Captive (16 page)

Anton Petrov sneered when his dark eyes met mine.

“Pretty as ever, Ryker,” he said in his thick Russian accent.

“I’ve always known you had a thing for me,” I said, looking at the ref’s hand, which was suspended in mid-air. Would he just drop the fucking puck already? He was waiting for the signal, and my hand muscles twitched eagerly.

“You want some?” Petrov raised his brows hopefully. “You fucking want some, Ryker?”

“When are you gonna learn English? I didn’t get a fucking word of that,” I said, shaking my head with disgust. His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Petrov’s accent was the way to get to him, and I forced a note of laughter at his outraged expression.

The ref leaned his head to the side and I flexed and un-flexed my hand muscles, preparing to fight for the puck. It was always a battle with Petrov. He was monstrous – the biggest center in the league. And he was damn fast for 6’7” and 250 pounds.

“I hear your track record for happy wives continues,” he said in a low, menacing tone. “You get every fucking word that time?”

My veins filled with liquid fire. I shook my head and edged closer to him. “Yeah, I
vant
some, Petrov. I’m gonna break your fucking arms.”

The puck clicked against the ice, and we lunged forward at the same time. Our sticks crashed together and I shoved his chest. He pushed back, and I saw my split-second opening to edge the puck to Luke. I fought the adrenaline telling me to throw down my stick and teach Petrov a lesson about even thinking of my wife, let alone speaking of her.

He swore in Russian when Luke glided away, the puck tucked against his stick. I surged down the ice, my legs propelling me so fast snow flew up from my skate blades.

My head was in the game: passing, receiving, watching and executing. But I was also keeping Petrov in my sights – waiting for my opening.

It came when we were fighting over the puck again. I drove my shoulder into his chest, knowing from his loud grunt that it was on. Helmets and gloves tumbled away. Our sticks hit the ice and I crushed a blow to his cheekbone that gave me a charge of satisfaction. I didn’t have to hold back or protect anyone here. Instead I could let it all fly, and I fucking did.

I didn’t think, I just fought. It was engrained in me after all these years. But usually it wore me down after a while. This time, I couldn’t get enough. With every hit I landed, my sense of helplessness faded. I could finally get out the rage from seeing Kate heartbroken and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it.

Petrov’s spit hit my cheek and he growled like a striking bear. He grabbed my jersey in his dinner plate-sized hands and spun me, slamming me into the wall. A white-hot jolt of pain knocked the wind out of me. I threw a punch at his face, but my shoulder gave out halfway there.

Teammates were clustered around us, all following the code and letting us finish this on our own. I was sucking in gulps of air, the tang of blood filling my mouth.

“Enough.” It was a bark from Tyler Rich, the 40-something captain of Anton’s team. His hands dropped at the command and my body slid down the wall to the ice. I steadied myself with a hand on the wall to get up, but vertigo forced me right back down.

Two arms around my waist pulled me from the ice. It was Luke and Vic, carrying me.

“Imma kick his ass,” I muttered. “Just gimme a sec.”

“Keep your ass on the fucking bench,” Vic said. “You’re in bad shape.”

“Me?” I looked at him, confused. We’d made it to the wall where our bench was, and I howled in pain when they hauled me over it into the arms of two other teammates. Instead of helping me sit, they carried me, each wrapping an arm around my back and holding one of my legs.

“My fucking balls hurt,” I mumbled. And when I saw that it wasn’t one of our trainers, but the team doctor, Matt, leading us to the locker room, I realized I’d probably hurt in a lot of other places when the adrenaline surge wore off.

I’d become good at going through the motions. Or maybe I was just in denial. The counselor in me knew that was the real answer. I shoved the truth into my subconscious and pretended everything was normal. Through all my morning appointments, I’d been an engaged, professional counselor – not a frantic woman whose world was falling apart.

But now it was afternoon. I was done with clients for the day and was hanging out in Kirk’s office. Over the course of the eight months I’d been working with him, we’d become pretty good friends. We didn’t spent a lot of time together – none outside of work, but when we talked about our lives, we both dialed through the chit chat and bullshit immediately. And I trusted him.

I’d told him I was pregnant, and now he was sitting in his worn wingback counselor chair, looking at me like the world was not about to end. Several seconds of silence elapsed before I sprang up from the couch.

“Kirk! Have some sympathy! Did you hear what I just said?”

“I did. I’m waiting for you to tell me how you feel about it.”

I whirled around and glared at him. “I feel furious,” I said in a low, measured tone. “I feel sad. I feel angry. I feel cheated. I feel horrible.”

“Those are all perfectly normal feelings right now.”

“Don’t go counselor on me!” I yelled. “There’s nothing normal about me! I have a freakish ability to get pregnant and a freakish inability to stay pregnant! I’m devastated to be doing this again!”

“You’re grieving, Kate.”

His words caught me off guard and I returned to the couch and sat. “Grieving? I guess … maybe I am.”

“Yes, and you have to remember that grief is a process,” he said. “You’re up and down; two steps forward and one step back.”

“But what kind of woman mourns getting pregnant? What’s wrong with me? I’m happily married, secure … and I’m grieving for the last shred of my sanity that slipped away when I got news that should’ve made me happy. It’s crazy.”

