Page 132 of Puck Princess

So I take a week.

I finally have the time to finish decorating the apartment, a funny mix of hockey memorabilia and modern boho decor, drinking game wall hangings and wine racks. Our new mid-century sofa and chaise lounge are draped with Owen’s sport-themed microfleece throws. It’s chaotically perfect and undoubtedly us, and I love it.

I also finish the nursery. I go for a sunshine and rainbow theme with rainbow striped sheets and a big sun rug with tassel sun rays. The only thing that doesn’t look like it came from Pottery Barn is the mobile, which is a carousel of hockey pucks and sticks. Again, perfectly us.

By the time Friday rolls around, I feel good. After a yoga routine and a fruit and vegetable smoothie that Owen makes me every morning before leaving for the gym, I sit down in the glider in the baby’s room and open my laptop.

It’s time.

All week long, I’ve been puttering around the house, rehearsing what I want to say.HowI want to say it.

Every night, Owen has held my hand and told me that he’ll be right there next to me whenever I’m ready to tell my story. Whether it’s tomorrow or ten years from now.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be by your side. We can take him down together.”

Well, I’m ready.

As I sit in the warm, clean space I’ve prepared for my child, I know I’m ready. I owe it to this little person inside of me to be strong. To not hide in the shadows when people wrong me. I owe it to Owen to be truthful. He has stood by my side while I twisted and warped the truth, trying to run from the darkness in my past. But it’s finally time to bring all of the darkness into the light, to burn away the shame and start fresh.

More than anything, I owe it to myself.

So, I write my story. I tell it as it happened. I write about the ways his good looks and kind words charmed me. I write about how hard it can be as a woman in the sports industry, and how the stigmas that exist there kept me from speaking up when Spencer took things too far. I write about the red flags and the abuse. And I write about that day in my office that changed everything for me, that stole who I was for too long.

As I write the words, it feels like pulling stitches out of a wound that never healed quite right. But with each paragraph, I sew in truth. I can physically feel the healing taking the place of the rot and decay.

God, does it feel good.

As I come to the end, there is a place for a name. I can choose to remain anonymous like so many other women have. I understand it. I think when something sour is sitting in your mouth for too long, you just want to spit it out, no matter how ugly it looks. You just want to rinse yourself of it and be done. No shame. No regret. No fear.

I’ve held onto all of those things for long enough. I let Spencer take a large piece of me. But as I type my name into the box, I take a piece of myself back.

As soon as the door opens, I throw myself at Owen.

Like the athlete he is, he drops his bag and catches me, his hands cupping my ass as I wrap my legs around his waist.

“One day, I’m going to be too big for you to catch me.” I glance down at my obvious baby bump sitting between us.

Owen snorts, curling me higher against his chest like I’m a barbell. “You’d have to be Octomom before I couldn’t catch you. I bench double of you as a warm up.”

Like he’s trying to prove himself, he carries me into the apartment, cradling my ass and pressing kisses to my neck. “How was your day?”

“Good.” I tilt my head, giving him better access. “Great, actually. I… I finally did it.”

“Did what? Did you finish the nursery? I want to see.” His words are muffled against my jaw, and I’m too busy enjoying the way he’s tasting me to correct him.

Owen carries me down the hall and into the nursery. He pushes the door open and flicks on the light with his elbow, still holding me. He whistles. “And to think, this was a museum of hockey history just a couple weeks ago.”

“I kept some of the hockey things.” I point out the signed jersey behind glass on the wall and the hockey mobile.

“It’s the perfect blend of the two of us. Just like our baby will be.” Owen lowers me to the sun rug, kissing his way up my body. His hair is still damp from his post-practice shower, and he smells like his body wash. It’s making it hard to focus on what I wanted to tell him, but I thread my fingers through his hair and force his eyes to mine.

“I did finish the nursery, but that’s not what I was talking about. I finally didit.”

Owen frowns for a second, but the longer he looks at me, tracing the small, nervous smile pulling on the edges of my mouth, I see understanding dawn.

“It?You submitted your story?” He sits back on his heels and lifts me to a seated position. He cradles my hands on top of his thighs. “How did that go?”

“It was hard,” I admit. “I didn’t just want to smear him. I wanted people to see his charming side. I wanted them to feel what it was like to be seduced by him… and taken advantage of. It was hard to go back to that place.”

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