Page 37 of Center Ice

Then I rush down the stairs and find Drew sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. I explain the situation and tell him he needs to go.

He stands, and suddenly we’re toe to toe. “Why?”

“Because I need to go focus on Graham and figure out what’s wrong, and I don’t want to have to explain why you’re here at 11 p.m.”

“But I can take care ofyouonce you’re done taking care of him,” he says, reaching out and running his hand along the side of my abdomen. The offer is distinctly sexual, and it frustrates me that this is where his mind is while our son is upstairs and sick.

“Drew, this isn’t the time. Graham’s sick.”

“Yeah, but you feel like crap too. And once you’ve got him back to bed, I can still be here to take care of you.”

Five minutes ago, taking care of me changed from ibuprofen, a heating pack, and a massage, into full-fledged foreplay. And as much as my body still wants that, that’s not what I need to be thinking about or doing when Graham is sick.

“I have to go be a parent now. I have to put Graham’s needs before my own. I’m here doing this all the time, even when it’s not fun—even when I have a sick kid, or more laundry to fold than I know how I’ll ever get through, or endless amounts of paperwork to fill out for school, or whatever real-life tasks await.” I pause, about ready to burst into tears because I’m overwhelmed and frustrated. “Because this is what parenting is.”

“Audrey…” Even though I think he’s going to say more, and maybe his heart is even in the right place, I don’t have the time to hear him out, because Graham is waiting for me.

So instead, I push him toward the entryway, hand him his shoes, then open the door. And once he’s gone, I grab the children’s ibuprofen, thankful that I didn’t take it for my period cramps, and head back upstairs to Graham.

Chapter Seventeen

AUDREY

Ihold my top arm straight against the pole and bend my bottom arm slightly as I take a few steps and use the momentum of my body to lift my feet off the ground. I’m supposed to spread my legs into a split as I spin gracefully around the bar, but my arms are shaking like I’ve never done this before, and I somehow feel weaker than when I started my pole dancing lessons four months ago. It’s impossible that I’ve suddenly lost all the muscle I’ve built—I felt so strong last week.

Then, suddenly, my arms give out, and I go sliding down the pole. Luckily, my feet hit the wood floor first, but it’s like my body has turned into silly putty and can’t withstand my own weight. Crumbling to the floor, I lie there on my side. I close my eyes, and despite the thumping of the music and the pink and purple strobe lights, all I want to do is sleep.

“Girl, this ain’t no sleepover. You better get your ass back on that pole,” I hear from above me, and when I open my eyes, I’m greeted by the shiny white leather of Danika’s platform lace-up heeled boots. I don’t know how she walks in those things, much less dances, but on my first visit here, she assured me she’d have me in a pair within six months. That’s never felt less likely than in this moment.

“I can’t.” The words come out like a pitiful croak.

She must squat down next to me, because suddenly her ass is perched on her heels, and across her thick brown thighs rests her leather whip—not that she’d ever actually use it on us, but she threatens us every class. Danika is big, and powerful, and so incredibly badass. I adore her no-nonsense, no-excuses approach. But right now, there’s no amount of threatening that’s going to give me the strength to get back up there.

“Again!” she barks at the rest of the class. Then she reaches out her hand and uses the backs of her fingers to push my damp hair off my forehead. Her fingers feel like icicles as they trail along my burning skin. “You sick?”

Is that concern I hear in her voice?

“I don’t think so?” But even as I say it, I realize that there’s no other reason I could be feeling this way. I must have caught what Graham had. Or maybe not strep—because my throat doesn’t hurt—but some sort of virus.

“You need to get your skinny ass off this floor and get yourself home and in bed.”

“I don’t think anyone haseverreferred to my ass as skinny,” I mumble, and my lips curve up in the faintest hint of a smile.

“Yeah, sure.” She lets out a throaty laugh. “Can you walk out of here, or do I have to call someone to carry you home?”

Who would I even have her call? Lauren’s doing me a favor and watching Graham tonight since Jules is out of town. Jameson is at home with the twins, who are definitely asleep by now. Morgan’s on a plane halfway to Las Vegas. A couple of years ago, I could have called Scott—he would have come and picked me up, although probably begrudgingly. I don’t know why my mind immediately goes to Drew, and the way he dropped everything a few nights ago to come bring me ibuprofen. I can’t call him to help me out again so soon, and Ishouldn’t be comparing him to Scott anyway. The situations are not the same.

“You got a boyfriend or something?” Danika asks, because apparently, I haven’t bothered to respond.

“Nope.”

“Any friends I can call?”

I push myself up onto one elbow. “No one who’s free tonight. I can get myself home.” I roll onto my hands and knees and muster up the energy to stand. The muscles in my legs protest, the tendons screaming at me as they stretch out. Why does every muscle ache? I hold on to the pole for balance.

“You sure?” Danika asks.

“Positive,” I say. I’ve always taken care of myself, and usually everyone else around me too.

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