Page 3 of Lucky Laces
And I have my own work, my own processes and preparations to make.
It takes time, and I’m exhausted.
Though, at least we pulled out the win in a shootout that had the crowd on their feet and the commentators breaking down the replay of Rhodes’ filthy move on the other team’s goalie over and over again in high definition.
I should be focused onthat.
Should be focused on the fact that my first NHL game ended in a win, that I’m living my dream, finally at the peak of my career after grinding for years and years, and…
Instead, I’m shoving my fiancé’s belongings into a suitcase all while thinking I should have used a trash bag instead.
And he’s bitching about how it’s hard to make friends.
As a grown fucking man.
I grind my teeth together.
Because, fuck, I don’t have the patience for this, the time for this, the emotional bandwidth for dealing with his shit.
Not when I’m so damned…
Hurt.
That word ricochets through my insides like a bullet, wounding, sending blood spurting, and…
I’m tired.
So damned tired.
I shove the last of his clothes inside the suitcase, lean heavily on the hard plastic shell so I can wrestle the zipper closed.That accomplished, I drop it on the floor and straighten, turning toward Jason, who quickly rearranges his expression from outraged to hangdog.
And that right there is confirmation enough.
If I wasn’t already done,thatwould have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I could deal with the toilet seat being left up, the crumbs on the kitchen counter.I could look past the dirty socks on the floor and the fact that he’s never done a single load of laundry since we moved in together.
I could put up with the whining that I work too much and the annoyance that I’ve dared to interrupt his gaming time when I’m home.
I could even pretend to not be bothered by the fact that he’s never once bought me flowers.
Butthat—his wounded expression after I saw him kissing someone else on the fucking jumbotron and doing it with a passion I’ve never experienced—on top of the rest of it?
No.
Just.Fucking.No.
I grab the handle of the suitcase and start hauling it down the stairs.
“Baby—”
Through the kitchen.
“Diana, sweetheart?—”
I snag his keys from the hook and unlock the door to the garage, still carrying the damned bag.
“Honey—”
