Caution on Ice - SR Grey Read online

  “To watch porn, of course.”

  I throw a pillow at him, one of the few things I grabbed from my Phoenix house. And then I politely inform him, “I am not discussing the pros and cons of big-screen porn with you, Graham.”

  “Trust me, Chloe, there are only pros.”

  “I am not watching porn on this television!” I yell.

  He laughs. “Yeah, right.”

  I wave the white flag on this battle, because truth is, I might. I also let him go ahead and order the latest model ultra-high-def flat-screen. If I’m going to be watching cocks, they may as well be huge.

  After Graham hits the Buy button, he informs me, “On a more serious note, Chlo, you’ll definitely want to watch the playoffs on this thing.”

  He means football. Having played in the pros, he’s passionate about the game. He was really good too, a star quarterback for the Cardinals till he blew out his knee. That was bad, really bad, but what was worse was when he ended up addicted to pain meds.

  Graham is clean now, though, and has been for three years.

  God, I’m so damn proud of him. But proud or not, I need to set him straight on one thing— “If I’m going to be watching any sport on TV, it’ll be hockey.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “I forgot you’re a wannabe puck bunny.”

  I’d throw another pillow at him, but I’m fresh out.

  “You’re such an ass,” I snort. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

  “I am your favorite brother, yeah?”

  “You’re my only brother, goofball.”

  “And you’re my only sister,” he says. “But you’re still my favorite.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.”

  A moment passes with Graham making more purchases.

  That prompts me to state, “Hey, I’m totally paying you back for everything you’re buying.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters distractedly.

  Graham will never take a dime from me. He’s pretty well-off since he invested his football earnings wisely.

  Me? My finances are in shambles. My asshole ex-husband, Sten, made sure of that. That’s the reason I called the prick on Christmas Eve and asked him to come over. I wanted to know where our shared savings had gone, all ten thousand of it.

  Asking him over was a major mistake, though. When I showed him the statement, the one that proved he’d withdrawn all the money, he laughed in my face.

  “What are you going to do about it, you lousy bitch? You try to come after me and I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  He’s always threatening me, putting me down, calling me names.

  That’s why I’d finally had enough. Not only we’re we divorced, but that night, I took the statement and threw it in his fucking face.

  “Fuck you!” I screamed. “Just fuck you.”

  I was on a roll, naming off every shitty thing he’d ever done to me, and how I was so happy I’d never have to deal with him ever again.

  “Just keep the money!” I yelled. “Having you out of my life is worth every cent.”

  Too bad I missed his fist coming at me then.

  My eye felt like it was exploding, and I saw nothing but white.

  When I returned to my senses, I realized Sten had taken off. My phone was on a stand by the door and I grabbed it, all set to call the police and have his ass arrested—finally.

  But then I hesitated.

  I knew if I pressed charges I’d have to return to Phoenix to testify against him. And by that point, I just wanted out of there. I wanted Sten gone from my life forever.

  So I called Graham instead.

  “I know it’s Christmas Eve,” I said, sniffling into the phone. “But can you come to Phoenix tonight and get me out of this goddamn town?”

  He knew I was trying hard to hold back the tears, and without asking for any explanation, he said, “Hold tight. I’ll be there by midnight.”

  My brother was perceptive then, and he is now as well.

  Peering over at me thoughtfully, he says, “Hey, what’s up?”

  Feeling suddenly self-conscience, I tug away the tie holding my hair up in a high ponytail and wavy blonde locks fall to frame my face.

  But why am I hiding?

  Graham has already seen my black eye. He saw it in full purple bloom the night Sten gave it to me.

  When he presses again, I confess what’s weighing on me. “I feel so stupid about how I ended up. I always swore I’d never be one of those girls. Yet here I am, alone and a runaway from a bad life. I’m a damn cliché, Graham.”

  I start sobbing, and my brother scoots his big body over and drapes a comforting arm around my shoulders.

