9. Anthony

Dragging myself out of bed the next morning took some serious work. I hadn’t slept for shit last night, and I was going to pay for it at practice today. Ugh.

I shuffled into the bathroom for a shower, then pulled on some sweats and a T-shirt to go hunt down breakfast and coffee. They wouldn’t do much to revive me from this zombielike state, but they’d keep me from faceplanting on the ice. Hopefully.

I paused at the top of the stairs to let the cats go thundering down first. Lesson learned the hard way.

“You need to be excused from practice.” Coach’s incredulous voice still rang in my ears, “because you tripped over your cat?”

“No, because my cat knocked me down the stairs.”

The long pause on the other end of the line would’ve been comical had I not been sore and miserable.

I’d finally said, “Simon saw the whole thing. He can vouch for me.”

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end, followed by, “All right. Will you at least be here to study film with the team?”

I had, and my teammates had given me no end of shit for nearly winding up on injured reserve because of my cats. Though Simon and I had hosted Thanksgiving a couple of weeks later, and some of the teasing had eased up.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Beaus had exclaimed. “You said you got knocked down by a kittycat! Not by a fluffy horse!”

I chuckled at the memory as I followed the boys down. Some of the guys joked that we should put boots on the cats and see if they could pull us around the ice. They probably could, but I doubted they’d like—

Is that bacon?

I halted at the bottom of the stairs. Was I hallucinating? Or did I actually smell bacon?

I inhaled deeply. If I was hallucinating, I was doing it vividly, because oh my God, that smelled amazing.

Then something clattered, and Wyatt’s laughter came down the hall. “That’s not a toy, you weirdo. It’s an egg.”

Wait, was Wyatt… Was he cooking breakfast?

I continued into the kitchen, and sure enough, he was at one of the two islands with a pan on the stove. Lily sat a foot or so away, and Moose was perched on the counter. Wyatt nudged the bacon with a spatula, and with his other hand, he tried to redirect Bear, who had apparently become fascinated with the eggs still sitting the carton.

Wyatt met my gaze and smiled. “Oh, hey. Breakfast?”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure.” I scooped Bear off the counter and put him on my hip. “That smells amazing.”

Another quick smile, though it faltered. “You don’t mind me, uh…” He gestured at everything.

“Not at all. Especially not if you’re making bacon.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day.” He pointed with the spatula at the microwave. “There’s a whole plate in there, and I’m making more.”

I chuckled as I headed for the microwave. “Ah, so you’ve learned the art of hiding food from the cats.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t know cats were this, um… assertive?”

“Most aren’t. Maine Coons are…” I waved a hand. “They’re something else.”

“You don’t say.”

I pulled the plate out of the microwave and was treated to a perfectly cooked strip of bacon. Apparently he liked his bacon the same way I did, too—in that perfect sweet spot between crispy and not. I gestured with the half-finished strip. “This is great, by the way.”

“You’re the one who bought the good stuff.” He gave me a brief smile. “I just cooked it.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t burn it, so I’m happy.”

“I noticed yesterday you liked it like this, so…”

“Mmhmm, I do. Glad you made a ton of it, too.”

He’d also made a ton of eggs, so he must’ve also taken note of how much I ate for breakfast. Less than five minutes after I’d come into the kitchen, I had a plate with a heaping portion of scrambled eggs and several strips of perfectly cooked bacon.

Wyatt served himself a smaller but still generous portion, and we sat at the other island on the barstools to eat. I wasn’t sure what he’d done differently than I usually did, but the eggs tasted amazing. Like they were lightly seasoned in a way that even our team chefs didn’t match. I recognized the flavor, too, though I was either too tired to name it or just couldn’t connect the taste to something I’d put on eggs. It was vaguely sweet and seemed to be in the ballpark of cinnamon, but it definitely wasn’t cinnamon.

“For the record,” I said between bites, “you’re not obligated to lift a finger while you and Lily are staying here, but I will absolutely not say no to your cooking if you feel like it.”

He laughed, and I was startled by how cute he was when he blushed. “So you like it, then?”

“I do. A lot.” I loaded some eggs onto my fork. “We have the most incredible chefs cooking for the team at home and on the road, and I think you could teach them a thing or two about cooking eggs.”

