Page 57 of Mile High Coach

It’s a fitting punishment for blowing up the one good thing that’s happened to me.

After the run, I get into a scalding hot shower and scrub the sweat from my body. I dry my body, dry my hair, apply lotion, and pull on something I might wear on a casual Friday. A pair of jeans, a blouse. Dressy for home, casual for work.

I sit at the kitchen table before Dad or Chrys are up and work through my tasks for the Blue Crabs. I watch the film, I analyze the players’ performances, I force myself to keep my eyes from darting to Harrison.

When Chrys comes out, we work together to get Dad up, to the bathroom, cleaned up and ready for the day. We drink our coffees together. I get back to work.

And when my stuff for the Blue Crabs is done, I apply to job after job, reach out to potential client after potential client, even though none of the opportunities will even come close to paying what the NHL team has paid me.

After applying to no fewer than ten open positions in or near Portland, I excuse myself and go to my room—the same one I grew up in, where my cheap high school jewelry still hangs from the mirror—fall onto the bed, and let myself cry.

I cry because I know that, according to my research, it will allow me to release the stress hormones in my body. I convince myself that by crying a little every day, I can let out the hurt until it’s completely gone.

And I schedule a time to cry, alone in my room, because I know that if I don’t, I’ll burst into tears at the dinner table, and I don’t want my dad or sister to know that this is getting to me the way it is.

So I curl up on the bed, clutch a pillow to my chest, and cry quietly into it until the hour is up.

That’s what I’m doing, four weeks after leaving Baltimore, when Chrys finds me.

“I knew it,” she says, flipping on the light and standing in the doorway, staring at me through her large, round glasses. “I knew you weren’t as okay as you pretended to be.”

“This is me being okay,” I say, heaving in a deep breath and realizing I can’t stop the tears. Maybe my body has gotten used to crying for an hour every day, and it’s not happy about my attempts to cut the time short.

Chrys shakes her head, flips the light off again, and walks into my room, kicking off her slippers and crawling into the bed with me. I sit up with my back against the wall and she copies that pose, grabbing a pillow and holding it to her chest.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” I practically whimper, reaching for the tissues I set on the nightstand for this purpose. “It’s not like I want to date him.”

It’s a callback to the only other conversation we’ve had about this. In which Chrys said a relationship with Harrison wouldn’t be like the one between our parents, because Harrison is older, and holds more power.

The worst part is that I don’t necessarily disagree with her. I’m smart enough to know about all the ways society offers him more power than me. And I am, apparently, stupid enough to think that this time it’s different.

I don’t want to condense each moment with him, every kindness, every gentle brush of his hand and show of his compassion, to mean that something could have ever happened between us.

“Fuck, Lovie,” Chrys says, rubbing harshly at her eyes. “I didn’t know you were going to fall in love with him. And also, for the record, I didn’t know he was going to be…like that.”

I lift my head from my knees, twisting to look at her. “Like what?”

She shrugs, looks to the ceiling. “All…normal. Nice. I mean, offering to fly me and dad out just to see you, so you could have a good Christmas? You should have seen the hotel he was going to put us up in, Lovie. And he wanted us to come stay with him, before I convinced him that a hotel was a better option.”

“Why did you agree to come?”

She pauses, thinking. “I wanted to see you. Dad wanted to see you. We thought…well, we obviously knew there was something going on between you and Harrison, but didn’t realize it was going to be like that.”

I suck in a breath. This is the part where I could tell Chrys the truth—that I was using Harrison for sperm. Trying to getpregnant with him. Being the most reckless my contract-writing self can be.

But just for now, I’m going to keep that to myself. Keep it between Harrison and me.

As complicated as my feelings are toward him right now, I still feel tender toward him. Protective. Possessive. Even from five hundred miles away.

“He seems like a good guy, Lovie. And as much as you’ve tried to hide it, Dad and I can both see the ways this is getting to you. All that stuff I said about his age…Dad said it was unfair to you.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Never thought it would be dad, encouraging me to go after an older guy.”

“I don’t know about encouraging,” Chrys laughs, “but he just wants you to be happy, Lovie. That’s what we both want.”

“I want a family,” I say, blinking after I do, realizing the words have just popped out at me. Chrys’s brow wrinkles, and I clarify, “A baby, Chrys. I was seeing a fertility doctor, planning for IVF before the second round of medical bills.”

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