CHAPTER 8

BLANK SPACES

LANCE

Usually I don’t have a problem coming home to emptiness, but tonight I don’t like it. Panic makes me jittery every time my phone pings with another message. Being alone means free time, and I could use a distraction from the forty-three text messages—it dings again; make that forty-four—currently unread on my phone.

They’re all from Tash.

Not having my phone today was a blessing because it meant I couldn’t read or respond to anything. But now that I have it back, it’s hard not to check them, though I know it won’t do me any good to read them.

I take a minute to call my agent and my publicist. Turns out the guy I got into a fight with has a record a mile long, including several charges for domestic violence, so my stepping in actually makes me look good—not bad like I expected. It makes the aches and stitches almost worth it.

I toss my phone on the kitchen counter and open the fridge. Vodka seems like a good choice. My mum used to drink a lot of vodka. She always said it was water, but then her breath smelled like rubbing alcohol. I find a glass and fill it halfway, not bothering with ice or a mix. I grab the bottle and the glass and pass through my living room to the sliding glass doors.

Poppy said I should spend some time in the hot tub. That seems like a better idea than getting dragged into more Tash-style crap tonight.

I step out onto the back patio. The pool is covered to keep it warm, as I haven’t emptied it yet. The weather has stayed nice longer than it usually does. I set the bottle and the glass on the bar out back and flip the lid off the hot tub. Steam billows out, fogging the air briefly. I haven’t had a party in a while, so I know it’s clean. I strip down to nothing—there’s no one here, and my neighbors can’t see me—grab my drink and the bottle, and climb into the tub. Sinking down, I close my eyes. The heat feels good, but the silence is hard to take. It makes it difficult to drown out all the shit in my head.

I keep thinking this thing with Tash is going to end—that she’ll get tired of screwing me around. But every time she’s in town, she sends me messages, and every time I give in and the same stupid shit happens.

It’s a lot like how my mum used to be with me. There were good moments, times when I thought she gave a shit about more than the bottom line, more than status and prestige. But after Quinn died, everything changed.

She’d always been a live wire of a woman. She had cycles. I didn’t understand them as a kid, but as I got older I learned they were medication based. When my mum was on her meds, she was almost sweet. She didn’t yell as much, didn’t get angry, didn’t start fights with my dad. But when she was off them, she was out of control. Any little thing could send her reeling.

Quinn had been the easy kid. He listened, did what he was asked, didn’t push buttons. I wasn’t the same. And then she blamed me for his death, understandably. If I hadn’t taken the shortcut, he’d still be alive.

Once he was gone, my dad worked longer and longer hours, and my mum couldn’t cope. Most of her family had moved to the States, and so we did too. It was supposed to be a fresh start. My dad stayed four weeks and went home—not to Scotland, but to Italy. He filed for divorce as soon as he was gone. So he became another thing I’d taken away from her.

After that I focused on hockey, and my mum focused on my failures.

After practice, in front of all the coaches and other parents, she’d tell me I’d tried hard and done a good job, and I could do better next time. But the second we got to the car, the real her would come out. She was all fangs and rage. And even that was nothing compared to what I’d endure once we were home and there weren’t any witnesses. My failures gave her license to use me as an outlet for her anger.

Tash knew all of that. For some ridiculous reason I believed I could share it with her. I told her all about how messed up my childhood was, about my brother, about the abuse, and about how I deserved all of it. She’d listened quietly, and then used it against me.

She keeps doing it even now, probably because her childhood was equally messed up, maybe even more. But I’ll never know, because Tash is good at telling me what I want to hear, or what she thinks I want to hear—or maybe what she wants me to hear. She never said the most important thing: that I was enough for her. Just me. Because I wasn’t.

Maybe that’s why I keep showing up when she calls. She affirms what I already know: that I’m not worth giving a shit about. What they say about victims is true when it comes to me. I don’t know how to exist without the chaos, and I seek it because it confirms the message beaten into me as a kid: I deserve to be a victim, because my little brother was mine.

I down the glass of vodka in three long swallows and pour a refill. I polish off the second glass, hoping it will stop the turmoil that swirls around and around in my head.