Oh. Wow. That smile. Wyatt was a good-looking man to begin with. He had the most beautiful hazel-green eyes I’d ever seen, and he rocked the neatly trimmed beard. When he smiled, though? Fuuuck.

Mercifully unaware of me drooling over him, he gestured at his plate. “It’s just cumin.”

“Cumin. Ah. I thought I recognized it.” I took another bite, and this time I definitely made the connection. “I never thought to put it on eggs.”

He gave me a smile that bordered on shy this time, and I was not prepared for how cute it was. Focusing on his food again, he said, “One of the guys I went to combat with brought it along. MREs are so fucking disgusting, so most of us just drowned them in hot sauce, but my buddy found that some actual seasoning helped. Even when we had real non-MRE food, it was still pretty bland, and he showed me how to wake it up a little.” He paused. “I, uh, hope you don’t mind me snooping through your spice rack.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Are you kidding? This is amazing.” I took another bite. “I might have to bring some spices with me on the road. The hotels have really good food, but sometimes…” I grimaced and wobbled my hand in the air.

“I bet.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m glad you like it, though.”

“I do. It’s awesome.”

We ate in silence for a while. I hadn’t even realized I’d had cumin on the spice rack; that was probably something Simon had picked up, since he was the better and more adventurous cook between us. Maybe I needed to play around with some of the seasonings he’d bought. Or have Wyatt show me a thing or two.

After a few minutes, Wyatt broke the silence between us. “Listen, I’m really sorry about last night.” He avoided my gaze as he nudged his eggs with his fork. “I honestly didn’t think I was loud enough to wake somebody on another floor, but—”

“You didn’t.”

He turned to me, brow pinched.

I turned my attention to my own food. “I was already awake. I, um… I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “Just…” I gestured at my head. “Mind was all over the place. The game… It…” I sighed. “It just wasn’t a good night.” I paused and winced. “I mean, yours was a lot worse, and—”

“Anthony.” He nudged me gently with his elbow. “It’s not a competition. I had bad nights long before my head was ever fucked up from the war. I get it.”

I chewed my lip, not sure what to say.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I guess it was just a rough night for both of us.”

“Yeah, it was.” The reasons why last night had sucked for me wanted to come pouring out, but Wyatt didn’t need to listen to me complain about my relationship. And I’d spend most of the conversation pleading with him not to breathe a word to anyone—even though we didn’t know any of the same people—about my situation, because I was that fucking paranoid about someone finding out there was trouble in paradise. Maybe I needed to talk to a counselor. Simon wasn’t interested, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t. Right?

Beside me, Wyatt cleared his throat. “Just, um… Just FYI, that might not be the only time that happens while I’m here. It’s a little hard to predict.”

“That’s okay.” I turned to him. “Does that happen when you’re, um… When you’re living…”

“When I’m out on the street?”

I nodded.

Wyatt shrugged. “Once in a while.” He gave a near-silent laugh as he picked up a strip of bacon. “Probably the one teeny tiny silver lining of my situation is that I usually don’t sleep deeply enough to have the worst nightmares.” He bit off a piece of the bacon. “Fucking sucks, not getting actual sleep, but…”

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “And that’s… It’s PTSD from the military, right?”

He nodded.

“Is that—definitely tell me if this is none of my business, but… is your leg also from your time in the military?”

Another nod. “The amputation came after I was discharged, but the original injury—yeah, that happened in the Army.”

“Jesus.” I studied him, then cautiously asked, “Doesn’t all that qualify you for disability through the military?”

Wyatt gave a sharp sniff of bitter amusement. “In theory, yeah.”

I cocked a brow. “In theory?”

The sigh and the way his shoulders dropped spoke of frustration, anger, and resignation. “I get thirty percent disability from the VA. Which isn’t much. Especially not in Seattle.”

“Thirty percent? With combat PTSD and after you lost your leg? Do I even want to know what it takes to get a hundred percent?”

“In hindsight?” He laughed, the sound quiet and caustic. “Getting it amputated before being discharged.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded and took another bite of his eggs. After a sip of coffee, he went on. “The short version is that I injured it on active duty—broke my ankle three places—and it never healed properly. All the shit you’ve heard about military medical? How it’s awful?” He nodded sharply. “It’s true. I mean, there are some military doctors who are fantastic, and some of the bases have excellent facilities. But others? Not so much.”

