scanning the space for Hailey. She’s in her usual spot toward the back, almost in the corner, like she’s not sure she has the right to be here. The thought occurs to me with a mixture of shame and anger.
How does she not realize that I want her here? That she has as much right to be here as Marissa or Maggie or Tina or anyone else? That if I didn’t want her here, she’d have no doubt about that?
Have I not been clear enough?
I guess not. I thought I had, but I’m realizing that my idea of clear communication isn’t enough. At least, not for Hailey. Not with her abandonment issues. Because that’s what this all boils down to, doesn’t it? She’s convinced that everyone will abandon her.
And why wouldn’t she be? Everyone already has.
Her parents checked out when Hunter died.
Every other relationship she’s had has ended.
I barely kept in touch, leaving her to her parents’ neglect.
And now? Our current relationship was initiated with the pretext that it would end eventually.
That it was temporary until she could get back on her feet, then we’d divorce.
And while I never meant that I would pretend she didn’t exist after that, why wouldn’t she assume as much?
Something’s changed, though. Somewhere between her moving here, agreeing to marry me, and now … I stopped wanting to let her go, even once she gets established enough to make it on her own.
Now I just need to figure out a way to convince her of that …
She spots me, and her face lights up for just a second—her usual reaction to seeing me after a game—but she shuts it down just as quickly, her uncertainty taking over.
I hitch up my own smile, though I’m aware it probably looks forced.
It’s just not for the reasons I know she assumes.
Crossing the distance between us, I pull her into a hug and kiss her on the cheek.
I don’t want to risk a kiss on the lips yet.
I’m afraid she’ll react badly. And the fact that I’m worried I’ve forced myself on her is in the back of my mind, and it makes touching her at all feel like I’m crossing invisible boundaries.
We really need to sit down and talk. Unfortunately, that won’t happen tonight. “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice normal. “Everyone’s going out to the Salmon. Apparently Tina has decreed that we all have to go. Are you okay with that?”
“Oh, uh …” Her hesitation makes me quail, but I do my best to maintain a calm facade as she studies my face. “If you want to …”
“It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to sound convincing, though I’m not sure if I manage it. “Like last time. We’ll have a few drinks. I know you’ve been busy lately, so if we need to leave on the early side, we can.”
“Um, yeah, that’s … uh, that should be fine.”
I manage to pull off a more convincing smile, at least I’m assuming so based on the tentative but genuine smile she gives me. “Great. Let’s head to the car. We’ll grab some tables for everyone.”
“O-okay.” I hate that I’ve reduced my usually confident and easygoing Hailey to a stammering, uncertain shell of herself. But I’m determined to make it right. Somehow.
We’re not the first ones to get to the Salmon—Jenkins and Bowman got there first, and they already have drinks. “Chalmers!” they shout when I walk in, Hailey trailing behind me.
I want … I want to hold her hand, but I don’t know how she’d feel about that. And I can’t ask her. Not now. Not here in front of everyone. I was hoping we’d get here first so I could ask, but …
I should’ve asked in the car. I thought about it, but she was talking about the game—nervous babbling, really—and I didn’t want to interrupt her or make her feel like she couldn’t talk. We’ve had so much radio silence that I don’t want to interrupt any communication that spontaneously occurs.
But now I’ve missed my window, and I don’t know how to act.
“Want me to get you a drink?” I ask in a low voice as she claims a seat.
“Oh, uh, yeah. That’d be great.” She asks for the same thing she got last time we were here, and I head to the bar to place our order.
When I get back, she’s chatting with Jenkins and seems relaxed for the first time since I got back the other night.
I claim the seat next to hers, nonchalantly stretching my arm out along the back of her seat.
But when she glances at me, I find a way to pull my arm back, adjusting so I’m leaning forward like I want to participate in the conversation.
That way, it’s not obvious I pulled my arm down in response to her look.
See? This is why I wanted to talk about how I should act with her tonight.
I don’t want to broadcast that there’s trouble in paradise, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and finding the balance between those two extremes is …
more challenging than scoring on the best goalie in the league.
Soon, though, the space fills in, and conversation is flowing across multiple groups of people.
I keep an eye on Hailey, visually checking in with her as I chat with Abernathy, Bowman, and the others as they show up.
But she’s happily in a conversation with Marissa, Jenkins still hanging around the edges.
There don’t appear to be any single women here, which is who he’d usually be going for.
After I finish my first drink, I notice that Hailey only has a little left of hers, so I stand and move to the bar to order us another round, choosing to wait at the bar as Ryan makes her cocktail and gets me a new beer.
As I’m standing there, I feel a hand slide over my shoulder, and I turn, happily expecting to see Hailey. But instead I’m met with long, red nails—Hailey keeps her nails short and unpolished because of the violin—and a woman I don’t recognize. She’s pretty, but she’s not Hailey.
“Hi,” she says, smiling widely. “You’re Jason Chalmers, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” I dip my shoulder, hoping she’ll take the hint and remove her hand, but she doesn’t. “You a fan?” Hopefully she just wants a selfie or maybe an autograph and then will move along.
She laughs lightly. “Oh, yeah. A big fan.”
