Page 34 of Icing the Cougar
When I hit the exit, the air outside is cold enough to bite. I stand there for a second, blinking hard at the streetlights, before I start moving. By the time I reach my car, I let the tears fall.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a string of texts piling up one after another. I don’t even look to answer any.
I get in, slam the door, and let the silence settle over me.
Chapter 17
Jasper
I’m not even all the way in the apartment before the dread hits. The place is a black box, hollow and wrong. The fridge hums, the heater clicks, and I stand in the dark, keys still biting my palm, waiting to feel something besides the cold climbing up my legs. If I had any balls left, I’d turn on every light and break the silence with my own fucking voice. Instead, I just stare at the city outside the window, hands fisted and useless.
There’s hockey gear dumped right in the entryway, two empty protein shake bottles on the counter, a tape roll that’s slowly unraveling on the kitchen island. Trinity’s yoga mat is still by the TV, rolled up loose with a bright hair tie keeping it shut. There’s a single hair on the mat, red-brown and long. I see it from twenty feet away. It taunts me.
I kick my skates out of the way, miss, and they clatter against the wall, taking a chip of paint with them. The sound echoes like a gunshot. The neighbors probably hate me, but no one is going to say shit to my face.
I pace the room, hands digging into my hair so hard it feels like I could rip it out. My phone buzzes again and rumbles across the glass tabletop. I don’t need to look. I know it’s Riley or one of the other assholes, probably trying to check in or get the real story. Maybe it’s Coach G, thinking he can fix me with a locker room speech. I let the phone vibrate until it slides off the table and drops on the rug.
The apartment is a mess, but I can see every single place Trinity left a mark. Not just the mat, or the hair tie, or the way her favorite mug—peach ceramic, chipped at the lip—still sits by the sink because I never remembered to load the dishwasher. There’s a piece of her everywhere. A single earring abandoned by the shower drain, her scent in the hoodie she always stole, a spiral notebook with half the pages dog-eared where she doodled or wrote notes or left hearts in the margins of her old grocery lists.
I want to throw all of it away. I want to leave it exactly where it is and pretend she’s coming back for it. I want to punch a hole through the plaster just to see if it hurts more than thinking about her walking out.
I do the next best thing. I stalk over to the wall next to the window, draw back my right hand, and drive my fist into the drywall as hard as I can. The pain is bright and real, instantly blooming across my knuckles. It doesn’t break the skin, but itleaves a crater, a powdery ring and a faint red outline of my hand. I lean my head against the cold glass and let the air burn my lungs.
The phone rings again. I ignore it. Let it go straight to voicemail, where there’s probably a half-dozen garbled messages already, each more useless than the last.
My face in the window is a stranger. Dark rings under my eyes, jaw clenched so tight I can hear my own teeth grind. There’s still blood on my cheek from tonight. I swipe at it with the back of my hand, smearing it further.
I grab the mug off the counter, and for a split second I think about smashing it in the sink, but I can’t do it. I hold it in both hands and close my eyes, breathing in the faint ghost of her chamomile and lemon tea, and it makes me want to scream.
I set it back down, careful, like it’s the last thing holding the world together.
My hands shake. I tell myself it’s the adrenaline, but I know better. I can feel the heat behind my eyes, the pressure building. I don’t cry. I’ve never cried, not since I was a kid and my dad told me men who cry deserve every bad thing that happens to them.
This feels different. This feels like losing a tooth, or getting punched in the stomach, or crashing so hard you can’t get up again.
I go to the window, forehead against the glass, and stare at the city. The lights look fake, too bright and far away to mean anything. I think about texting Trinity, just to say one last thing, but the words stick in my throat. There’s nothing I can say that would make any of it better. I’m exactly what she thought I was. Less, even.
The phone rings again, and I pick it up on instinct. There’s a rash of missed calls and texts on the lock screen. I swipe them all away and turn the phone face down.
I stand there for a long time, watching my breath fog up the glass, counting the seconds until I feel steady again.
It doesn’t happen.
Instead, I walk to the yoga mat, kneel down, and unravel it just a little. The hair is still there, coiled and weightless. I pick it up, wrap it around my pinky, and close my fist around it. I press my knuckles into the mat, leave a fresh blood smear where I cracked them on the wall. I don’t know if I’m trying to mark it or wipe myself out of the picture.
Either way, I stay like that until my legs go numb, my back aches, and the city outside starts to lose its light.
I tell myself I’m going to be fine. That I’ve survived worse.
I don’t believe it.
Not for a fucking second.
Every muscle in my body wants to move, fight, break something. It’s not even midnight, but the walls are closing in, and I have to get out. So, I stalk to the second bedroom that’s the so-called “gym” I set up when the team first moved me to Chicago and turn on every single light. The harsh fluorescents flicker to life.
The gym is a joke. One bench, a squat rack, a couple kettlebells, and a treadmill that I only use for sprints when I’m feeling extra masochistic. The air smells like rubber and old socks.
I rip off my t-shirt, shoving it into the corner, and load up the bench with way too much weight. The steel clangs, echoing up to the ceiling. I lay back, grab the bar, and start pressing. The first set burns, but not enough. I add more plates. Do another set. Each time, my arms shake harder. My wrists pop, then my shoulder. I welcome it. I’m not here to get better. I’m here to hurt.