I inclined my head. “They neglected it to the point it had to be amputated?”

“In a nutshell, yeah. The surgeon—I don’t remember exactly what the issue was, but my civilian orthopedist said the guy made a mess of it. And it was an even bigger mess because after I’d been declared fit for duty, I had to keep running on it, which—”

“Wait, wait—running? Like literally running?”

Wyatt laughed dryly. “That’s half of being in the military. Running, running, and more running.”

“Fuck,” I whispered. “I had trouble skating after a sprained ankle healed, and that’s a lot lower impact than running. I can’t imagine running on a badly healed broken ankle.”

“I don’t recommend it,” he muttered. “I kept going to medical, but they just gave me Motrin and sent me back out.”

“Whoa. That’s… I’m not surprised it didn’t heal.”

“Right? And the thing is, it was almost five years from the initial injury until my civilian doctors said it was so far gone, amputation was the best way to go. Plus I’d reinjured it during that time. I’ve got reams of letters from my doctors saying the second injury wouldn’t have been nearly as catastrophic without the preexisting one, especially if the first had been treated properly from the start. From what they told me, it was honestly a miracle my ankle lasted as long as it did.”

I shivered. “And they just kept making you run on it and live like that?”

Wyatt nodded. “So it was just getting worse and worse, and the pain was—it was bad. The amputation actually gave me back my quality of life. But then trying to fight about it with the VA…” He sighed heavily. “At one point they even tried to say I shouldn’t get disability at all for the damaged ankle because of the amputation.”

My jaw fell open. “What? How does that work?”

“Because the service-related injury was in my ankle. Now that I don’t have the ankle, I don’t have the injury either.”

“But… that injury was the reason for the amputation.”

“No, the later injury was the reason for the amputation.” He rolled his eyes. “So the amputation wasn’t service-related.”

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

“Yeah. So we’re still fighting it. Thank God I found a lawyer who’s willing to work pro bono for veterans, or I’d be firmly up Shit Creek.”

“Wow. That’s… I mean, I’d heard that veterans got screwed over a lot, but that’s…” There weren’t words for it, that was for sure. “That’s insane.”

“It is.” He looked down at Lily, who was sitting dutifully by his chair. “I’m lucky I was able to get her.” He stroked over her head. “The VA tried to push back on my claim for PTSD, too, and I couldn’t get the dog until I had the rating from the VA.” He exhaled. “Fortunately, I found an organization that would accept a civilian therapist’s diagnosis, especially if a claim with the VA is still pending, and they don’t charge veterans for dogs.”

“Thank God for that,” I murmured.

“Right? Especially since my VA rating wouldn’t have qualified me for a dog because they only rated me for thirty percent.” He rolled his eyes. “My therapist was furious because she insisted I should have at least fifty percent, but I didn’t want to fight it. I thought my leg would get me to the full hundred percent anyway, so there was no point in fighting.”

“So you got fucked over your leg and your PTSD.”

Wyatt nodded. “And I could probably still go back and fight for that part, but…” His gaze turned distant as he shook his head slowly. “The process is so…”

Silence held for a moment. Then Lily got up and put her front paws in his lap. Just like she had that first night in the vet clinic, she leaned hard against him, pressing her head against his midsection.

Wyatt closed his eyes and petted her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “It’s all… hard to talk about.”

“That’s okay. I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He met my gaze. “It’s hard, but it’s also good, you know?”

“I bet. But just don’t feel like you have to spell it out for me, okay? I don’t want to make things worse for you.”

“I appreciate it.” He paused. “Ironically, the VA doesn’t seem to have that problem.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Mmhmm. In order to get approved, you have to spell out exactly what gave you the PTSD.” He swallowed hard, stroking Lily’s shoulder as she kept leaning on him. “You have to spell it out in detail. What happened. When. Where.” He shivered. “Who died.”

My jaw went slack. “Wait, you have to—are you serious?”

He nodded.

“That seems…”

“Cruel? Unnecessary?” He rested his chin on his dog’s neck. “Almost like they’re trying to deter people from applying by turning the process into something that retraumatizes them? Yeah. I agree.”