  “Chloe, you’re not a cliché. And you’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

  I lean into him. “I know. And thank you.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? Bad relationships happen to the best of us. Sometimes you just end up in too deep before you finally see your way out of it.”

  I laugh bitterly. “I was so stupid when it came to Sten.”

  “Hey, at least you were married to him only for a short while. That phony prick could’ve fooled anyone. He’s a charmer when he wants to be and a master manipulator all the time.”

  “I just really thought he loved me,” I sigh. “I never dreamed it’d come to this.”

  Sten wined and dined me early on, sweeping me off my feet with flowers and presents. He even bought me the car I drive today, a white Ford Fusion. Sadly, there was nothing but emptiness behind all his hollow gestures. I saw that the first time he was mean to me.

  “I should’ve left the first time he ever put me down, Graham.”

  My brother doesn’t disagree, though he tries to put a positive spin on things. “You’re just a really sweet person, Chloe. You see the best in everyone, and you’re very forgiving.”

  “Too forgiving,” I snort as I sit up straight. Pointing to the ugly bruising all around my eye, I add, “To my own detriment, clearly.”

  Through clenched teeth, Graham says, “I swear I should’ve found that prick and kicked his ass before we left Phoenix.”

  My brother is a better judge of character than me. He never liked Sten. He told me before I eloped, after a whirlwind courtship, that I should hold off.

  I realized he’d been right when Sten first started with the insults…

  “You’re not that smart, now are you, Chloe?” soon escalated to, “You’re a fucking worthless bitch, whore.”

  His wicked words were a whirlwind, like our courtship, and soon I was numb to the jabs. Sten had worn me down. I believed what he drilled in my head—that his berating was somehow my fault. If I could just do better, be prettier, lose weight, I would be a better wife, and then I’d have the marriage I longed for.

  I consoled myself with one thing at the time—at least he doesn’t hit me.

  He didn’t, either…till he did.

  That was finally the end for me.

  I’d grown a backbone, and I vowed that weak woman would never be me again. I filed for divorce that day.

  Christmas Eve was my only mistake. I never should’ve asked Sten to come over, not when I was alone.

  I only wish now that I could have a little payback, even if it were just symbolically.

  With that in mind, I say to Graham, “You know what? I’m not only mad, I’m like really freaking furious.”

  “You should be, Chloe. You have every right to be pissed as hell.”

  Riled up, I growl, “Damn it, I know it’s not right, but I’d love to punch Sten in his stupid face. Just once, for all the grief he’s given me.”

  “You clearly need to let off some steam or find an outlet of some sort.”

  “I should probably just focus on moving forward first.”

  “That’s a process too,” Graham reminds me. And then he says, “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.”

  Leaning forward, he reaches into his jeans pocket and fishes out what looks to be a small pamphlet. “
I have something for you,” he says.

  Taking the pamphlet from his outreached hand, I ask, “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing big, but it might help you move on.”

  I flip through the pages of what appears to be a self-help pamphlet. I’m not surprised Graham picked this up for me. Having gone through rehab, he’s all about the twelve steps. Or ten, as this one happens to be.

  “I grabbed it at a meeting last week,” he explains. “There were bunches lying on a table, booklets on all sorts of subjects. But that one made me think of you.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, feeling truly appreciative.

  My brother stays sober by attending NA meetings regularly. His commitment to helping others keeps him on the straight and narrow. That’s why he’s a sponsor too.

  His kindness clearly extends to me. This is Graham helping me. As if he hasn’t done enough.

  “‘X Your Ex,’” I murmur, reading the title aloud. “This certainly is the perfect self-help guide for me.”

  “I know, right? That’s what I thought too.”

  “Well, hell, I think I’ll start it today,” I announce.

  Graham looks pleased as he leans in. “So what’s step one? I didn’t check them out in advance.”