Kirk cupped his chin in his fist and looked at me for a few seconds. “You know the answer to this, Kate, but it can be hard to apply what we know to ourselves. People don’t just grieve over physical death. We grieve over loss. A divorce means the loss of a relationship, and we grieve for that. Getting laid off from a job can mean a loss of identity and stability. Death isn’t the only form of loss.”

“And when I lost the other babies, I mourned. But I haven’t lost anything, Kirk. I’m grieving because I’m pregnant and that feels …” I searched for an office friendly word to no avail. “Fucked up.”

Kirk was in counselor mode. He waited a few seconds to let the air settle as I’d seen him do in sessions with clients.

“So I assume that after the loss of the second baby, you and Ryke discussed future plans?” he asked, leaning forward and pressing his palms to his knees.

“Yes. And the plan was
never again
. I knew, and Ryke knew, that I couldn’t do it again. We decided to adopt. We’re almost done with the home study process. And now …” I couldn’t even finish the sentence because it was what I wondered over and over in my head. Now what?

“Kate.” Kirk steepled his hands beneath his chin and looked at me. “It makes sense to me that you’re mourning. You’ve definitely lost something. You lost the dream of adopting a baby, at least the way you were planning it. You’ve lost control. Your plan to protect yourself from hurting after the potential loss of another baby won’t work now. This leaves you exposed when you were already fragile.”

I sighed, frustrated. “But a mother is supposed to love her baby from the moment she finds out she’s pregnant. And I don’t feel that. There’s something wrong—”

He cut me off, pointing at me for emphasis. “You won’t allow yourself to feel it, and that’s understandable. The other losses hurt so profoundly that you’ve got a wall up.”

“And now I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t!” I threw my arms in the air and glared at him, wild-eyed. “If I lose this baby I’m going to come unglued for real. And if I don’t, will I ever love it?”

He exhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. “Have you talked to Ryke about this?”

“God, no! I’m humiliated by it. Wondering if I’ll love our baby on the outside chance it survives the inhospitable environment of my uterus?” I crossed my arms across my chest, still giving him a dirty look.

“Talk to him. He deserves that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I love my husband, and I don’t like your insinuation that I’m wronging him by not telling him I’m a mess of worry and anxiety. I’m trying to spare him from it, because he’s got plenty on his mind with work.”

“And how’s that working? Does he think you’re glowing and jubilant?” I rolled my eyes at his heavy sarcasm.

“I hope you don’t counsel clients this way.”

“No, this is just a conversation between friends. And since it’s free, you might find it worth what you paid. You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all your husband. And if you aren’t willing to lean on him, what’s the point of being married?”

“I don’t like your tone!” My voice rose with indignation.

Kirk jumped from his chair, his voice rising, too. “What’s the point, Kate? What’s the point if you won’t be honest with him?”

“I’m not lying to him!” Now I jumped up, too, anger making my face warm.

“Bullshit. Not telling the truth is lying. You want a good marriage? Talk to him. Don’t shut him out now. I know him. Seeing you hurt, and knowing you don’t want his comfort, is hurting him. Talk to him, alright?”

I stepped back, studying Kirk’s face. “Has Ryke talked to you? Are we talking right now because he talked to you about me?”

“Yeah, he talked to me. We’re talking right now because both you and him are friends of mine, and I can see things from the outside that neither of you can.” Kirk looked down at his watch and gave me an
oh shit
face.

“Did I mention I have traffic court today and I need you to do my ten o-clock group?” He slid his sport coat on and looked expectant.

“Um, no.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “That’s in 25 minutes, Kirk!”

“Yeah, I appreciate it.”

With that, he opened the door to his office and stepped out. And I stared at the open doorway, wondering how the hell I’d get myself together enough to lead a grief support meeting in less than 30 minutes.

I’d gotten through the group meeting, and my reward was my session with Melody, whose eyes lit up when she beat me at checkers for the second time in a row.

“Great game!” I said. “You’ve got this down. What other games do you like to play?”

“Barbies and hide and go seek,” she said, curling her legs into her lap. We were sitting on the floor of my office, using a small ottoman for the checker board.

“I love Barbies! I used to have a Barbie horse and a car, and a little case for extra outfits.” I’d spent many childhood summer days dressing and undressing my dolls for pretend occasions with my friends.

“I have one, but Julia gave her a haircut and now she looks ugly,” Melody said. “She said it would grow back, but she was lying.”

“Oh, that’s no good. Who’s Julia?”

“She’s one of the new kids at my foster home. She’s eight and she bosses me around.”

I knew what my job was with Melody. I needed to help her feel safe and comfortable so we could talk through what she’d experienced. Her caseworker was waiting to put her into the system as available for adoption until I finished working with her.

We’d been meeting weekly for a while now, and I always looked forward to my hour with her. She was bright and sweet, and it was fun to give her the one on one attention she didn’t get much of in a foster home with three other kids.

“If it’s okay with Diane, maybe we can go get you a new Barbie next week,” I said. Melody’s eyes widened and she nodded eagerly.

I’d noticed from the beginning she was exceptionally well-behaved for a child her age. She sat still and never fidgeted or acted bored. She didn’t speak unless I asked her something. When I offered her candy or juice, she always declined. It broke my heart to never see this five-year-old act like a child. The offer of a Barbie was the closest I’d gotten.

I was falling apart on the inside, and this hour of thinking about Melody instead of myself was good. When I looked at the clock and saw our time was up, I was bummed.