My phone lights up with another text, the tenth Ryan’s sent since I escaped him at the bar. My brother’s been blowing up my phone with countless texts and three ignored calls about the dramatic exit I made thanks to Heston’s hockey captain hauling me over his shoulder to carry me out like some dashing knight.
Not exactly my idea of a good time to rely on a hockey player, but it was the fastest way to evade my brother and Johnny.
I finish twisting my freshly showered hair into a towel and grab my phone off the nightstand ready to silence my notifications if he doesn’t leave me alone. Reagan won’t be home from her shift at the bar for another two hours.
I was planning to enjoy tonight to the fullest, celebrating that I went to my first hockey game in years without wanting to throw up at seeing my ex-boyfriend on the ice with my brother. Johnny wasn’t even playing after his accident benched him for the season.
While Johnny’s mere presence still causes an uncomfortable knot to tangle in my stomach and my heart to splinter with fractures that throb with the old ache of his betrayal, I made it through the game I used to love without my anxiety winning.
I even let Reagan and my brother talk me into going to the bar afterwards. I tend to avoid it on nights I know the hockey team takes over the place.
Another pushy text from Ryan makes me shake my head.
Ryan: Maya.
Ryan: Maya. Maya Maya Mayaaaa. Answer your phone damn it!
Ryan: Don’t think I won’t blow you up every five minutes until you answer. We both know I’ve always been better at getting on your nerves. You’ll break first.
Ryan: I finally get you to watch me play again after three years and you ditch me?
Ryan: Why did you let Easton fucking bag of dicks Blake carry you out of the bar?
Ryan: If you’re with him right now I’m disowning you as a sister.
I could let him stew for the rest of the night. He deserves it after he tried to go all overprotective on me at the bar for having fun. Sighing, I take a photo of myself in my pajamas giving him the finger.
Maya: I wouldn’t have ditched you if you weren’t being an ass. You can’t tell me what to do. You’re only like five minutes older than me.
Ten months older, actually. Irish twins. Our family had a trip raising us, especially our grandfather. Ryan’s older, but I’ve always felt like I’m the more responsible sibling. By high school we were in the same grade because I tested into his year.
We used to be so close growing up. For the last two years I’ve distanced myself from hockey. After his big NHL draft moment over the summer, I agreed to go to the game tonight so I wouldn’t miss my last chance to see him play my college before his professional career.
Ryan doesn’t respond for several minutes, then sends a thumbs up emoji as his only apology. Dick.
I scroll back through the messages to the one that gives away my Heston Knight’s name.
“Easton,” I murmur.
I wasn’t sure at the bar if he was a hockey player or not. He’s built like one, tall and strong enough to throw me over his shoulder and carry me for three blocks with ease. I might have a soft hourglass figure, but I’m not exactly willowy. Mom used to say the Donnelly women are built solid with curvy hips and generous chests.
My face tingles with warmth remembering the feel of every firm muscle of his body when he set me on my feet. He had the attitude down, too.
I swallow thickly and clamp my thighs together to chase away the unwelcome throb of heat while picturing the sultry look he served up—the one that almost made me the next score on his stats.
Easton Blake is the perfect reminder of why I avoid hockey players.
Cocky. Frustratingly sexy. Accustomed to every girl in his orbit falling for his charm.
Handsome, playful smile. Messy dark brown hair. Warm blue eyes.
“Oh boy.”
I rub my forehead, still shocked at myself for winding up with a hockey player tonight. I can’t believe I dared him to keep trying to win me over. There’s no way I’ll ever give in, yet part of me wants to see how hard he’ll work for it. My lips twitch.
Nah. He’ll move on. A guy like him is bound to forget about me.
Johnny did. Not a second wasted before I caught him with another girl—not like finding an unfamiliar pair of panties in his bed, but interrupting them in the act. I wanted to surprise my boyfriend before I toured his college. Instead, I got my heart broken and learned I should never trust hockey players.
Other than my brother, I want nothing to do with them. I swore them off to shield my heart from ever going through that pain again.
An aggravated sigh escapes me and I flop back on the bed, covering my face with a pillow. I don’t need to dwell on him at all. Annoyed with myself, I climb beneath the covers for bed.
This semester I have what most students would consider a normal schedule. It’s a blessing and a curse because I’m not keeping myself as busy as I have the last two years. Without the extra classes and assignments to distract myself, all the things I try not to worry about rise to the surface.
At least winter break is soon. That means I get to visit Grandpa in person.
I wait all year for the short amount of time I grant myself to go home. Since I started at Heston University, I’ve been nose to the grindstone. The intense course load that comes with racking up enough credits to complete my degree a year early is hard work, but worth the summer semesters and crammed schedules from the last two years.
This semester is the first one where I feel like I can breathe. It’s weird after piling on credit hours to have such a light class schedule. I’m glad I got as many course requirements as I could out of the way. From here on out, it’ll be smooth sailing to finish my studies next semester.