I whistled and sat back. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. I was lucky—I still had my therapist at that point, so she helped me fill it out. Took like four appointments to get it all out on paper, and we didn’t even list every incident because it was just too damn much.”

“Unbelievable. And they still turned you down? Or, well, rated you for less than you should’ve been?”

“Yep. And I just… I didn’t—I don’t have it in me to keep fighting for the PTSD rating.” He picked up his fork and ate another bite of eggs. “The process is absolute hell. I tried, but I can’t do it. My lawyer is still working at getting them to approve the claim for my leg.”

I picked up my coffee but didn’t drink it yet. “How long do you think it’ll take to actually resolve it and get them to approve your claim?”

Wyatt half-shrugged. “Could be next week. Could be five years from now. And the answer could be yes or it could be no. There’s really no predicting it.”

“Do they know about your, um—your living situation?”

He nodded. “I’m on the list for some assistance there. But again, who knows how long it’ll actually take?”

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“Yeah, it’s…” He paused, then shook his head and went for his coffee. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to trauma dump on you.”

“No, it’s fine. I honestly had no idea how bad things are for veterans. Especially the ones in your situation.”

“It’s rough,” he admitted quietly. He took a sip, and as he put the cup back down, he turned to me. “And to be clear, the night terrors suck, but being able to sleep deeply enough to have them is a hell of an improvement. I’ll just try not to wake you up.”

“Don’t worry about that.” I gestured at Lily. “I’m just glad you have her there to help you down from it.”

At that, Wyatt finally smiled, lighting up the room like the morning sun landing on Lake Washington. “She’s amazing.” He petted her head. “The nightmares still suck, but she always manages to pull me out before they get really bad.”

Goose bumps prickled my spine. He’d literally woken up screaming last night—it could get worse from there? I couldn’t imagine living like that. Thank God for Lily.

Before I could say anything more, the rumble of the garage door almost drove a frustrated groan out of me. Christ. I was so not ready to deal with Simon today.

That sent a rock of guilt into the pit of my stomach. He was my boyfriend. We were supposed to be making this work, not turning into one of those miserable sitcom couples who wanted to bludgeon each other just for breathing. Was that where this was headed?

I hoped not.

Clearing my throat, I got up to rinse my plate. “I’d better get going. Thanks again for making breakfast.”

Wyatt’s smile once more lit up the world, and somehow facing the rest of the day wasn’t so unpalatable.

In the garage, the X5 engine idled but didn’t shut off. A second later, my phone pinged with a text.

Simon:Ready to go when you are.

The rock in my stomach got heavier. He was pissed about something, wasn’t he?

“I, um…” I cleared my throat and glanced at Wyatt. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Okay. Go ahead and leave that.” He nodded toward the plate in my hand. “I’ll clean everything up as soon as I’m finished.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” I went ahead and rinsed off the plate. “You cooked. The least I can do is clean up after myself.”

He just didn’t need to know I was also stalling to avoid going out to Simon’s car.

Good God. What happened to us?

The rideto our practice arena in Northgate was miserably silent. Simon hadn’t even bothered with a snide comment after I kept him waiting for a couple of minutes, and I had no idea what to say.

We were halfway across the heavily congested floating bridge when he finally broke the silence. “You didn’t have your head together last night.”

I worked my jaw. Had we been home or on our way home—even in a hotel room on the road—I’d have snapped back at him. He wanted a fight? Fine. Let’s fucking fight.

But we were twenty minutes away from the rink, and there was enough tension between us lately that this promised to be a protracted spat. We could get away with a brief exchange and still have our game faces on by the time we walked into the locker room. If we let it rip now, then at best we’d both be fuming when we got to the rink. Not ideal.

So I took a deep breath and counted to… Okay, not quite ten, but enough that I wouldn’t bite his head off. When I was sure I could keep my voice even, I said, “It was an off night.”

“Uh-huh.” Never had two syllables been laced with more dubiousness and sarcasm. He really wanted to fight, didn’t he?

“I’m good today,” I lied through my teeth. “It was just bad night. You have them too.” I regretted that last part as soon as I said it.

