Page 35 of Offside Bride

Silence.

I storm upstairs, ready to confront her, demand an explanation. But the house is eerily quiet.

I check the kitchen, the living room, even peek into her supply closet. Nothing.

Then I spot a note on the counter in her prim handwriting:

“Finished early today. Took care of the extra mess as you requested.

-Mrs. P”

The tears I've been holding back spill over. I sink to the floor, surrounded by Sawyer’s perfect, pristine house, feeling more alone than ever.

But I refuse to be defeated by this. Anger and hurt course through me, but I’ll be damned if I let Sawyer see how much this affects me. He’s such a neat freak—he must have told Mrs. Pruitt to clean up after me, even if it meant tossing out my art.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. It’s like being back in the foster care system all over again. I’ve always had to guard my heart, stuff down my feelings. This is no different.

With newfound resolve, I grab my phone and pull up a flower delivery app. As I scroll through bouquet options, Miley Cyrus’s song echoes in my head, and I force a laugh. “That’s right, Sawyer. I actuallycanbuy myself flowers. Take that!”

I select an extravagant arrangement of roses and peonies, adding a little note that says:

“To the woman I adore.”

It’s ridiculous, but it makes me smile for the first time today.

An hour later, the doorbell rings. I answer it, feigning surprise as I accept the massive arrangement. I position it near a window that catches the late afternoon sunlight. Then I snap a photo, making sure to get my wedding ring in the shot.

With trembling fingers, I type out a text to Sawyer:

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers, husband.

-Your wife.”

Then I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

“To give somebody your time is the biggest gift you can give.”

— FRANKA POTENTE

11

SAWYER

Islam into the boards, my mind a million miles away from the ice. The Cleveland Monsters’ defenseman gives me a shove, but I barely register it. All I can think about is Maggie and those damn flowers. I know I shouldn’t still be stewing over it after all these days, but that was just the first of several little things this week—like how she fished my dirty underwear out of my hamper, then put them in my truck’s glove box. Or how she covered my toilet seat in Vaseline Admittedly, the worst part was Maggie giving me the cold shoulder.

“O’Malley! Get your head in the game!” Coach bellows from the bench.

I shake my head, trying to focus. But it’s no use. Every time I close my eyes, I see that text message. ‘Thank you for the beautiful flowers, husband.’ Who the hell sent my wife flowers?

Pushing that thought down, I skate away from the boards, my blades cutting into the ice. Cleveland’s defense is tough tonight, but I’m tougher. Or at least, I should be.

As I chase after the puck, Hendrix appears out of nowhere, stealing it from a Cleveland player. “Sawyer! Heads up!”

“Yo!” I cry out. I had it. But Hendrix maneuvers Cleveland’s defense, weaving between them, and sends the puck to Owen, who scores a goal.

A moment later, Hendrix skates over to me and claps me on the shoulder. “You’re distracted, man.”

He’s not wrong, but I’m not going to admit it here in the middle of a game.

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