  “Hmm, let’s see…” I flip to the beginning of the booklet. “Step one is, uh… Oh my God, Graham, you’re going to love this one. It’s ‘Stop Taking Shit.’”

  We look at each other and burst out laughing.

  This is so perfect.

  Since I’m already toughening up mentally, I declare, “I know what I’m going to do to complete this one.”

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

  “I’m going to work on getting stronger. That way I can stop taking shit like a mofo next time someone comes at me.”

  “I love it,” Graham says. “A few self-defense lessons would do you a world of good.”

  Thinking of how it would have surprised the shit out of Sten had I fought back, I agree and ask Graham, “Can you teach me?”

  “You bet. We can even practice at my gym.”

  Graham just happens to own a small, nondescript workout facility. It’s like a gritty gym straight out of Rocky.

  “Hey, I’m ready to go a few rounds,” I say. “When can we start?”

  “Anytime you want.”

  I feel good. Graham’s gym is the perfect place to learn how to defend myself. The clientele are mostly friends and associates of his. My brother is super selective on whom he lets in, so I’ll surely feel at ease even when he’s not around.

  Standing victoriously—I like this new me—I declare, “Okay, step one in the X Your Ex program is officially underway. You have heavy bags there, right?”

  “Several.”

  “Good because I plan to beat the hell out of each and every one. And the whole time I’m going to imagine Sten’s stupid face.”

  Grinning up at me, Graham says, “I’ll do you one better, little sis.”

  I’m curious as to what he has in mind, so I raise a brow and ask, “Yeah, how so?”

  “I’m going to print out some head shots of that douchebag and paste them to all the bags.”

  “I love it, Graham. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Sten is going down!”

  I can’t wait. Even if this is only happening in the gym, I know punching the hell out of that bastard is going to feel amazing.

  Under Pressure

  After spending the afternoon at the cemetery, freezing my balls off amid a flood of memories that kept bubbling up to the surface, I’m in no mood for bullshit when the game against the Buffalo Sabres gets underway.

  But bullshit is all I get.

  Like when we’re on the power play. I’m positioned at point because so many of the shots I take from the blue line go in the net.

  Not tonight, though. Nope, tonight fucking fate has conspired against me. Even when our captain, Brent Oliver, flips the puck right onto my goddamn stick, I fan on the ensuing shot.

  What the hell?

  I am a wreck this evening.

  A Sabres’ forward intercepts the next puck I handle, and though I pursue him with a vengeance, he out-skates me.

  Shit.

  The fucker burns me and scores a shorthanded goal.

  Fuck, it’s going from bad to worse.

  The Buffalo crowd goes nuts. Their cheers echo in my ears like a bad soundtrack to my poor play as I skate back over to the bench.

  Tossing my stick behind everyone, I grind out, “Motherfucking shit. That puck-stealing pussy—”

  “Culderway, that’s enough,” Coach Townsend interjects, shooting me a disappointed look since I’m never like this. “Focus on the next shift,” he goes on. “Leave that one behind.”

  He’s right, but I can’t help but mutter a dejected, “Whatever.”

  Benny Perry, a first-line forward—and one of my best friends on the team, along with Nolan Solvenson—is seated on the bench next to me.

  Leaning in, he hisses, “Coach T’s already in a miserable mood, Dylan. We’re down three to one. Now’s not the time to get on his bad side.”

  Benny should know what it’s like to be on Coach Townsend’s bad side—he’s fucking his daughter. I say as much, and he peers over at me like “What the fuck?”

  “Dude,” he snarls, “Coach and I worked that shit out. And for the record, what Eliza and I have is way more than fucking. You know that.”

  I do, it’s true.

  Shit, there’s no reason for me to be taking out my frustrations on my friend.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What’s gotten into you, anyway?” Benny questions. “You’re never like this.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  But I do know. That visit to my mom’s final resting place has dredged up how she ended up there in the first place. And now all I can think about is who put her there—my fucking stepfather. I keep seeing his face on every opponent.