“Yeah, I do,” he snapped. “But at least I don’t dig the team into a damn hole because of it.”

I literally bit my tongue to hold back the words that desperately wanted to come flying out.

Oh, really? You’ve never been the reason our team’s had multiple power play goals against in a single game? And I must’ve hallucinated that night you were in a pissy mood and finally lost your temper and slashed a fucking goalie. Get wrecked, you fucking hypocrite.

Sighing, I rubbed my forehead. I hated that we were like this. I hated how badly I wanted to tear into him, and how much he seemed to want me to do exactly that. Which… fuck. Maybe we needed to. We weren’t getting anywhere by bottling things up and refusing to talk about the hard stuff. I’d been telling myself for a while now that I was a dick for picking fights, but goddamn, maybe we needed to fight—really fight—this time so we could get some of this shit out of our systems. Argue and yell and shout, and then when we ran out of steam, talk things through and get somewhere for a change.

But… no.

Because we were three exits away from the practice arena.

So all I said was, “Today will be better,” and I let him be loudly skeptical about it for the rest of the drive.

I didn’t think I’d ever been so relieved to get out of his car. This part sucked in its own right—we had to put on the face of the happy couple, public affection and all—but at least he’d stop picking at me for a little while.

Once we were inside, we fell into our usual routine. We changed into workout gear, and Simon went for a run outside—two relaxed laps around the building before every practice—while I did some light intervals on a stationary bike. Then we were back in the locker room to put on our gear for practice. Every step of it was such a ritual that it actually helped chill me out. The workout wasn’t hard enough to kick off much in the way of endorphins, but it was meditative in a way. It pulled my focus to hockey, and it warmed my body up a little before I hit the ice.

By the time I was lacing up my skates, I felt good. Not great, but like I could actually play hockey without spending half the game in the penalty box again.

As Simon and I were tugging on our practice jerseys, Russell came up to us. “You guys are coming to Thanksgiving, right? Vanessa is trying to get a final headcount.”

Thanksgiving? Already? Christ, that was next week, wasn’t it?

“Of course.” Simon smiled. “We’ll be there.”

“Yeah,” I said as if the whole holiday hadn’t completely slipped my mind. “Looking forward to it.”

“Great.” He nodded. “I’ll let Vanessa know. Thanks, guys!”

We were halfway through practice, taking a break between drills, when it dawned on me that while Simon and I had a place to go for Thanksgiving, there was someone in our house right now who didn’t. If I was doing the math right (and that wasn’t always a guarantee), Lily would still be finishing up her meds. I couldn’t just ditch her and Wyatt for the holiday, could I? That would be a dick move.

So, I pulled Russell aside and quietly said, “Hey, I’ve—Simon and I have someone staying with us. A friend from out of town. He’ll probably still be here next week—is it okay for us to bring him dinner?”

“Yeah, sure.” Russell shrugged and squirted some water into his mouth. “The more the merrier.”

“Okay. Okay, cool. He’s got a service dog. Will that be an issue?”

Russell arched an eyebrow. “Like a service dog? Or a ‘service’ dog?” I understood his skepticism—the wife of a former teammate had designated her dog as an emotional support animal so she could take him everywhere. That would’ve been fine with everyone, except the dog had turned out to be aggressive, loud, barely housebroken, and completely undisciplined.

“This one is a legit service dog,” I said. “And I can vouch for her—she’s probably the best trained dog I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, no problem, then. Just let me know if he needs anything for her. A water dish or whatever.”

“I will. Thanks, man.” I clapped his shoulder with my glove and nodded toward the drill that was just finishing. “Looks like you’re up.”

Simon came out of the drill, breathing hard and sweating. There’d been a time when seeing him like that made my spine tingle, and it wouldn’t be long before we were exchanging suggestive looks and flirty comments. As soon as we got home, we’d be engaging in what he liked to call “post-practice cardio.”

My heart sank. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had sex at all. Worse, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted to.

What happened to us? And how do we unfuck this mess we’re in?

He glanced my way, flashed a smile that I was pretty sure was solely for the benefit of any cameras that might’ve been watching us, and then focused on watching our teammates again.

I turned my gaze away, too, and I was grateful no one could’ve known about the lump in my throat.

Do you even want to fix this, Simon?