happened—”
Seriously?
“—but come on. We’ll get you some help, get some therapy or whatever. I’ll go with you. Then it’ll be good. You and me. My number’s the same, I’m sure you still have it. Call me.”
The click signaled the end of the bullshit. She stood, rooted to the spot, staring at that hateful thing she now had to get rid of…her answering machine.
No, that was too drastic. But still, she longed to just sweep the entire machine into the trash can and leave it there to rot. She focused on breathing in deeply and letting it out in a slow, controlled stream. She told her body to relax muscle by muscle. Her shoulders had locked up and there was this throbbing at the base of her skull.
Dax. The son of a bitch.
With calm, controlled motions, she went to the phone and stared at the blinking message. Then she took a deep breath and hit the “delete all” button. She sighed with relief when the display showed zero messages. But it wasn’t enough. So she unplugged the phone, wrapped the cord around the base and left it on the counter, useless.
There. Much better.
She plodded up the stairs, into the bathroom, and threw up the celebratory dinner she’d shared with the team. Her stomach protested the abuse it had suffered in the past twenty-four hours. She indulged her weak side for a moment and cried on the cool tile floor. Then she forced herself to clean up and move on.
Even without talking directly to him, Dax made her feel like crap. The man was like kryptonite to her confidence. Even the hint of him and she started to feel ill.
No, don’t get down. Get angry. That’s what had helped her break away in the first place, start the healing process. Anger, and a damn good therapist.
She flipped the lights to her bedroom, changed out of her coaching outfit—jeans and a red polo shirt with Northeastern’s name and mascot embroidered on the front breast pocket—and slipped into yoga pants and a stretch tank. As she yanked clothes off and on, she started to categorize all of Dax’s faults, hoping that would make her feel better.
He spoke down to her, constantly, as if she were four years old. She couldn’t order a freaking salad in a restaurant without him making some stupid comment on her choice. Too much cheese, not enough protein. That dressing is all wrong for the flavor combination. Nothing was right, and if she came close to being what he wanted, she was rewarded with the proverbial pat on the head.
He was forever waving his NHL career in everyone’s face. He used it to get in to hot spots, to get out of traffic tickets, to pick up women or just as a conversation piece. His pro career was his calling card, his “thing,” as he used to say. Why not play it up?
Her own time in the pros was, as he reminded her, insignificant and almost embarrassing. While she was still playing, he asked her to not mention her pro status to people he introduced her to. Too pathetic, and no point in mentioning it if she wasn’t the best. Why didn’t she just quit and move in with him and be there when he came home from practices and road games like the other girlfriends and wives?
When he didn’t get his way, he was manipulative, or at times scary. He never hit her, no. But he knew how to use his size as a weapon, and he had no qualms about throwing it around for intimidation. How she ever could have fallen for a man who could treat a woman like a verbal punching bag, like a nonentity, was beyond her.
And maybe worst of all…her parents loved him. He was just the type of high-powered, high-profile athlete they thought she should be seen with. Probably because they didn’t know he had a hand in her quitting tennis. All right, so that wasn’t really his fault. She walked back downstairs to grab her yoga mat from behind the couch. But it was definitely not a point in his favor.
Two years after leaving the golden goalie of the NHL, she could look back with perspective. He had been emotionally
Seriously?
“—but come on. We’ll get you some help, get some therapy or whatever. I’ll go with you. Then it’ll be good. You and me. My number’s the same, I’m sure you still have it. Call me.”
The click signaled the end of the bullshit. She stood, rooted to the spot, staring at that hateful thing she now had to get rid of…her answering machine.
No, that was too drastic. But still, she longed to just sweep the entire machine into the trash can and leave it there to rot. She focused on breathing in deeply and letting it out in a slow, controlled stream. She told her body to relax muscle by muscle. Her shoulders had locked up and there was this throbbing at the base of her skull.
Dax. The son of a bitch.
With calm, controlled motions, she went to the phone and stared at the blinking message. Then she took a deep breath and hit the “delete all” button. She sighed with relief when the display showed zero messages. But it wasn’t enough. So she unplugged the phone, wrapped the cord around the base and left it on the counter, useless.
There. Much better.
She plodded up the stairs, into the bathroom, and threw up the celebratory dinner she’d shared with the team. Her stomach protested the abuse it had suffered in the past twenty-four hours. She indulged her weak side for a moment and cried on the cool tile floor. Then she forced herself to clean up and move on.
Even without talking directly to him, Dax made her feel like crap. The man was like kryptonite to her confidence. Even the hint of him and she started to feel ill.
No, don’t get down. Get angry. That’s what had helped her break away in the first place, start the healing process. Anger, and a damn good therapist.
She flipped the lights to her bedroom, changed out of her coaching outfit—jeans and a red polo shirt with Northeastern’s name and mascot embroidered on the front breast pocket—and slipped into yoga pants and a stretch tank. As she yanked clothes off and on, she started to categorize all of Dax’s faults, hoping that would make her feel better.
He spoke down to her, constantly, as if she were four years old. She couldn’t order a freaking salad in a restaurant without him making some stupid comment on her choice. Too much cheese, not enough protein. That dressing is all wrong for the flavor combination. Nothing was right, and if she came close to being what he wanted, she was rewarded with the proverbial pat on the head.
He was forever waving his NHL career in everyone’s face. He used it to get in to hot spots, to get out of traffic tickets, to pick up women or just as a conversation piece. His pro career was his calling card, his “thing,” as he used to say. Why not play it up?
Her own time in the pros was, as he reminded her, insignificant and almost embarrassing. While she was still playing, he asked her to not mention her pro status to people he introduced her to. Too pathetic, and no point in mentioning it if she wasn’t the best. Why didn’t she just quit and move in with him and be there when he came home from practices and road games like the other girlfriends and wives?
When he didn’t get his way, he was manipulative, or at times scary. He never hit her, no. But he knew how to use his size as a weapon, and he had no qualms about throwing it around for intimidation. How she ever could have fallen for a man who could treat a woman like a verbal punching bag, like a nonentity, was beyond her.
And maybe worst of all…her parents loved him. He was just the type of high-powered, high-profile athlete they thought she should be seen with. Probably because they didn’t know he had a hand in her quitting tennis. All right, so that wasn’t really his fault. She walked back downstairs to grab her yoga mat from behind the couch. But it was definitely not a point in his favor.
Two years after leaving the golden goalie of the NHL, she could look back with perspective. He had been emotionally
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