Page 113 of The Home Grown
Then it clicks: pity. That’s what I’m seeing. She’s pitying me.
“I just don’t want her taking advantage of you, Mike. I know how you are with women and?—”
“Excuse me?” I snap. “Just because I’ve made a few poor decisions doesn’t mean I’m not capable of making a good one every now and again.”
Vicky’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out for several seconds.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she says. “Johnny told me you’re actually married. I mean …married, married.”
She stumbles over the words, blinking like she can’t quite believe she’s saying them. Then she settles on a sentence that knocks the wind out of me.
“Don’t you think it’s a little convenient that she showed up in time for you to be named on the Team GB roster?”
I gape at her. Properly gape.
But Vicky doesn’t stop.
“I don’t want her to take advantage of you,” she says.
“She’s not,” I say. “She’s not like that at all. She actually sees me—not just the jersey. In fact, she’s never even been to a game.” I blow out a breath. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s not needed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to suit up.”
I stride past her, long steps towards the dressing room where the low buzz of chatter filters out.
The nerves I felt on the other side of the double doors are gone—burnt up and replaced by rage. My temper’s sizzling, sharp and hot.
The double doors open in the distance, and I stop short of the dressing room, turning to see Vicky hurrying away.
One. Two. Three breaths. So deep I can feel the pressure in my chest—like my lungs are close to bursting.
Then I exhale, pushing out the tension and ill feeling I have, because there’s no way in hell I can walk into this dressing room half-wounded.
What’s wrong, Bettsy? She’s dumped you already?
The guys will have a field day.
So, I do what I do best. I push on the door and force a grin, strutting into the dressing room with my head high.
Then I wait for the influx of questions. The demands for information. The inquest.
But nothing comes. There’s stunned silence as everyone looks in my direction, but no one says a single word.
The guys are sitting in their cubbies, in various stages of undress. As I close in on mine, dropping my bag down and shrugging off my jacket, I’m met with a wall of nothing.
No questions.
No side-chat.
Nothing.
And this is the most worrying thing I’ve ever faced.
Simply put, these guys are never quiet. And I’ve never in my entire life entered a dressing room to render everyone speechless.
It’s only when I sit down and look around the room do I realise no one is looking at me anymore; it’s unsettling.
I tilt my head to peek at Johnny, busying himself with his shin pads. I cast a glance at Hutch, who’s trying to find the end on a roll of tape. I pan across to Danny, lacing his left skate with so much concentration I can practically hear his brain ticking over.
Every single guy in the room isbusy.
