Page 62 of Body Check

Against my better judgment, I cradle Jackson’s hand with my own. Soak up that slice of affection as though it’s the only batch I’ll be given for the rest of my life.

His touch feels like home.

“I didn’t know who I was anymore,” I whisper after a drawn-out moment. “Not Holly Belliveaux anymore—not that girl who showed up at Cornell, ready to conquer the world and enter the world of sports medicine.” Pulling Jackson’s hand away from my face, I stare down at his calloused fingers, his roughened palm, the swollen knuckles that have been broken countless times after years of battling it out in the rink. “Hockey was your dream, and then you became mine. And, before you say anything to that, I’m fully aware that it was my decision to leave Cornell and follow you to Boston, to follow you everywhere you went.” I release his hand. Fold mine in my lap and squeeze them together to stop the tremors. “But you can’t make a life out of relying on someone else’s happiness to fuel your own and make you feel complete, even if that happiness is your husband’s.”

Jackson slouches in his seat, food abandoned. His arms stretch across the back of the booth, and though he looks totally casual and at ease, I know it’s for the sake of any onlookers.

His dark eyes reveal the depth of his emotional turmoil, and what I see there breaks my heart—and the damn thing has already been lifeless for so very long.

“You started Carter Photography,” he murmurs, his features tense, his voice tight. “That was all you.”

“Was it, really?” I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. “In the beginning, it existed only because of your connections.”

“Everyone needs a little help, Holls.” Shaking his head, his lips flatline. “I gave you the stepping stool—you did the rest.”

“And as soon as I did, you pretty much ceased to exist.”

His lips twist, and I watch as his loose hands clench—though he remains otherwise physically unmoved. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Reaching forward for the OJ, I down the rest like it’s something a lot stiffer than one-hundred percent juice. It does nothing to quiet the riotous nerves in my belly, not that I expected it to. I keep the glass clasped in my hand, just to have something to hold. “You were all too happy to have me chasing you around the country like some sort of obsessed puck bunny.”

“You were mywife.”

“It didn’t feel that way once my business became something more than a hobby. I had shows and yet you never came to one. Hockey was always number one. I get it, hockey is your job. But I invited you to photo shoots when you weren’t at practice or at a game, and you chose the guys over me. Every. Single. Time.” A bitter laugh falls from my mouth. “I spent years at your beck and call, Jackson. I was the perfect wife, boosting you up when your confidence was threatened; watching more hours of clips than I even knew what to do with because you needed to be on your A-game and I wanted nothing less for you; attending every game, away or at home, except for that one time I caught pneumonia and eventhen, I was glued to the TV on our couch.”

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I struggle to keep the tears from resurfacing. I haven’t cried in months and I won’t start again now. But they threaten to spill over anyway, and I bite my bottom lip and fight for strength.

“I was your wife.” I meet Jackson’s turbulent, dark gaze, struggling to find the right words that pinpoint my emotions but don’t tear at his soul. Because I still don’t, after all this time, want to see him hurt. It’s never been my intention—hurting him is like a knife to my own heart, and time and distance hasn’t changed that. Ultimately, I lift my chin and force the words out into the open, for better or worse: “But when I finally had something of my own to show, I may as well have been married to a ghost.”

21

Jackson

In the span of a breath, Holly cuts me at the knees.

With my arms spread over the back of the booth and my legs spread wide under the miniscule table, I feel every muscle string tight like I’ve been delivered a physical blow to every inch of my body—starting with my balls.

All words die on my tongue as I struggle to find something to say in return.

Nothing in my defense—because what sort of defense do I have if the most important person in my life felt foryearsas though she didn’t have my full support and all of my pride for what she’s accomplished?

I knew Holly had been unhappy. It’d been all over her face for anyone to see. And maybe there’s something to be said about growing complacent in the years that we were together: she expected me to read her mind and I assumed she’d always be there, the way she’d been for years.

We’re both at fault.

If our marriage was a hockey game, then our stick play was sloppy. We failed to read each other’s signs or anticipate where we’d be on the ice; didn’t listen to our coach when he warned us that if we didn’t open communication lines, we’d walk away with an L flashing on the Jumbotron.

And the worst part of it all: we gave up while there was still another period to fight for the win.

The past can’t be reversed, not in hockey, not in life outside the rink.

But we can sure-as-hell learn from our mistakes and do better next time.

Because Ineedthere to be a next time with Holly. The last month has shown me that my feelings for her are unchanged, no matter how much I’ve tried in the last year to stop loving her. And, to be straight-up honest, I don’t think I tried at all.

I meant what I said in that text that I sent her: I’m ready to start breathing again, and I only do that with her, my ex-wife.

Only, I’m damn well ready to get rid of theex-part of the equation—if she’ll have me.

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