After that I focused on hockey, and my mum focused on my failures.
After practice, in front of all the coaches and other parents, she’d tell me I’d tried hard and done a good job, and I could do better next time. But the second we got to the car, the real her would come out. She was all fangs and rage. And even that was nothing compared to what I’d endure once we were home and there weren’t any witnesses. My failures gave her license to use me as an outlet for her anger.
Tash knew all of that. For some ridiculous reason I believed I could share it with her. I told her all about how messed up my childhood was, about my brother, about the abuse, and about how I deserved all of it. She’d listened quietly, and then used it against me.
She keeps doing it even now, probably because her childhood was equally messed up, maybe even more. But I’ll never know, because Tash is good at telling me what I want to hear, or what she thinks I want to hear—or maybe what she wants me to hear. She never said the most important thing: that I was enough for her. Just me. Because I wasn’t.
Maybe that’s why I keep showing up when she calls. She affirms what I already know: that I’m not worth giving a shit about. What they say about victims is true when it comes to me. I don’t know how to exist without the chaos, and I seek it because it confirms the message beaten into me as a kid: I deserve to be a victim, because my little brother was mine.
I down the glass of vodka in three long swallows and pour a refill. I polish off the second glass, hoping it will stop the turmoil that swirls around and around in my head.
I close my eyes, wishing for a way to shut down my mind for a while. Flashes of Tash with Erin make my stomach roll. I can’t keep those images from pushing their way to the front—the look on Tash’s face when I denied her, my satisfaction at making her mad, my anger over falling for her bullshit again.
I try to think about Poppy instead, about her softness, about how her touching me wasn’t something I immediately hated, and had eventually liked. I want that feeling again.
But I can’t hold on to any good thought, because Tash overrides everything.
I try a different tactic and consider what Miller said about Poppy having been at my house before. As hard as I try, I can’t find any memories of her, even though she feels familiar.
I shouldn’t have asked for her number tonight. I should focus on keeping things as professional and straightforward as possible, if I want her to have me as a client again. It’s obvious she recognized me. Something must’ve gone down—probably something I should feel bad about. But I don’t feel capable of letting it go. I want to know what I did, or said. And if it was bad, I want to fix it.
I sift through all the parties I’ve thrown since I moved into this house a year and a half ago. There’ve been so many, and I’m not great at moderation when it comes to drinking. It’s either one beer or a lot of hard liquor. And when I throw a party, it’s all about the booze and the bunnies and the fucking. Or at least it has been. But I was never as bad as the rumors made me out to be. Until Tash made them a constant reality.
Ever since things fell apart with Tash, I’ve been looking at my choices and where they’ve gotten me. It’s not anywhere good.
I have to stop fighting to remember Poppy because it’s giving me a headache. All I keep getting are flashes of parties from high school, which isn’t even remotely helpful.
I can hear my phone buzzing on the counter. There’s a good chance it’s Tash. Maybe I should answer and get it over with. But I’m tired, physically and mentally. I need some space from her before I can deal. I still hope I’ve pissed her off enough that she’s going to stop messing with me. But she’s calling after I told her not to, so that doesn’t seem to be her plan. She always does the opposite of what I want.
I down a third glass of vodka and pour a fourth. Numbness is starting to kick in, working its way through my limbs and into my brain. I close my eyes and focus on the aches and pains in my body, rather than the one in my head.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone goes off again, ruining my calm. I attempt to pour another glass of vodka, only to realize I’m out.
I hoist myself out of the hot tub and weave unsteadily toward the sliding glass door. My brain is foggy, and the emotions I’ve been contending with all day are blissfully dampened.
I grab my towel, wrapping it around my waist, then trek through the living room, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood and the rug. My phone vibrates on the granite counter, the screen lighting up. It’s a phone call, not a text.
My stomach flips and rolls. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.
I’m almost looking forward to hearing her voice. I’m almost excited for the fight we’re about to have and all the shitty, nasty things she’s going to say to me, because I deserve them. I fucked Erin, and I left her hanging. I came down her throat and refused to give her more—I wonder if that makes me just as bad as her. I let her do this to me. I let her make me into this person I hate.
I check the phone and realize it’s not Tash but Rookie, as I’ve named him, mostly because I was too drunk to remember his name when I took down his number. Rook Bowman is the newest addition to our team and the replacement for Kirk, whose only choices were retirement or being sent back to the farm team. Rookie’s a good trade and an excellent player.
I answer the call. “Hey, Rookie.”
“He picks up! How’s it going, Romance?”
“All right. Wassup?” I’m slurring already. It’s not a good sign for positive decision making.
“Me and a few of the guys are heading to Rush Street and figured you might be interested in coming out.”
I check the time. It’s not even eleven yet. We don’t have practice until later in the afternoon tomorrow. That’s plenty of time to sleep off a hangover. And then I won’t be as inclined to cave where Tash is concerned.
“You guys wanna come here first? I can make a few calls, see if there are girls looking to party.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, man, why the fuck not, right? We’re gonna be on the road soon enough. Might as well take advantage while we can.”
“Awesome. We’ll be over in half an hour, sound good? You know any bunnies who might be interested in hanging out?”
“I’ll make some calls.” I don’t really want them here, but they’re a distraction, and that’s what I need the most right now.
I end the call and pull up my contact list, dialing the sure things and dirty girls who’re always looking for another player to bang.
Less than an hour later, more than twenty people are hanging out on my back deck or swimming—I turned up the thermostat and put on the deck heater. It’s not pool weather anymore, but skimpy bikinis are always in season.
More people show up as the night wears on. The chaos around me isn’t making anything better in my head. I’m wasted and maybe a little numb to the feelings, but I don’t know half of the people at my house, and I’m tired of them already.
I didn’t bother calling Randy because he won’t come over anymore when I’ve got a party going. He doesn’t ever want to risk the good thing he’s got with Lily, and since his dad couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, Randy’s always been worried about repeating history. Miller can’t and won’t stop by on nights like this either. He’s not interested in getting his party on, thanks to Sunny and the baby she’s about to have. He just wants to be home with his girl. I can’t blame either of them for staying away, but I wish they were here to ground me.