I walk back to the door, coat and shoes still on, and call for Hobbes. He comes racing to me, jumping and twisting and showing me all of his tricks. It takes a moment for him to calm down, as it always does, but once the initial excitement to see me has passed, I can get him on the leash.
Out to the enclosed courtyard we go, just moments after another dog has left her own mark on the muddy ground. I unclasp Hobbes’s leash, and he preoccupies himself with sniffing for a while before he ventures away to find his own patch of grass.
My thoughts wander back to last night, sitting in Grant’s warm car as he drove me home. How he put his number in my phone, without any reason to believe that I’d use it.
Would I? If things ever got that bad, would I call the team captain? I can imagine how angry and hurt Jason would be if it ever came to that. How betrayed he’d feel.
As I watch Hobbes sniff around, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t care about what Jason would think. If it ever came to calling Grant, it would be because Jason had majorly screwed up—like leaving me abandoned last night at the party. It’s at this realization that I pull out my phone and send off a quick text to Grant.
Hey, it’s Ana. I just wanted to say thank you for the ride home last night. I hope it didn’t cause you too much trouble. I appreciated it. Thanks again.
I consider adding a smiley face and then decide that Grant doesn’t exactly seem like an emoji type of guy. And if he was an emoji, he wouldn’t be the smiley face. Though, I don’t think there’s one with a stern grimace and muscles everywhere. Smiling crookedly at that idea, I click SEND and shove the phone back in my pocket.
Hobbes scampers across the courtyard back to me, and I gather him in my arms. I’d rather not deal with the landlord sending yet another memo about mud tracked on the carpets of the communal areas.
I carry Hobbes inside, feeling his tiny little heartbeat racing from all that running around. I wonder momentarily if this is what I must look like to someone as giant and capable as Grant. Just a tiny little animal, unable to properly fend for herself in this big, bad world.
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I pull it out. It’s a text from Grant, consisting of one single word. I chuckle and shake my head.
Welcome.
Back inside the warmth of my apartment, I wipe Hobbes’s paws with the towel I keep by the door and let him loose to pursue whatever shenanigans he’s so eager to get into. In the kitchen, I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands, then I set the oven to 375 degrees and start making the cookie dough.
Flour, brown sugar, two eggs, a few drops of vanilla, and a pinch of salt . . . the methodical measuring of ingredients is calming to me. The tension in my shoulders begins to melt as the unsalted butter does the same, rising slightly above room temperature as I begin mixing. Oats and white chocolate chunks . . . comfort food.
I’m just about to start rolling the dough into little balls when I hear footsteps down the hall. My stomach clenches, which I know isn’t the reaction I should have at the thought of my boyfriend arriving home.
Jason rattles the front doorknob, cursing loudly when he realizes it’s locked. I stand in the kitchen, frozen. I could open the door for him, but my hands are all doughy.
“Ana!” Jason yells.
I jump, grasping my heart with flour-covered hands.
“Ana,” he yells again, banging on the door. “I left my keys at the fucking rink. Let me in!”
I swallow as I hurry to wash my hands. Part of me imagines what it would be like to leave the door locked, wander to our room, and curl up in bed without Jason. The idea is more tempting than it should be, and the resulting guilt propels me toward the door.
“What took you so long?” he mutters, pushing past me when I let him inside. Hobbes growls from the corner, and Jason snaps at him. “Shut it.”
It seems absolutely laughable that there was ever a time when I’d welcome Jason home with open arms, that he’d wrap me in a soft embrace and plant kisses on the top of my head. That was over a year ago, and so much has changed since then.
“I’m sorry,” I say, training my voice once again. “I was in the kitchen and my hands were covered in gunk. I had to wash them first.”
“Why does it smell like gas in here?” Jason asks, his voice more accusing than inquiring.
“I was making cookies.”
“One of these days, I’m going to come home and you’ll have burned the whole fucking building down.” He sneers, dropping his hockey bag and coat on the floor as he heads for the bathroom. The door closes behind him.
I stay frozen to the spot until I hear the shower running. Hobbes plants himself outside the bathroom door, growling.
Like a zombie, I stumble back to the kitchen. It isn’t until I place the cookie sheets into the oven with shaking hands that I realize how furious I am.
3
* * *
Broken Glass and Broken Promises
Grant
“I’m happy to go support the Little Rookies charity camp this year.” I nod, opening the notebook I placed on the table in front of me.
“Great, so that’s settled.” Coach Dodd rests his elbows on the conference room table, looking around. “Choose another player to go with you too.”
I grab the water bottle in front of me to take a long drink. We’re halfway through our regular weekly meeting with the team leadership, the one I’m invited to sit in on as the team captain.
I write down the date for the charity camp event on the notebook calendar in front of me. The guys usually tease me, pointing out that there are more technology-friendly ways to keep track of my schedule, but today everyone’s quiet. Maybe they’re just focused on getting through the agenda that Coach has scrawled on the white board at one end of the conference room.
“What else?” Coach says, tapping his pen against the table as his gaze drifts to the agenda. “Oh, right, we need to decide which cause we’re supporting this season.”
Last year we supported breast cancer research, donating a portion of ticket sales to cancer treatment and awareness. Our usual black laces were replaced with pink ones in all the guys’ skates last October.
“We need a decision in the next week. Grant, you got any suggestions?”
“Yeah,” I reply, distracted as my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. “Let me put some thought into it and get back to you by the end of the week.”
“Sure thing,” Coach Dodd says, then launches into the next agenda item as my phone vibrates again.
I pull it out and see a number I don’t recognize. But based on the fact that whoever it is has called me twice in quick succession has my senses tingling and concern tightening my stomach.
“I need to take this,” I say, holding up my phone.
Coach nods. “Sure, we’re just wrapping up.”
I slip out of my seat and head into the hall for some privacy as I answer. “Hello?”
“Grant.” The woman’s voice is a little breathless, and it takes me a second to place it.
“Ana?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to call you out of the blue. It’s just . . .”
An uncharacteristic feeling of worry stirs low in my gut. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”