Page 17 of Arresting the Hockey Player
"Who did this to you?" The bitter taste, like cold, metallic blood, stains my tongue. I don't even want to sayhisname.
She nods ever so slowly, cautiously. "My husband."
"For fucks' sake!" I growl and bunch my hands into fists.
"I need a place to stay. Somewhere he can't find us," Jasmine says.
I glance her over. She looks to be telling the truth. Not something Jasmine was great with. I can't help but wonder if she cheated on me withhim, but none of that matters.
"And you thought I'd help you." There's disdain in my voice. I try to keep it down, not wanting the lobby attendant to overhear the conversation. "Come upstairs." The words leave my lips, but the moment I voice them, I'm reluctant to follow through.
"Thank you," Jasmine whispers, her hand finding my arm. Whether it's gratitude or something more, I can't say.
I shake off her arm. This is strictly platonic. A friend helping another friend in need. And she's right. Her husband won't come looking for her and their child with me.
"I promise, it's just for tonight." Jasmine follows me to the elevator, and the little bundle in her arms begins to stir. His eyelids flutter open and then close just as quickly. He's got rosy cheeks and matching red lips.
The elevator doors open, and Jasmine steps in first. The little boy wiggles against Jasmine, burying his arms and face in her chest. I can't tell if he's trying to hide or go back to sleep. I'm not around kids much.
"Did he touch the child?" I ask, my jaw tight, teeth grinding together. I'm afraid to hear the answer, but at first glance, the little boy doesn't show any sights of abuse or neglect.
"No, he didn't touch Zayn," Jasmine says.
"Zayn," I whisper, punching the button on the elevator, his name falling from my lips. I don't try to do the math. The boy looks old enough that he could be mine. But she would have told me if she got pregnant. She wouldn't have run off and married Grant. "How old is he?" I ask. Because the sinking pit in my stomach tells me what she isn't. "Is he mine?"
Jasmine laughs nervously, and that sound tears me apart from the inside.
Why didn't she dispel my fear and say no?
"Jasmine?" My voice raises an octave, and the elevator doors open. I unlock the front door to my apartment and let her inside.
I shouldn't let her in. I shouldn't help her. Not if she's been lying to me. "Is he my son?" I ask again, this time, my voice louder. I can't help the anger from surfacing any more than I can keep the sun from rising.
"Maybe," Jasmine says, her voice soft, tentative. "I’m not one hundred percent sure."
Fuck it! I knew she'd cheated. My stomach sinks at the thought that the little boy in her arms might be mine.
I gesture at her cheek. "Is that why Grant did this?"
"No, he hit me because he's an asshole." Jasmine follows me inside, and I flip on the lights. I'm tired and want to go to bed, but this news also has pumped more adrenaline through me than when I score a goal during a game.
"You can stay tonight, but tomorrow morning, you need to file a police report, and you have to do a paternity test."
She exhales a soft breath. "About that—"
"You don't have room to negotiate, Jasmine." My blood is boiling, and I pace the length of the kitchen and grab a bottle of beer, needing something to help the massive throbbing in my head. I doubt the beer will help, but she's getting to me.
Could she be lying about the kid? Trying to make me feel sorry for her. Who would do that?
Jasmine.
She's always been manipulative. I never wanted to see the red flags staring me blatantly in the face.
"I can't file a police report because his brother is a police officer. He's just as bad as Grant, if not worse," she whispers. "I'd run and hide, but Grant will accuse me of kidnapping my son and have the entire police force looking for me."
"Fuck it!" I can't help but let the anger get to me. I try controlling the rage. At least when I'm on the ice, it gets channeled into the game.
I'd never hit a woman, but damn if I'm going to let Grant beat on Jasmine. There are some lines never to be crossed.
