Page 5 of Rival Season
She clears her throat. “You don’t happen to know Chadwick Weatherby, do you?” Her cheeks turn bright pink once the question leaves her mouth.
My eyebrows scrunch together as I wonder why she’d bring up Chadwick. Is she a secret hockey nut? A Firecats fangirl looking for an autograph?
I place my hot mug down on the wooden table beside me and force a smile.
“Chadwick is my boyfriend, actually. We’ve been together for a year.”
Sasha blows out a deep breath. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you straight. I met Chadwick a few nights ago at a bar in Sacramento.”
Something about her tone has my stomach bottoming out like I swallowed a boulder. “Go on,” I say.
“He made it sound like he was single, and he flirted with me all evening…and then, I spent the night with him.” Her chin quivers.“Hazel, I’m so sorry,” her voice breaks on the last word. “I had no idea you were together until I saw the background photo on his phone lock screen the next morning. I thought it looked like you, and my stomach sank! I obviously would never want to hurt you like this.”
Tears are freely streaming down her face.
Bile rises in my throat as the betrayal sinks into my stomach. My mind floods with all the little incidents I’ve ignored or Chadwick explained away with ease, acting like I was paranoid.
The time he smelled like perfume, and he said his teammates pranked him by replacing his cologne with perfume. The time I found a hair tie in his bathroom, and he swore it belonged to a teammate with long hair. And the time he was photographed with a woman on his lap and claimed she sat there without consent, and the photo was snapped right before he stood up and pushed her away. He even went on a whole rant about how women sexualize hockey players, and I feltbadfor him.
I trusted him.
I’ve known Chadwick since we were kids. Our fathers went to college together, and have been friends ever since…maybe that’s why I ignored so many red flags. It’s difficult to reconcile the sweet boy I grew up vacationing with to the womanizing man he apparently turned into.
I realize I’m staring at Sasha, and she’s still crying. Shaking my head, I try to calm myself down.
“Sasha, you have nothing to be sorry for. You had no idea he wasn’t single, so this is obviously Chadwick’s fault entirely. Thank you for telling me.”
I have to force the words out, because I can barely look at her. I know she did nothing wrong, but thoughts of them together flood my mind. My handsome boyfriend, who I’ve known since we were kids, spotting this beautiful woman across the bar, charming her, inviting her back to his place to the same bed where he and I have slept in each other’s arms. The urge to either throw up or black out is strong. All I want to do is get out of here.
“I need to go,” I blurt out. “Thank you for your honesty.”
I stand, and so does Sasha. She’s still crying.
“Hazel,” she says, reaching for my arm like she’s going to try to keep me here so she can explain further.
Holding my hands up in front of me, I step out of her reach and carefully keep my voice as calm as possible as I say, “No, it’s fine. I just want to be alone, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she says again, so low I can hardly hear her.
I nod and rush from the coffee shop as fast as possible. When I get outside into the cool January air, I gasp for breath, and then the tears begin to flow freely. I run all the way back to my apartment building, letting go of a sob once I’m in the elevator. Finally, I reach my apartment and let the door slam behind me as I sink to the floor and clutch my head in my hands.
“That lying, cheating…scoundrel!” I yell, the sound of my voice startling me as it echoes around the empty apartment.Which of course reminds me that Chadwick is the only person I know in this state—besides Sasha, but that friendship likely isn’t going to go anywhere now. It’s only been a year since I moved here for my PhD program, and I was relieved Chadwick lived nearby, as it felt comforting to have a family friend close. He asked me to get dinner the week I arrived in California and it was the first time we’d spent any time together as adults without our parents present. We connected right away, our chemistry undeniable. So instead of forming friendships at school, I spent my limited free time with the man who I thought loved me.
Now I have no one to talk to, no one to lean on…even my family lives all the way across the country. Not that I could talk to my mom or dad about this right now, anyway. They love Chadwick and think the sun shines out of his backside. I don’t think they’ve ever been as proud of me as when I told them we were dating…so they’re probably not going to take this news well.
Crushing sadness washes over me as I realize I'm totally alone in this. It feels like too much to bear right now, so instead of breaking, I steel myself against the tears welling in my eyes and reach for my next available emotion—rage.
I should channel my anger at being cheated on into yoga, but not even an extra hour of yoga could fix the anger inside of me.
Picking myself up off the floor, I stomp inside the master bedroom closet and find Chadwick’s prized possession, a signed Wayne Gretzky jersey with the Edmonton Oilers logo slapped across the front. I yank it off the hanger and walk toward the balcony which overlooks the busy street below.
He brought it here because he wanted me to frame it for him—apparently that was something he didn’t have time to do, but he assumedIdid—clearly, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
Grabbing my phone out of my purse, I pull up my camera app and start recording as I walk across the living room andthrow open the French doors to the balcony. I dangle the jersey over the railing for a moment, and then I let it fly. The orange fabric slowly floats through the breeze and onto the street below…where it’s instantly run over by traffic. I smile as I stop recording, and then, I send the video to Chadwick.
Hazel
Oops! Guess my hand slipped and I accidentally destroyed this jersey. Kind of like the fly of your jeans slipped open and you accidentally cheated on me.
