Forever Pucked (15 page)

I haven’t been alone with him since the morning of the game. I worry that our disagreement over my continued commitment to my job may indirectly contribute to his on-ice stress.

Guilt is my biggest enemy right now. And it’s making me want to eat a lot of dairy, which is a seriously bad idea. I hope being at home will make Alex feel more normal. And me. He’s been quiet ever since he got the news that he’s out for the rest of the season. I’m nervous about how he’s going to manage that information once it sinks in fully.

For all these reasons, and probably a few more, I’m not expecting anything beave-tastic when I get to the bedroom. Alex tires easily, and he’s still in pain, partly because they’re weaning him off the super-awesome pain meds. He still has the extra potent Tylenol and a prescription anti-inflammatory, but it’s got nothing on what they were shooting into him while he was hooked up to the machines.

When I enter the room, Alex is lying sideways on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Can I run you a bath?”

His eyes flip to mine. “You gonna join me?”

“If you want me to.”

His gaze drifts down my body and back up. “That’d be nice. My mom usually takes a long time when she gets groceries.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“I’ll set up the tub, then?”

“Sounds good.”

I try, again, to tell my beaver to calm down. Alex is in no condition for a monster cock ride, but the drooling has already commenced. She’s like Pavlov’s dog; any potential MC contact gets her all excited.

I run the water, throwing in some Epsom salts to help manage the aches. When the tub is half full, I strip out of my clothes and return to the bedroom to get Alex.

His eyes are closed. At first I think he’s just resting, but then I note his chest rising and falling evenly. The physical and mental toll this is taking on him is unfathomable. I return to the bathroom and turn the water off so the tub doesn’t overflow. Then I pad across the floor, shivering as I climb into bed with him. I pull the covers over me and snuggle up to his side.

Neither of us slept particularly well in the hospital, and I’m happy to be back in our king bed with our nice sheets and my favorite pillow. I don’t close my eyes; I just watch him, grateful that he’s okay enough to be lying next to me.

It’s in this moment that I realize the only future I want is one with him in it. My fears about doing something stupid at our wedding can be managed. This job I cling to isn’t nearly as important as he is. Nothing is. And that’s a scary thing to come to terms with, because all of this could have gone so much differently.

I could’ve lost him.

I decide that the next time the wedding is mentioned, we’ll pick a date. And we can start to plan. I don’t want my fear getting in the way of my future.

-&-

Eventually I must stop staring at Alex’s profile and fall asleep, because I have nightmares about the trip to the hospital. I’m running, but I can never seem to get close enough to touch him, and all my screams are silent.

I’m woken by gentle shaking. “Violet, honey?”

I pry my eyes open. Light pours in through a slight gap in the curtains. Alex is lying beside me, lines creasing his forehead, jaw clenched. His tension never leaves him, even in sleep.

I roll over to find Daisy smiling sadly at me. “I think you were having a bad dream.”

My face feels damp. I lift a hand and skim my cheek. It’s wet.

“Would you like me to let you go back to sleep?” She sweeps wet hairs away from my face. “I know you must be exhausted.”

I check the clock. It’s four in the afternoon. Even though I’m not going to work tomorrow, if I keep sleeping, I’ll be up all night.

I shake my head and crawl out from under the covers. Daisy’s eyes go wide. Which is when I remember I got into bed naked. I scramble to pull the covers back over me.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Poor Daisy’s cheeks are red as she scurries out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Shit. I flashed my mother-in-law. She saw my naked beaver. I’m embarrassed, but it’s not really all that huge a surprise, considering my propensity for self-humiliation. I’m careful not to jostle Alex as I get up again, creep over to my dresser, and throw on some leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt.

When I get downstairs, Daisy’s in the kitchen, busy chopping fresh vegetables. She’s found the only apron I own, which features a picture of Alex’s hot body in a pair of boxers. I wonder if she knows she’s wearing her son’s torso.

She looks up from the head of broccoli she’s started on and gives me a bright smile, like I didn’t flash her my beaver moments ago. “We’ll let Alex sleep until dinner?”

“Sure.” I stand in the middle of Alex’s kitchen, which is also my kitchen, at a loss. “Can I help?”