I close my eyes, wishing for a way to shut down my mind for a while. Flashes of Tash with Erin make my stomach roll. I can’t keep those images from pushing their way to the front—the look on Tash’s face when I denied her, my satisfaction at making her mad, my anger over falling for her bullshit again.

I try to think about Poppy instead, about her softness, about how her touching me wasn’t something I immediately hated, and had eventually liked. I want that feeling again.

But I can’t hold on to any good thought, because Tash overrides everything.

I try a different tactic and consider what Miller said about Poppy having been at my house before. As hard as I try, I can’t find any memories of her, even though she feels familiar.

I shouldn’t have asked for her number tonight. I should focus on keeping things as professional and straightforward as possible, if I want her to have me as a client again. It’s obvious she recognized me. Something must’ve gone down—probably something I should feel bad about. But I don’t feel capable of letting it go. I want to know what I did, or said. And if it was bad, I want to fix it.

I sift through all the parties I’ve thrown since I moved into this house a year and a half ago. There’ve been so many, and I’m not great at moderation when it comes to drinking. It’s either one beer or a lot of hard liquor. And when I throw a party, it’s all about the booze and the bunnies and the fucking. Or at least it has been. But I was never as bad as the rumors made me out to be. Until Tash made them a constant reality.

Ever since things fell apart with Tash, I’ve been looking at my choices and where they’ve gotten me. It’s not anywhere good.

I have to stop fighting to remember Poppy because it’s giving me a headache. All I keep getting are flashes of parties from high school, which isn’t even remotely helpful.

I can hear my phone buzzing on the counter. There’s a good chance it’s Tash. Maybe I should answer and get it over with. But I’m tired, physically and mentally. I need some space from her before I can deal. I still hope I’ve pissed her off enough that she’s going to stop messing with me. But she’s calling after I told her not to, so that doesn’t seem to be her plan. She always does the opposite of what I want.

I down a third glass of vodka and pour a fourth. Numbness is starting to kick in, working its way through my limbs and into my brain. I close my eyes and focus on the aches and pains in my body, rather than the one in my head.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone goes off again, ruining my calm. I attempt to pour another glass of vodka, only to realize I’m out.

I hoist myself out of the hot tub and weave unsteadily toward the sliding glass door. My brain is foggy, and the emotions I’ve been contending with all day are blissfully dampened.

I grab my towel, wrapping it around my waist, then trek through the living room, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood and the rug. My phone vibrates on the granite counter, the screen lighting up. It’s a phone call, not a text.

My stomach flips and rolls. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.

I’m almost looking forward to hearing her voice. I’m almost excited for the fight we’re about to have and all the shitty, nasty things she’s going to say to me, because I deserve them. I fucked Erin, and I left her hanging. I came down her throat and refused to give her more—I wonder if that makes me just as bad as her. I let her do this to me. I let her make me into this person I hate.

I check the phone and realize it’s not Tash but Rookie, as I’ve named him, mostly because I was too drunk to remember his name when I took down his number. Rook Bowman is the newest addition to our team and the replacement for Kirk, whose only choices were retirement or being sent back to the farm team. Rookie’s a good trade and an excellent player.

I answer the call. “Hey, Rookie.”

“He picks up! How’s it going, Romance?”

“All right. Wassup?” I’m slurring already. It’s not a good sign for positive decision making.

“Me and a few of the guys are heading to Rush Street and figured you might be interested in coming out.”

I check the time. It’s not even eleven yet. We don’t have practice until later in the afternoon tomorrow. That’s plenty of time to sleep off a hangover. And then I won’t be as inclined to cave where Tash is concerned.

“You guys wanna come here first? I can make a few calls, see if there are girls looking to party.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, man, why the fuck not, right? We’re gonna be on the road soon enough. Might as well take advantage while we can.”

“Awesome. We’ll be over in half an hour, sound good? You know any bunnies who might be interested in hanging out?”

“I’ll make some calls.” I don’t really want them here, but they’re a distraction, and that’s what I need the most right now.

I end the call and pull up my contact list, dialing the sure things and dirty girls who’re always looking for another player to bang.

