Page 52 of Cross-Checked

“Why did he think that?”

The laugh that bursts out of me is probably the healthiest response I could have to that question. “Because he got me my first job in St. Louis.”

His thumb strokes my cheek as his eyes skim over my face. “Yeah?”

“We’d been dating for a while, and a job in operations opened up. With my experience in hockey and my degree in business, it was a perfect fit. I’d wanted to apply on my own, but he insisted on putting in a good word for me. At the time, he said he’d do anything it took to help me achieve my dreams. Now, I think he just wanted me to feel beholden to him.”

“I’m inclined to think that you’d have gotten the job with or without his recommendation,” he says, tilting his head with a pensive nod. “And you clearly didn’t sleep your way to the top once you were there. Youearnedall of that. So what I’m hearing is, either he was jealous that you were more successful than he was?—”

“Exactly.”

“—or he was so insecure he actually believed the only reason you were with him in the first place was to get a job in the NHL. He wasn’t worthy of you, so it wouldn’t surprise me if that were true, too.”

That thought had never crossed my mind. The idea that his own insecurity was what triggered that behavior would make a lot of things make a lot more sense. McCabe is still staring down at me, but the look on his face has changed.

It almost looks like he’s proud of me? I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I feel myself softening a bit more toward him.

“I’m not sure. His whole attitude toward me changed so much that season—” I stop myself somewhat abruptly because, holy shit, was I about to just tell him the most private thing about me? Something that no one else outside my family knows?

His fingers tighten on my jaw as I try to look away, and he angles my face back so there’s no option but to look him in the eye.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If he hurt you . . . if he laid a single finger on you . . .”

“Trust me,” I say, “the abuse was entirely emotional.”

His entire body stiffens. “I’m going to need you to say more about that.”

Tell him it’s none of his business, my brain insists. But somehow, the gentleness I’ve seen from him the past couple of days, combined with his possessive and protective side, makes me want to spill all my secrets.

Don’t do it. . .

I press my lips together, but even as I do so, I know I’m going to tell this man everything, even as I wonder why I can’t stop myself...even as I warn myself that it’s safer if he doesn’t know.

Maybe there’s a little part of me, some sick, twisted part, that needs to know if he’ll have the same response Chet did.

“That was the year I had my uterus removed.”

His thumb strokes my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn’t intend to let loose.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

The absolute care and concern with which he asks those questions guts me. It couldn’t possibly be more different from Chet’s response.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I suffered from uterine fibroids, starting in my mid-twenties. Sometimes they’re painless and people don’t even know they have them. But I had...” I consider how much Iwant to tell him about my symptoms, and decide he doesn’t need to know everything. “...significant side effects.”

His thumb wipes away more tears, and he nods like he wants me to continue.

“I had two surgeries to remove them, but both times they came back within a year. My doctor said that after coming back twice, it was likely that would keep happening every time they were removed. Apparently, having fibroids the size of grapefruits lining your uterus will make you infertile, which meant it was unlikely I’d ever be able to have kids.” I take a deep breath. “And given how painful they were, and that I’d be facing multiple surgeries in my future to keep removing them, I made the decision to have my uterus removed instead.”

His scent, a combination of something earthy like wood, and fresh like laundry detergent, engulfs me as he leans down and brushes his lips across my forehead. Curling his arm next to my head, he uses it as a pillow so he can lay there, facing me.

I shouldn’t turn on my side to face him fully. I shouldn’t let him wrap his other arm around my back. I shouldn’t continue my story. But when he asks what happened next, I find that I just want to keep talking.

“Chet didn’t support my decision. He couldn’t let go of the idea of us having kids one day and was convinced the next fibroid surgery would be successful.”

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