“I bought a few bottles of wine. The whites are in the fridge. Why don’t you pick one and pour us each a glass?”

“Okay.” I open the fridge and find Daisy’s stocked us with serious groceries. It’s loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables and the wholegrain bread Alex likes—the stuff with all the seeds and nuts in it, like someone dumped in a box of granola and messed up perfectly good food. Daisy’s also picked up a loaf of enriched white Wonder bread and a brick of lactose-free cheese. For me. Three bottles of white wine line the middle shelf, all my favorites.

I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Which has kind of been the way of things for the past few days. Daisy always tries to be helpful. And she also likes to be heavily involved in her children’s lives, which sometimes means she gets a little meddle-y. But that doesn’t seem to be her intent.

Her ability to keep it together makes me worry about exactly how fail I’ll probably be as a wife. I can’t cook—at least not good food. Sure, I can manage Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese or putting a pizza in the oven, but other than opening a can or heating something from the freezer, I’m fairly unskilled.

I couldn’t even hack Christmas dinner, and that’s just turkey and potatoes and some veggies. Or at least that’s what I thought. Turns out it’s a huge production. Daisy was here to help me manage that. In actuality, she usurped my kitchen, and I was mostly a bystander, taking orders.

I don’t even have to clean this house. Not that I’d want to clean four thousand square feet of living space, but I can leave my underwear in a pile in the middle of our bedroom, and they’ll disappear once a week and reappear, clean, in my drawer every Friday.

But I can give a mean blow job. And I have a great rack. So there’s that.

I can’t decide whether I feel grateful or useless. I decide it’s probably a combination of the two. Stupid tears fall as I take the Niagara Riesling out of the fridge and retrieve two glasses. I choke back an annoying sob.

Daisy sets down her chopping knife. “Violet? Are you okay?”

I wave the bottle and the glasses around in the air and nearly hit myself in the face. “I’m fine.” It comes out all high-pitched and unconvincing.

She takes the bottle and the glasses, likely so I don’t maim one of us with them, and places them gently on the counter. Then she pulls me into a hug. I turn my head in time to avoid her helmet of hair and rest my cheek on her shoulder pad.

She pats my back while I cry. I’m such a mess. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sniffle.

“It’s been a difficult few days.”

I nod into her shoulder. It makes a crinkly sound. It feels like it’s filled with foam.

“He’s going to be okay now, though. He’s a strong man. He’ll get through this. And you’ll be here to help him.”

“It’s going to be so hard for him.” I pull back and wipe my nose on my sleeve, leaving behind a disgusting snail trail. “Not playing for the rest of the season? I don’t know how he’s going to deal with it. Hockey is his world.”

“Alex has always been an intense person.” She smooths her hands over my hair. “When he’s passionate about something, he puts all of his energy into it—and that’s not limited to his career. He’s a very driven man, and sometimes he has difficulty with moderation. When he’s in, he’s all in; he’ll bury himself in something so he can be the best. It’s what he’s been doing for the past six years with hockey, and before that he was just as involved in school and figure skating.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that’s how he is with you as well.” Her voice is soft, and so is her expression.

“He loves hard.” And for once I don’t mean it in a pervy way.

“He does everything hard.” I’m almost certain Daisy doesn’t mean that in a pervy way either.

I also don’t think Alex will be doing
anything
hard right now. I’m not even sure he can get hard. Well, okay, he can get hard. I saw him sporting a semi a few times in the hospital, but I don’t know that he has the energy to do anything with it.

“Sitting around isn’t going to be easy for him. He gets pent-up a lot.”

Daisy seems to miss my accidental inappropriate reference.

“He’ll find a way to manage himself, I’m sure,” she says.

I doubt he’ll achieve that by whacking off constantly, but that’s where my mind goes, maybe because I haven’t had an orgasm in days, and now that we’re home I can. Not now, but later. When everyone else is sleeping, I can get out Buddy and give myself a little beaver bang. I stifle a laugh through the sniffles, so it sounds snort-cryish.

“I can stay as long as you need me, of course.”

“Thanks, Daisy. I know how much Alex loves your cooking.”