It’s all so Grandpa can see me graduate from college.
My throat closes over for a brief moment. In my senior year of high school his health took a really bad turn and he hasn’t fully recovered according to Mom and Dad’s reports about his physical therapy and doctor visits.
Winter break can’t come soon enough.
When my phone vibrates with a notification ten minutes later, I assume it’s Ryan texting me again. Time to silence my notifications. It’s an unpleasant surprise to find my ex’s name on my screen.
Johnny: You shouldn’t have left. Come back to the bar so we can catch up.
Johnny: I missed you.
“Ugh. No way.” I grimace at the slimy sensation his message causes in my stomach and glare at my phone. “Asshole.”
Stabbing the block caller button after so many years feels great. It’s something I should’ve done when we broke up, but I never had to worry. Johnny didn’t bother fighting for us or explaining himself. Hard to formulate an excuse for sorry you caught your boyfriend balls deep in a sorority chick.
He was my first and last hockey player boyfriend. I swore I’d never fall for another self-absorbed jackass like him. He’s also the only serious relationship I’ve had—at least it was for me. Considering he was cheating on me, things were probably never serious for him. The few other guys I’ve dated either couldn’t handle my lack of availability, or fizzled out because I wouldn’t let my guard down for any true connection to develop.
What sucks most of all is the wedge the breakup drove between me and my brother. I never told him why I ended things with his friend and teammate because something Johnny said when I told him we were done stuck with me.
You think Ryan doesn’t know what’s up? Every player messes around.
My heart beats hard and my breathing comes in tight, quick pulls of air just thinking about the ways he would manipulate me. I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on slowing my anxious breathing with meditation exercises, then squeeze my eyelids when I’m unable to focus.
“Screw this.” I flip the stuffy covers off.
There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep. So much for my wins tonight. The pride I felt for being able to go to the game dwindles.
After throwing on a pair of sweats and a plain black hoodie, I pull my hair into a ponytail and grab my grandfather’s faded baseball cap. The hat alone brings a small comfort. I always snagged it from him whenever me and Ryan had sleepovers with our grandparents and wore it around their farm. He gifted it to me when I started college. I brush my fingertips over the embroidered Donnelly Dairy logo that’s gone soft and frayed with age.
Once it’s tugged down low, I pocket my keys, my phone, and keep a sharp cat-shaped safety keychain in my hand just in case. Heston Lake is a safe enough town, but I’m still a girl walking alone after dark. There have also been a few reports of break ins around campus.
When I’m too wound up, I have to move. The jittery sensation that vibrates in my muscles is too impossible to shake without going for a late night walk to clear the racing thoughts from my head. I hate it when my brain won’t just shut off.
In the moment I’m fine, then I end up overanalyzing if I said the right thing or acted weird.
This is the only way I’ve learned to cope so I don’t spend a sleepless night of tossing and turning laying in bed alone with my anxiety picking apart every memory on loop.
On my way out, I text Reagan to let her know where I am and turn on location sharing so she’ll be able to track me. We’ve always got each other’s back.
Most of campus is quiet after midnight with a few stragglers here and there. One of the fraternity houses is having a party. The thumping music fades behind me as I head off campus toward the square at the center of town.
I love walking this way. The buildings all have a historic charm that feels cozy, plus my favorite coffee shop sits between a local family-owned bookshop and a small art gallery.
Clocktower Brew House got its name for the old tower at the top of the building with a clock face. There are photos inside the coffee shop from the town’s records showing the different uses for the building through the years dating back almost to colonial times.
My head feels clearer already. As I reach the end of the block, a cat emerges from the shadows and meows at me. I grin. This is even better than my walk.
“Hi, kitty,” I whisper.
Approaching slowly so I don’t startle it, I crouch down with my hand outstretched. The cat sniffs me briefly before purring and rubbing against my hand. My mood perks up as I stroke its soft fur.
“No collar. Are you a stray?” I laugh at the sound it makes in response like we’re having an actual conversation. “You’re definitely well fed. Look at your belly.”
The cat flops to the pavement and rolls on its back, wriggling back and forth. I can’t resist taking out my phone to snap a few photos.
Animals? One hundred percent better than people in most cases.
“I could pet you all night. Everyone at Merrywood Farms would love you. I’ll show them your picture when I go in for work this week.”
I’ve always loved animals, but it was my grandfather who made me understand how therapeutic they can be. It’s why I’ve built my psychology and physical therapy degree around animal-assisted therapies. Part of that is thanks to Merrywood Farms, a wellness and rescue farm that offers a variety of animal activities.
The cat’s ears prick, then flick in the direction of the houses on the street connected to the square. I think I hear someone calling for it and shaking a food bowl. The cat twines around my leg before bounding off.
Feeling much better, I cut my walk short and head back towards campus.