  That’s why, when I’m back on the ice, it’s no real surprise I get into a fight.

  This isn’t me, I tell myself. And it’s not. I’m not a fucking goon. I’m a premiere defenseman, an elite player who skates fast and scores loads of goals. Hell, I’m currently ranked the number one defenseman in the league, despite our decline in the standings. That’s how good I am. For Christ’s sake, I won the Norris trophy last year!

  None of that sets me right, though. I continue to taunt players for no good reason, one in particular. I’m shocked I don’t draw a penalty when I hook that particular guy. Getting away with that encourages me to stay on his ass and trash-talk him.

  Why am I all up in this dude’s grill?

  One reason and one reason only—he’s kind of small and has a mustache like he did.

  Yeah, resembling my asshole stepfather is reason enough for me.

  When the player gets fed up with my shit, he takes a swing.

  Finally!

  This is what I want, so I throw off my gloves and start pummeling him.

  I would’ve done this if I could have “back then.” If only I’d been a little bit older, I could’ve saved my mom. Too bad I was just a scrawny little kid.

  I’m no scrawny kid now, though, I remind myself as I clock the dude with a mean right hook.

  A linesman skates over to break up the fight, but I’m having none of that.

  “Just let us go!” I yell at him.

  “Fucking fine,” the official barks back. He backs off and adds, “Have at it, boys.”

  We do. We have at it hard.

  ’Stashe Guy gets in a couple of decent hits, but I’m the one who draws first blood when I crack open his nose.

  “Shit, Culderway,” the dude says, stunned.

  Wow, I give him props. He’s handling it well for a guy gushing blood.

  The linesman breaks us apart then, even though we’ve pretty much stopped fighting anyway. Penalties are then assessed, and since it’s late in the game,
I just skate off the ice and head down the runway to the locker room.

  The rest of the team files in a short while later, but I ignore them. I shower and dress without speaking to anyone. It’s like they all know my head’s not in a good place so they let me be.

  Not Coach Townsend, though. He wants to see me out in the hallway.

  Pulling me aside when I step out of the locker room, he grinds out, “What the hell’s going on with you, Dylan?”

  Shrugging, I reply, “Nothing, really.”

  He knows that’s not true.

  “This isn’t like you, Culderway. Not one little bit. Something’s not right.”

  I sigh and finally admit, “I have some personal stuff going on, Coach.”

  “No shit,” he scoffs. “Is it anything you’d like to talk about?”

  “Nope.”

  He pats me on the shoulder. “Okay, I’m not going to press. But…” He pulls out a business card from his suit pocket and hands it to me. “I think you should check this place out. It may help relieve some of your stress.”

  Huh?

  I look down at the card. It’s pretty plain, with just the name of some workout place—Graham Tettersaw’s Private Gym—printed on it, along with a phone number and an address.

  The pieces come together then.

  “Wait, I know that name. Graham’s that football player who blew out his knee a couple of years ago, right? Played for the Arizona Cardinals, I believe.”

  “That’s right,” Coach confirms. “He’s a good friend of Benny’s and owns a gym where a lot of athletes like to go to work out.”

  “You think that’s what I need?” I laugh. “You really think me working out more will solve my problems?”

  “It can’t hurt, Culderway. All that excess aggression I saw on the ice tonight makes me think this particular gym could be the perfect place for you. You can work out whatever it is that’s been bothering you lately in a private environment away from the team.”

  Ah, I see what he’s doing—Coach doesn’t want my negative attitude affecting the team.

  But I’m not sure this is the right move, so I try to hand the card back to him.

  “Look, Coach, I appreciate this, I do. But really, I’m good.”

  Pushing the card back to me, he says, “Dylan, I’ve been around a long time, and what I saw out there looked like rage brewing just beneath the surface. It’s trying to take hold, son. I’ve seen this before with other guys, and I’m telling you, it’s best to address these issues before they become a huge problem.”