“I could teach you how to make some of Alex’s favorites while I’m here, if you want,” she offers.

“You’d do that?”

Her electric pink lips spread until her dimples appear. “Of course! He loves breakfast for dinner, so I thought we could make omelets tonight.”

So that’s what we do. When dinner’s almost ready, I go upstairs and wake Alex. It takes some coaxing to get him out of bed. He’s sore and grumpy, but when I tell him what we’re having for dinner, he gets up. Getting down the stairs is slow.

Daisy serves him like he’s the king of the world, and he shovels in food, groaning his pleasure. The sound is reminiscent of his orgasm moan. Or maybe I’m horny.

Except then I look at him, and all the buzzing in my beaver stops. Alex is eating like a pig. His mouth is two inches from his plate, and he keeps jamming more food in before he even has a chance to swallow. He’s also eating with his left hand instead of his right, so bits of egg have fallen off his plate and onto the table.

“This is so much better than hospital crap. Thanks, Mom,” he says around a mouthful of omelet.

“Violet helped.” Daisy sits primly at the table with her napkin in her lap. She has amazing manners. My legs are crossed like I’m sitting on a yoga mat. I rearrange them so I’m sitting nicely, even though they’re visible to no one.

Alex stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

I focus on my plate. I shouldn’t be hurt by his surprise. Usually I take something out of the freezer and follow the directions Alex’s personal chef has left us. He shows up every Monday to make a week’s worth of meals when Alex isn’t on the road.

Daisy pats my hand. “She did a great job. She even made her own omelet.”

Alex looks at my mangled, misshapen omelet, and then back at what’s left of his own perfect one, which his mother made. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks,” I say. I need to stop being so sensitive. Daisy’s just here to help, not show Alex I’m poor wife material.

When the guys are on the road, Charlene and I do takeout half the time. The other half we eat ramen noodles like we did in college, or Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese, and occasionally, when Charlene is feeling particularly ambitious, she makes shepherd’s pie—but with those fake potatoes, because mashing real ones takes work. Hopefully Daisy can teach me how to make something even better than that.

Eating takes all of Alex’s energy. So as soon as dinner is over, he goes back upstairs. I plan to help Daisy with dishes. She insists on washing most of them even though we have a dishwasher, which I usually load to capacity and often forget to run. The housekeeper takes care of it when I don’t. Daisy seems more than happy to wash them by hand.

I reach for a dish towel to dry, but she puts her hand on my arm.

“I can take care of this. I’ll be fine for the rest of the evening. Why don’t you go up and see if Alex needs you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Daisy.” I kiss her on the cheek, because it feels right.

Her smile pops a dimple. She pats my cheek and turns back to the dishes, humming as she pulls on a pair of yellow gloves and dunks her hands in the soapy water.

Alex is struggling with his hoodie when I get upstairs, swearing under his breath. I close the door with a quiet click and turn the lock.

“Need some help?”

“I should be able to undress my damn self.” He’s managed to get one arm out, but he can’t get it over his head.

I walk to the bed and pat the mattress. “Come sit, baby.”

He huffs, but does as I ask. I tap his knees, and he parts them so I can get in between. I unsnap his sling and ease the collar over his head, careful of the stitches and bruises on his face. The bruising on his injured arm is mottled and so purple it’s almost black in some areas.

I skim the side of his neck. “Do you want that bath now?”

Alex looks up, his gaze stopping briefly at my chest before meeting my eyes. “That’d be nice.”

“Do you want me to join you?”

“Please.”

“Okay, let me warm the water.”

“’Kay. I won’t fall asleep this time.”

I lean down and kiss him softly. “I’ll be right back.”

I run to the bathroom and check the water temperature. It’s barely tepid. I drain the tub and start over, dumping in new Epsom salts and lavender, since it’s calming.

I strip out of my clothes, toss them in the hamper, freshen up my beaver real quick, and peek around the jamb.

Alex is lying down again. But his entire body isn’t on the bed, which is a good sign. I hope. His feet are still planted on the floor, the upper half of his body prone on the mattress. When I approach, his eyes open, and he slowly turns his head.

He groans. It sounds like a word, but I can’t be sure.