Page 7 of Interference

Admittedly, if someone had thrown this situation at me as a hypothetical, I probably would’ve have said that, no, I wouldn’t take a random stranger into my house. And yes, the hygiene issue would’ve been a factor. But faced with the real person and the real situation, it was impossible to justify tossing him—with or without his dog—out into the cold in order to keep my car upholstery or my carpets clean.

While Wyatt and Lily were in the back, I left the cats with Sue for a moment and took their bags of food as well as Lily’s out to my car. When I came back, she handed me the leashes, but met me with an expression of renewed concern.

“Do you think Simon going to be okay with this arrangement?”

My stomach flipped, but I managed an uncomfortable laugh. “I should text him.”

Sue grimaced, and I couldn’t even blame her. And yeah, I probably did need to text him.

Just… not for the reason she was thinking.

I took a seat in the lobby, and once I’d made sure both cats were occupied—Moose sitting in a chair and watching the parking lot, Bear lying on the floor attacking Moose’s chair—I took out my phone.

Anthony: Going to be home a little late. Can we FaceTime at 9 instead of 8?

I cringed as soon as I sent it. Again when he read it. I leaned back in the chair and petted Moose while I waited for Simon to respond. The longer it took, the tighter my stomach wound. Tonight’s FaceTime call would be delightful, I was sure. They were always tense and stressful, and if I did something to piss him off—which I seemed to do just by breathing these days—that would be even worse.

Maybe I should’ve just bailed altogether for tonight. Told him something had come up. He was going to be a dick about it either way, but at least I wouldn’t have to actually talk to him until tomorrow.

Until tomorrow morning. When he picked me up so we could head to practice. Together. Where we’d have to continue putting on the charade of a happy couple.

Christ, was the season over yet?

Yeah, right. It was only mid-November.

Mid-November with a vicious cold snap coming in. That meant December, January, and February—maybe even March—were going to be brutal. Especially for someone sleeping outdoors with his extremely short-haired dog.

I could help Wyatt and Lily tonight. But what about the rest of the winter?

A sharp beep yanked me out of my thoughts, and renewed dread filled my gut as I looked down at my phone.

Simon: Look, if you don’t want to do this, then just say so. I don’t have time to be jerked around.

I rolled my eyes and suppressed a string of curses. My fingers itched with the responses I wished I had the spine to type out.

I’m the only one putting in any goddamned effort, but sure, yeah, asking to bump our conversation by an hour means I’m not committed.

I mean, you could always move back in so we could talk face to face like a normal couple.

You’re the one who acts like this is a giant imposition, and God forbid I suggest counseling, so why don’t you just go fuck yourself?

But I really did want to get us back on the rails. This wasn’t who we were—it was just an incredibly rough patch, further complicated by all the pressure we were under to not let a single crack show to anyone else. Hell, even if we did decide to break up, we’d still have to play the perfect couple at least until the hockey season was over unless we wanted to pay for it professionally. Our club had made that crystal clear. So, like it or not, it was in my best interest to, for the time being, at least try to smooth things over with Simon.

And how do you think he’ll react if he finds out about Wyatt?

Not well, that was for sure. So it was probably best for me to keep this whole thing up my sleeve. The last thing we needed was more to fight about.

I took a deep breath as I carefully chose my words. Then I sent him a text.

Anthony: I’m sorry. Something came up so I can’t be sure I’ll be able to talk at 8. I might be, though. I can text you when I’m home. Just didn’t want to be late. That’s all.

I scowled at my own words. He was probably making a similar face, if not for the same reasons. God, I was so tired of bowing and scraping every time I needed him to give an inch. He’d just flat out not bothered to show up for two of our FaceTime calls. No heads up. No explanation. No apology. But heaven forbid I had anything come up, even when I tried to be courteous and let him know.

I exhaled, my shoulders sinking as fatigue settled in. This was exhausting, and I was pretty sure that wasn’t how relationships were supposed to be. Sometimes I wondered if it would just be easier to throw in the towel and move on.

But whenever my mind went there, it also went back to that day two seasons ago when Simon and I had been sitting in our general manager’s office like a pair of schoolkids facing the principal. The president of hockey operations, the head coach, and two reps from the organization that owned the team had loomed behind him as he’d stared us down across his desk.

“I am not fucking around, boys.” Our GM’s voice echoed in my ears. “We’re taking a big risk, letting a pair of teammates fraternize the way you are. A lot of potential for PR shitstorms, and even more potential for conflict in that locker room.” He’d narrowed his eyes and growled, “Mark my words—we think for a second the two of you are on the outs, one or both of you will be gone. Am I clear?”

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