19. Anthony

The day had left me more wrung out than a playoff game that had gone into triple overtime. It had taken more effort than it should have to go through the motions of getting ready for bed. Even letting the boys drink from the bathroom faucet, including watching Bear get predictably confused (and wet), had only drawn a halfhearted chuckle out of me.

But did I pass out the second I landed in my bed?

No, I did not.

Lying on my back, I stared up at the ceiling as the day, the past couple of weeks, and the past few years replayed through my brain like a badly edited film. I saw Simon and me sniping at each other while we grabbed soda from the car. I saw us tumbling into the bed the very first time, laughing and playful as we pulled off the suits we’d worn to and from the game. I saw us breaking up in that hotel bed. I saw us sharing an on-ice kiss to the roar of our fans.

And interspersed between those scenes, I saw Wyatt. The long conversations about anything, everything, and nothing. The terrified, vulnerable man begging for someone to keep his beloved dog safe. The gentle, patient interactions with Monica as she faced down her fear of dogs.

Then there was me. Tense and stressed out while Simon was home. Lonely and miserable when he was gone. Too far away and too close to him in a hotel room. Relieved to be his ex. Suffocating under the pressure of pretending to still be his boyfriend. Laughing with Wyatt. Telling him about hockey, assuring him he didn’t have to listen to me ramble, and loving his little smile and “No, go on—I want to learn how the game works.” Comfortable and right with someone else in this house that was too big for one.

I sighed, rubbing my exhausted eyes. It shouldn’t have been easier to coexist with a houseguest—a stranger—than my own boyfriend. And now that Simon was my ex-boyfriend, the pressure should’ve been off. We should’ve been fighting less. Butting heads less. Irritating each other less.

Yeah. That was working out.

It was extra frustrating because I kept mentally comparing our bullshit to the way I interacted with the man sleeping downstairs right now. I barely knew Wyatt, but I liked him. I liked how I felt when I was around him. Hell, I liked whoIwas when I was with him. I liked talking and hanging out without the sound of eggshells cracking beneath my feet. He was easygoing. He was…

He was a nice guy. I was pretty sure Simon had been at one time, too, and maybe he still was when it came to other people. Me? Not so much.

My thoughts kept drifting back to Wyatt. Maybe because he was more pleasant to think about than Simon. Hell, I’d run with it.

The night we’d met, I hadn’t thought twice about his appearance because my only concern had been getting him and his dog someplace warm.

Then he’d come strolling into my kitchen looking like a whole new man, turning my head because he was just so different from earlier. It wasn’t attraction then, though.

But what about that little skip in my pulse when he talked to his dog or one of my cats? What about that flutter in my chest when I wore a suit and caught him checking me out when he didn’t think I’d notice? What about that addictive calm I always felt when I was with him, whether we were talking or shopping or just watching a hockey game?

What about those eyes… That smile…

Except no, no, no. I wasn’t in any space to be looking at anyone else. I needed to move on from Simon. Hell, maybe that was what I was doing—locking on to the nearest good-looking man who wasn’t Simon.

In fact, was I just attracted to him because he was so unlike Simon?

And… God. Was that how far gone things were with Simon? Had he really become so repulsive to me that someone could turn my head just by being different from him? Fuck. That was a heavy thought.

I didn’t think it was the whole story, either. There was a spark of attraction toward Wyatt that had nothing to do with Simon. I just wasn’t in any headspace to look too closely at that spark, never mind fan it and see what it could become.

Especially not when I suddenly had this ball of grief and regret roiling in my chest. I hadn’t felt as much as I’d expected to when Simon had dumped me, and I still didn’t feel all the things I thought I should.

I did have some feelings, though, and right now, they all hurt. The worst part was realizing I missed Simon, but I didn’t want him back. Today, I’d been split between wanting to cry over how far removed we were from when we’d still been in love, and wanting to tear into him for being such an insufferable asshole. There was no going back to what we’d been in the beginning, and that beginning was what I was missing. The love. The warmth. Cuddling in bed until we absolutely had to get up and head to practice. Walking into events with his hand in my elbow or mine in his, both of us smiling and proud. Skating and scrimmaging together on those early off-season mornings so we’d both be in peak condition at training camp.

I missed all of that. I missed it so bad it physically hurt.

But the man I’d shared all those things with was gone. He’d been gone since long before he’d moved out of this house, and he wasn’t coming back. I’d spent two of the best years of my life with him and one of the worst, and that third one didn’t make the first two any easier to let go.

What happened to us, Simon?

I’d asked that a million times today, and I still didn’t have an answer.

Some movement beside me pulled me out of my thoughts. One of the cats chirped. The mattress dipped beside me, and then a soft paw tapped my arm. Despite how close I was to breaking apart, I managed a little smile as I reached out in the darkness. When I petted him, he arched his back and purred low and loud.

Moose. Definitely Moose.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmured.

He bumped his big head against my face, and I managed a soft laugh as I sputtered around his fluff. He walked in some circles, then pawed at my arm again. I got the message and turned onto my side, facing him. He immediately dropped onto the mattress against my chest, his head under my chin.

I didn’t know if he understood that I was upset—if he sensed something in me the way Lily sensed them in Wyatt—or if he just wanted cuddles right then. Either way, the affection of my normally aloof cat hit me in the feels. I had to work to swallow past the lump in my throat as I squeezed my eyes shut and petted his soft fluff. He kneaded on my arm and the pillow, and little by little, his deep, steady purring shook my foundation loose.

In the giant bed I’d once shared with Simon, holding on to Moose like a big teddy bear, I finally let the dam break.

I finally let myself grieve what Simon and I would never be again.