“Uh, great. Did you want a selfie or an autograph?” I glance at Ryan, who’s watching me and stifling a smile. Widening my eyes, I gesture for a pen, but he pretends he doesn’t know what I want.
“Ohhhh, yes. A selfie would be great. And then you could give me your phone number with that autograph?”
She perches herself practically on top of me, her boobs pressing into my arm as she holds out her phone and snaps a selfie. I can’t even lean away before she snaps it, and I barely manage a smile.
“Now, that phone number?” she asks, holding out her phone to me.
“Drinks are ready,” Ryan says from behind me.
I hold up my hands, clearly refusing her phone. “Sorry. I don’t give out my number to fans. I’m with …” I jerk my head toward the team, and that makes her perk up.
“Oh! Could I come too? I’d love to meet everyone.”
“It’s a private party, ma’am,” Ryan finally jumps in. “Only invited guests are allowed. If you’re going to bother the players, you’ll have to leave.”
She pouts, and I hear her start to argue with him as I grab the drinks and go. When I’m walking back, I find Hailey watching me intently.
Did she see that interaction?
But even if she did, so what? Nothing happened. I took a selfie with a fan—granted, she seems like she’s more a fan of the players than the game—got our drinks, and now I’m coming back.
“Have a nice conversation?” she asks when I return and set her glass in front of her, nodding toward the bar.
“Not particularly.”
“You could, you know,” she says, her voice pitched low so it’s only audible to me.
“What?”
“You could. I mean … if you want to.” She studies me for a second, then looks away, focusing on her drink.
I’m about to respond, let her know that I absolutely don’t want to, and not just because I’m pretty sure Ryan is actively kicking that lady out.
But before I can, she gets up and moves to another table, sitting next to Jenkins and almost immediately laughing at something he says.
Laughing the way she used to laugh for me. Before I fucked up everything.
Why did I have to push her about her parents?
I knew. I knew they were shit. I knew she didn’t want to tell them anything. And yet I felt the need to act like her relationship with her parents is normal.
While we were away, Bouchard was talking about his relationship with his dad, how he severely limits how much he shares with the man because he never has anything positive or encouraging to say.
Even now, with Bouchard a professional athlete, he tries to tell him how to play better.
“We made it to the fucking playoffs,” he spit out over beers after our loss against Edmonton when we played them last. “I’m in a good relationship, and he acts like I’m the sole reason we didn’t win the Stanley Cup last season.
If I talk to him tonight, he’ll say it’s because I’m too distracted.
That I need to break up with Maggie and get my head in the game. ”
“What a bunch of bullshit,” I told him because it so clearly is.
And that was apparently the right thing to say because he clapped a hand on my shoulder and very sincerely said, “Thanks, man. I mean, I know it’s all bullshit? But I listened to him for so long that it’s hard to remember sometimes, you know?”
I nodded, but I don’t really know. Not like that.
My parents have always been unfailingly supportive.
I mean, sure, they’d tell me when I was being stupid.
But it’s because I was genuinely being stupid, not pumping me full of bullshit about how relationships will distract me and keep me from playing to my full potential.
In fact, they’re the opposite. They’ve been hoping I’d find someone for ages, worried that I focused too much on hockey and neglected other areas of my life. That hockey at this level would make it harder to find someone to connect with.
And they’re not wrong. I did make choices, especially when I was younger, focusing on hockey and practicing and drills, but also avoiding close connections because my closest non-family connection died when we were still just kids.
While I’ve moved on in a lot of ways, that changed—and broke—me in ways I’ve never fully recovered from.
Watching Hailey now, I’m filled with a mix of fury and jealousy. Why is she talking to Jenkins like that? He can’t understand her. He doesn’t know what she’s been through. Not the way I do. He won’t take care of her—care about her—the way I do.
She’s my wife. She should be with me.
Standing, I saunter over to where she’s sitting with Jenkins, looking down at them both and sipping my beer. “Got room for me over here?”
I try to keep my voice light, but there must be some undercurrent that even Jenkins picks up on. He glances up at me, the smile on his face fading, and immediately makes room for Hailey to move over so I can fit in the big circular booth too.
Her look is more confused than his. “What are you doing?” she asks, though she does make room for me.
Sitting down, I stretch my arm out behind her, nearly crowding her. “I wanted to sit with my wife.” I lightly emphasize the last two words. “Is that really so strange?”
“Ha. No, man. Not at all,” Jenkins says loud enough that it covers Hailey’s muttered, “Little bit, yeah, actually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
One of her eyebrows lifts. “You don’t have to come over here and stake your claim, Jason.
” She says it in the same tone you use to explain something to a child.
“Everyone here knows I’m taken. But you?
” She shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t let me hold you back from your adoring fans.
” Her eyes flick toward the bar, and I clench my jaw at the implication that there’s any world where I’d choose to be with some random woman rather than with my wife.
I study her, and she returns my gaze coolly. “Should we take off so we can have this out?” I ask just above a whisper.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” she responds just as quietly.
I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t you? You agreed we need to have a conversation.”
Sighing, she seems to slump and withdraw into herself, but after a beat, she nods.
Just once. A nod so slight it’s barely perceptible, and I might’ve second-guessed myself, except she shoos me out of the booth.
“You’re right. Let’s go. We should talk.
And the sooner we get it over with, the better. ”