Oh my God. I’m supposed to sign my name to these lies? What does that make me?
“Charli?” Sylvie says softly. When I raise my head, I find all three of the women are watching me. “Is everything all right?”
No, it really isn’t. I got married by accident, and the only way out is to paint my husband as a terrible person. “Divorce is really complicated,” is all I can think to say. “Don’t ever get divorced.”
I take a deep breath, and it’s shaky on the way out. My phone rings, and when I grab it out of my pocket, I see Neil’s name on the screen.
I answer, because I’m not that big of a coward.
“Don’t panic,” he says immediately. “I know it sounds harsh.”
“Harsh?” I yelp. “It sounds like you should be arrested. You could get in trouble with the league. Don’t they sanction players who are involved in domestic violence? They ought to.”
His chuckle is dry. “I don’t think it will make you feel any better to hear this, but I’m pretty sure you need to be arrested to get their attention.”
He’s right—I do not feel better. “Is that really a chance you want to take?”
“Yes,” he says firmly, “if it makes things right between us.”
I blow out a breath. “I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how to make this decision. I can’t put you in jeopardy just to make myself feel a little better.”
“Yeah, you can,” he says in a soothing voice. “You’re always telling me that rich guys end up on top. It’s pretty much true. Nothing in this divorce is really going to hurt me. I can take it, Charli. Especially if there’s a chance you’ll come back to me afterwards.”
My heart practically bursts to hear that. And for a long moment, I can’t say anything at all. I just close my eyes and breathe through my confusion.
A hug from Neil would be nice right now. Now there’s a thought I never used to entertain.
“Charli, look at me.”
I open my eyes. “What are you talking about? It’s a phone call, Neil.”
He chuckles. “Come over to the window.”
Oh. I take a few steps toward the window, and there he is, three stories up. The silhouette of Neil stands there, backlit by the warm lighting in his fancy living room. One hand holds the phone, one strong arm is braced against the window sash.
My tummy flips at the familiar sight of him.
He raises his hand and waves. “Hi, wifey. Long time no see. I miss you.”
Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. “I miss you, too,” I whisper. “But when I said I couldn’t do this, I wasn’t lying. I tried. But I can’t be your fake wife and your real…whatever. Not at the same time. It’s doing my head in.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “I keep complaining that you won’t talk to me, but I haven’t been honest, either. I want more from you than just a party date. But I did a shit job of explaining myself.”
“You’re…” I clear my throat. “Not so bad.”
I hear laughter in stereo—from Neil and my teammates. “You shut up,” I say over my shoulder. “No eavesdropping.” As if they have a choice. I’m in the center of their home.
“You’re hard on my ego, baby,” Neil says sweetly.
“I don’t mean to be,” I say, looking up at him. “I’m not good at this.”
“Yeah, well I thought I was, and it turns out I’m not. So we have that in common. What did your crew think of the roasted cauliflower gratin?”
“Major hit,” I say. “If you’re looking for another fake wife anytime soon, I think there’d be takers.”
“I won’t be,” he promises. “Now you take care of yourself, okay? Sign that document. Divorce my ass. Take me up on my offer to put down your security deposit. I need you calm and happy so you can figure out what a catch I am.”
“Okay,” I say with a shaky laugh. “I’ll, uh, work on all that stuff.”
“You do that. Then you come talk to me. I’m not going anywhere.” He puts his palm on the glass, as if touching me. “Don’t you lose my number.”
“I won’t,” I say with a throat that seems to be closing up on itself. “Good night.”
THIRTY-FIVE
JUST AN ORDINARY FRIDAY
Charli
We tie up our game against the Philadelphia Fillies. Then we lose in overtime. Thanks, Philadelphia. You’re a pal.
That town was never good to me, and it doesn’t want to start now. But at least the road trip gets me off of Fiona’s couch and into a real bed.
After another week of serving omelets and apartment hunting, it’s time to head to Boston. We gather behind the Brooklyn Hockey facility at two o’clock. My teammates and I lean against the brick wall, waiting for the bus driver to open the doors. We huddle close together like ducklings under the overhang as a cold March drizzle pings down from the leaden sky.
And—as they often do—my thoughts turn to Neil.
That’s a strong theme with me since I’ve signed our divorce papers. I’ve put them in a new envelope, carefully addressed to the lawyer. I’ve sealed them up and taken them to the post office for proper postage. I’m well on my way to a divorce.
Except for that last thing I haven’t done—drop them in a mailbox.
I’m planning to. I swear. But every time I walk past the mailbox, I can’t make myself stop and throw the envelope in.
Neil has already sent me two gentle texts asking if there are any problems, or if I have any last questions. It will turn out okay, kitten. You can file. I’ll be fine.
Those messages made me feel all gooey inside. But I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to get up in front of a judge and claim that Neil was cruel to me. Out loud.
I’m a tough person. I can do this.
Soon.
Just not today.
Neil is constantly on my mind, but it’s even worse today, because I know that damn meeting is happening without me in a couple hours.
He’d never said another word about it. He hadn’t pressed me about trying to show up this afternoon to help him conquer his controlling uncle.
Maybe if I’d actually managed to be helpful to Neil, I wouldn’t feel so shitty about our divorce proceedings. Maybe…
“What are they doing?” Sylvie grumbles beside me. “My hands are icicles. Shouldn’t we be on the bus already?”
I glance up to see the bus driver kneeling beside the bus’s wheel while Coach Sasha and Bess try to talk to him.
“Flat tire?” I guess.
“No, he’s trying to put chains on the tires,” Samantha says. “This rain is supposed to freeze over in the next hour.”
“And it’s snowing in Boston,” Fiona says, scrolling through her phone.
“Pffft,” Sylvie says dismissively. “In Canada, that’s just an ordinary Friday. If we could just get on the road, we could be there before it turns ugly.” She stomps off.
“Is Sylvie in goal tonight?” I wonder aloud.