The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(78)

Ryan skated past me, carrying my gloves and helmet. He passed them to me over the glass with his stick. My knuckles were swollen and fat, and my entire face throbbed. A trainer got into the box with me, checking me over.

“Fuck, Petrov, your face is a mess.”

I looked down at my hand. My fingers were swelling so fast, I could feel my ring tighten like a vise.

“My wedding ring.”

The guy used some slippery lube and a towel and worked to get it off my finger. It seemed fucking fitting that today of all days, my wedding ring was being ripped off me. He turned the towel around and showed me my ring. “You’re lucky we didn’t have to cut that off.”

I didn’t speak.

“I don’t know how you took that first guy down. He outweighed you by more than twenty pounds. You finished him, but the dude got in some hard hits.” He reached up and dabbed at my face.

Everything hurt. It felt good to hurt. I deserved it and more.

I sat there for ten long minutes and then my penalty was served. I got to the bench and coach took one look at me.

“You’re cut from the game, Petrov.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“I can play. I’m in the game.”

“Mark Ashford made the call. You’re out.”





*



My face looked like I had gone through ten rounds in the ring. Both of my eyes were swollen. My lips were cut and bleeding, and I had bruises on bruises. My body felt like pulverized meat. And my hands were so swollen I could barely bend my knuckles. When I stood in the shower, the water was tinged with rusty blood.

Mark Ashford was waiting for me beside my locker. Ignoring him, I slowly started to get dressed.

“You’re not in trouble,” he spoke.

“You cut me,” I accused.

“It was for your own good,” he sighed. “You’re hurt.”

I shut my eyes. “I took it too far.”

“No, you didn’t. You defended your goalie. You defended this team. Your passion was a kick in the ass this team needed, and now everyone is in the game. That came at a cost to yourself. But now I need to defend you. You’re hurting bad, worse than I’ve ever seen you hurt. Go home. Get some rest.”

I sat on the bench long after he left the room. I didn’t have any place to go. So, I got dressed, and I went home.





Chapter 25





CHARLIE





Sniper barked once, letting me know Mica was home. My heart pounded fiercely, but then almost came to a stop when he walked in the door. My hands covered my mouth and I couldn’t speak when I saw the shape he was in.

“Mica,” I breathed, my voice breaking.

Two sad blue eyes looked at me, and he walked into the bedroom. I grabbed some single-use ice gel packs from the freezer and followed him. He lay on the bed with one hand over his eyes.

I crawled onto the bed, kneeling beside him. Not sure if he would reject my care, I slowly lifted one big hand and put a gel pack on his knuckles.

He responded by sighing. A deep, heavy sigh fraught with so much pain. I carefully lifted his other hand off his face and put another gel pack on that hand. I didn’t even know where to start with his face.

“Where do you hurt?” I whispered.

He swallowed hard and looked at me. “Everywhere.”

I knew he wasn’t talking about his face. Tears streamed down my face, because that seemed to be my MO these days. I gingerly placed another pack on his swollen cheekbone.

“Please don’t cry.” His voice was hoarse.

“I hate seeing you hurt.”

I lay down beside him on my side, feeling so helpless. Tears leaked out of me. When he rolled over and wrapped me in his arms, I only cried harder.

“I’m sorry.” Those were the only words he spoke.





*



I woke up in the middle of the night. Mica sat on my side of the bed, watching me sleep. I knew something was wrong.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out for a while.”

I thought I’d misheard him at first. It took a few moments to compute what he was telling me. The shock was so big that it numbed me. “Where are you going?”

“A hotel.”

I didn’t move a muscle. “Can we talk, please?”

“I need to sort myself out.”

Ten heartbeats before I finally had the courage to ask, “Are you coming back?”

“I’m going to try.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. I knew at that moment that there was nothing I could say or do to change his mind.

“Will you text me or call me?”

His voice sounded pained. “Can you give me some time?”

I thought about him in a hotel. Was this marriage over? Had this baby killed everything good between us? Would we ever come back from this? I couldn’t even face the idea of this marriage ending.

I asked the question that I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to. “Is this your way of leaving me?”

“You’re still my wife.”

But for how long? I didn’t understand any of this. I didn’t understand his response. He wasn’t just pulling away from me—he was running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. The worst-timed words blurted out of me.