Page 67 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Thirty-Three

Raph

It was late, and we’d barely made it to our hotel rooms. All I wanted to do was call Beth, make sure she was good, and then go to bed.

But as I laid out my toiletries in the bedroom, my cell glued to my ear, ringing through on Beth’s number—and then her voicemail—worry began growing in my stomach.

Truthfully, it didn’t take much.

That worry had been souring my gut for weeks now.

Beth seemed okay, but as more time went on and she didn’t share, the knots in my belly tightened and grew, twisting and sitting heavy.

She’d seemed okay before. Seemed free and loose and happy—all of what she was exhibiting now—and then I’d had to drive her to the hospital in the midst of a panic attack, talking about demons and ultimately needing sedation.

She’d shared.

Some.

I knew about her mom and her marriages, about the abuse and the money in her trust fund. I knew why she’d gone into the work she did—charities for women and children who were in need or in abusive relationships.

But she hadn’t given me all of it.

And I was trying to be patient.

But it was fucking killing me.

I hung up without leaving a message, finished setting out my shit for the morning, did my business in the bathroom, and then typed out a text.

No reply.

And when I went back in a few minutes later, knowing I was obsessing when she’d probably just fallen asleep, I saw that she’d read the message a few minutes before.

Read, but hadn’t replied.

That sour feeling grew.

Trying to ignore it, I typed out another message.

That was left on read, too.

Hand clenching into a fist at my side, I decided to fuck it and just called her again. I’d apologize if I woke her up, but if she was awake, I would feel better hearing her voice.

Except, she didn’t pick that call up either.

“Fuck,” I whispered, trying to sort out what to do.

But even as I was doing that, there was a knock on my door.

“Fuck,” I muttered again, moving toward the peephole.

One glance had my eyes widening, and then I was tearing open the door. “Beth.” My voice was a rasp, and I hauled her toward me, gaze scouring every inch of her, trying to make sure she was okay. “What’s wrong—why?—?”

Her bag hit the carpet; her arms came around my middle. “Hi, love,” she whispered.

“Why are you here?”

That came out brusquely, which was totally not what I’d intended, but she was in another state in the middle of the night and?—

“Breathe, honey.” Another whisper. A gentle one this time. “Everything is good with me.”

I placed my hand over her belly, which had grown to crazy proportions in the time we’d been together, and with still two more months (hopefully) to go, it was only going to get bigger. “Are they?—?”

“They’re fine, too.”

Relief sliding through me.

Her hand came to my jaw. “But you’re not.”

I inhaled. “Sugarpie, I’m fine?—”

“You’re not, baby, and I know why.”

My stomach began churning. “Bethie?—”

“You’re not, and it’s because of me.”

She was, quite literally, the best thing that had happened to me. I hadn’t been this happy, this settled ever .

“I should have told you the rest, and I should have told you it a while ago.”

“You don’t need to?—”

“You’re in this with me. It affects me. Which means it affects you.”

I didn’t have an argument for that.

So, I didn’t protest when she took my hand and drew me to the bed, sitting on the edge and patting next to her.

I sank down at her side.

“You know my stepdad was abusive.” Anger prickled down my spine. “But you don’t know that for a long time, I felt like I was the bigger monster.”

She shuddered, and I slid up the bed, gathering her into my lap. “You’re not a monster.”

Silence, then, “I’m finally starting to realize that.” Her head tilted back, her blue eyes tinged with pain.

“Sugarpie,” I whispered.

Her shoulders rose and fell on a breath. “He hit her. A lot. And if I got in the middle of it or was in the wrong place at the wrong time…then I got hit, too.”

I knew that, but I struggled to keep my body loose, to not tense up.

She needed me calm.

“I don’t know how exactly she managed it, but Mom convinced me to go to boarding school, made it seem like it was my idea.

” She sighed. “I remember overhearing part of the conversation, but it wasn’t until she told me later that it would be better for me that I realized what I’d heard wasn’t her trying to get rid of me, but rather her trying to get me safe. ”

“She was protecting you.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause, her body settling more heavily against mine, as though she were soaking up my strength and warmth and that, more than anything else, had the twisting in my insides settling, the sourness fading.

“I wanted to go,” she whispered. “That was bad enough. I wanted to get away from the yelling, from his fists.”

I smoothed a hand down her spine. “I think anyone would want to, honey.”

“I was relieved.”

That was pained.

“I was relieved that I wouldn’t get yelled at or hit anymore. I was relieved that my mom would take that instead.” A breath. “I was relieved I didn’t have to walk on eggshells or hide in the dark corner of my room or hear her get hit.”

“Baby,” I whispered.

“I was relieved that I was free.”

“I think that’s normal, honey.”