Less than an hour later, more than twenty people are hanging out on my back deck or swimming—I turned up the thermostat and put on the deck heater. It’s not pool weather anymore, but skimpy bikinis are always in season.

More people show up as the night wears on. The chaos around me isn’t making anything better in my head. I’m wasted and maybe a little numb to the feelings, but I don’t know half of the people at my house, and I’m tired of them already.

I didn’t bother calling Randy because he won’t come over anymore when I’ve got a party going. He doesn’t ever want to risk the good thing he’s got with Lily, and since his dad couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, Randy’s always been worried about repeating history. Miller can’t and won’t stop by on nights like this either. He’s not interested in getting his party on, thanks to Sunny and the baby she’s about to have. He just wants to be home with his girl. I can’t blame either of them for staying away, but I wish they were here to ground me.

If Tash hadn’t been the team trainer, and if she hadn’t wanted to invite all the extras along, maybe I’d be like them right now. Maybe I’d be hanging out watching TV in my bedroom with her curled up beside me.

But even as I consider it, I know that’s not how things would’ve turned out. Tash isn’t that kind of person. She screwed with my head and made me think maybe we could be more, but we couldn’t. And then she pulls things like she did last night and ruins it all over again.

The two girls to the right of me in the hot tub have started to make out. They’re doing it because they think it’s going to get my attention. Which it does. They’re both hot, both brunettes. I’ve fucked them before. Together. They’re the reason the rumors about me started in the first place. Until Tash, it had been a one-time thing.

The curvier of the two keeps bumping my arm as she runs her hands over her friend. Normally I wouldn’t allow this, but the booze makes me numb to sensations I don’t like.

I just want to feel the way I did earlier today, when Poppy’s hands were on me. But these girls aren’t her, and I don’t have the energy or desire to entertain them tonight.

Rookie’s sitting on the other side of the hot tub, watching them make out.

Curvy turns to me. “Should I take her top off?”

I’ve had some shots since I started the night with half a bottle of vodka, and when I open my mouth, I realize my filter is completely gone. I look to Rookie. “You think she should lose her bikini top?”

Rookie lifts a shoulder, like this is no big deal, but I know better. He’s small town, and I don’t think this excess is something he’s used to yet, having come from the minors. I’d feel bad about corrupting him, but I’m an asshole, and I don’t feel much of anything tonight. Except all the fucking emptiness.

“Are you going to take us upstairs again?” Curvy runs her hands down her friend’s sides and grabs her hips. They grind against each other, moving to the shitty music someone’s put on.

I remember how things went down when they came up to my room before. They’d been the ones to suggest it, and I’d been drunk enough to entertain the idea, but it wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed—too much managing too many sets of hands.

While they kiss, I wonder if it would be different with Poppy. Maybe if she touched me the way those girls are touching each other, I wouldn’t mind it. And then I realize how fucked up that is, since she’s not supposed to put her hands on me like that. And I shouldn’t want her to.

“Come on, Lance, let’s go upstairs and get naked,” Curvy says, trying to drop into my lap.

I stop her by the hips before she can sit down. “You should take Rookie upstairs.”

She gives me a pouty face. “Let Tina have Rookie, and I’ll take you.”

“Not tonight, gorgeous. Go show my friend all the amazing things you can do with that pretty mouth of yours.”

And they do. No more questions asked, because it doesn’t matter who they’re fucking—me, Rookie, or one of the other players—just as long as they’re screwing someone they can brag about on social media.

I get out of the hot tub and go inside, stumbling a little on the stairs on the way up to my room. My door is locked, so I fumble for the key I keep in the secret pocket of my bathing suit and let myself in. Then I lock it behind me so I don’t get any surprise visitors.

My phone is charging on the nightstand. I drop down on my bed and pick it up. My vision is blurry, but I can see there are more messages from Tash.

I give in and bring them up, clicking on her contact. The most recent was sent fifteen minutes ago.

It includes a picture of those two girls from the hot tub making out, with me sitting behind them looking bored.

The message below reads:

I hate that her words hurt. I hate that they make me feel anything at all.