Page 105 of The Home Grown
She was worth every single second of the wait.
And now Hutch is robbing me of that blissful post-sex closeness where you justbe.
I step towards my bedroom, depositing the bags inside my room before shutting the door. Then I brace myself as I face Hutch.
“Relax,” I say. “It’s just a friend. She was upset and I gave her a cuddle. We didn’t do anything.”
I’m lying to save face, but the truth is, I don’t know if Ellie meant for things to escalate in the way they did. I don’t know how she’s feeling. Perhaps she’ll take her shower and decide we need to pretend it never happened. And since I know I won’t be able to face the rejection, I decide not to bring it up. Ever. It’s probably better living in this sweet state of ignorance.
“Did you have sex on our sofa?” Hutch’s jaw hits the floor as he spots the comforter.
My cheeks burn hot.
“No,” I say. “I told you … we just cuddled.”
I suppose lying also saves Ellie the embarrassment. Because she’ll come out here at some point and I know what Hutch is like—he can’t leave anything to rest.
“Why don’t I believe you?” he grins, revelling in my circumstance.
“Mate.”
“Oh, well, sorry.” He holds his hands up. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that it was Rochelle you were comforting.” I wince at the sound of her name and Hutch shakes his head. “It wasn’t … was it?”
“No. God, no.” I fold my arms, looking down at the floor, letting an extended silence fall between us. There’s only the sound of running water in the distance.
But it’s Hutch who eventually breaks the quiet. He steps closer and drops his voice to a tone of concern.
“What’s going on, Betts?”
I look up, meeting his eyes, and I realise it’s time to come clean. It’s time to tell him everything. The story so far, if you will, and considering Ellie’s going to be staying here for a few days, I don’t think it’s something I’ll be able to carry on hiding.
I step past him into the kitchen and open the store cupboard, reaching for the first bottle I can find, then I grab two glasses from the draining board and flip them over, pouring a measure of whisky into each.
“Bettsy?” Hutch says, looking between me and the glasses, eyes quick, shoulders tense.
“I think you need a drink when you hear this,” I say. “And I need a drink because—well, this is my life, after all.”
Hutch studies me for a moment longer. Then, to my relief, he nods and takes a seat on the other side of the counter, perching on a bar stool and reaching for one of the glasses.
“I take it this isn’t about the game?” he asks.
I shake my head, taking a drink, trying to compose my thoughts. Then there’s nothing left to do but tell him.
“Who knows?”Hutch says, knocking back another mouthful of whisky. “Out of our lot. Who knows?”
I swallow. My throat is already dry from the talking and the burn from the whisky, but I answer him anyway, telling him how Danny came to find out.
“And I think I’m going to have to tell everyone else soon, though I don’t know how to play it.” I run my hands through my hair, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve fucked up. Massively. I’ve fucked up, mate.”
“Well, yeah. Because people talk. I’m genuinely surprised that you haven’t had a call from Coach Harris yet.”
The sickness I felt earlier comes back. Because Hutch is right. People talk and it’s a small world in British Hockey. Everyone knows everyone, or at least someone else who knows that someone. It’s tiny and word spreads pretty quick.
“But let me get this straight. He thinks you’re married. But you may actually be married … but Ellie doesn’t want to go along with being married?”
I open my mouth to reply when I catch Ellie on the edge of my vision. She’s standing on the threshold of the kitchen wearing an oversized jumper—a relaxed look. A look that has me wanting to snuggle up on the sofa with her and watch crappy TV.
She looks perfect.