“Yeah.” A breath. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell anyone what was happening at home, not my grandparents, not my teachers, not my counselors at school, not my friends. I didn’t tell anyone .”

“Did your stepfather threaten you if you did tell?”

Cold in those pale blue eyes. “Of course, he did.”

I clenched my jaw. “Then it’s not surprising you didn’t tell.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But I felt guilty about it for a long time. If I’d just said something, then things might have turned out differently.” She sighed. “But I didn’t say anything, and while the guilt is still there and probably always will be, what came after was worse.”

I braced.

“So, I was relieved to be free of him, guilty to have not told anyone. She called. A lot. And I remember being so annoyed that she kept bugging me, kept making me go down to the office to take her calls when I was at school. I think she was trying to assure herself that I was okay, but I felt like she was trying to take away the only bit of normal I had, and I was a kid with my first taste of freedom in my life and…I was annoyed with my mom who’d risked everything to get me out of that house.

” She swallowed hard. “And I know she risked everything because then—then he killed her.”

“Oh, baby,” I whispered, arms tightening.

“He beat her to death, Raph. Hit her so hard that her face wasn’t—” Beth’s voice broke.

“Well, it wasn’t her face any longer when I saw it at the hospital, and they blamed me.

” Her voice broke again, and she sounded close to tears, so I just held her tight, running my hand up and down her back and waited for her to be ready to go on.

But when she didn’t speak, I asked gently, “Who blamed you, sugarpie?”

“My grandparents.” A breath. “The police.”

Fucking hell .

“My grandparents…fuck”—she blew out a breath—“I remember the expression on their faces when they realized I knew what was happening, and that I didn’t do something about it.

God, the disgust and anger and—that stung so much, and seeing that I knew— knew —I’d done wrong.

It was my fault that she was dead. My . Fault.

” Rage was burning through me, but I tamped it down.

“And then, when the detective looked at me like that, too…well, that fact burned itself on my soul. I knew it was my fault. I knew I was as big of a monster as I was because otherwise, why would my grandparents look at me like that? Why would the detective? It was me. I was the monster. I-I—” She broke off, and I buried my head in her hair, holding her tight, breathing slowly so that I didn’t add to her distress.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I murmured.

“I know,” she said softly, so softly that I could barely hear it considering my pulse was pounding in my ears as I strived for control.

“It took me a long time to get there. Too long.” She lifted her head and sighed.

“So that’s my secret, that’s the horrible, ugly demon in the basement of my soul, the one I tried to bury time and again—it was my fault my mom was dead.

Because I might as well have killed her myself.

Because me being happy to go to school, happy to pretend what was happening at home wasn’t actually happening.

And then me being annoyed she was calling, and my grandparents and that detective—” A shake of her head.

“I was young. It implanted itself deep. And I was punishing myself because I thought I deserved it. Doubly so when he managed to hire lawyers that got him off, when he didn’t even have to pay for doing that for her. ”

“Sugarpie,” I croaked, taking her cheeks in my hands, and gently kissing her forehead. “God, honey, I’m so sorry.”

She leaned in. “Me too.”

I stroked a hand through her hair.

“So now you know everything.” She took a breath, released it slowly. “And now you need to stop worrying about me.”

I froze, leaned back enough to meet her eyes. “What?”

“You’ve been letting my past eat at you, and I spent too long doing that to myself, and I love you too much to let you do that and?—”

I’d frozen before.

But now I went absolutely still.

“—I haven’t come this far, you haven’t come this far for us to let it impact our future. And I’m not going to therapy and working my ass off to get my head straight, only for you to have yours?—”

“Sugarpie?”

Her words stopped coming, but her lips remained parted.

“You love me?”

Her eyes widened. “I—” Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip then that red-painted mouth tipped up, and she shrugged. “Yeah, love, I think I made that clear when I shared my mozzarella sticks with you all those months ago.”

She’d been calling me love for a while.

I’d noticed but hadn’t taken it in. Not what it really meant.

Not what all of it meant—the cheese sharing, the smiles, the sex, the time together, the therapy, and smiling at me through the glass at games, and shopping.

Her staying up late and texting me when I got to hotels, learning about opponents, and giving me advice from Eva Moreno’s sports blog.

Her hand in mine, her body pressed close, her mouth on my skin.

All of it.

So much.

And I was fucking greedy for more.

I wanted a lifetime of more.

“Fuck, I love you, sugarpie,” I groaned, wrapping my arms around her, and holding her tight.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Yeah, love,” I said. “I think I’ve made that clear when I shared my?—”

Her hands went to my shoulders, mouth dropping close to my, breath on my lips.

“Your life,” she supplied.

“ Our life,” I corrected.

A red-lipped smile that settled like a balm in my belly. “Our life,” she repeated.

And then…she kissed me.

And then…I felt as though my life had finally begun.