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I don’t know when it started exactly, but somewhere along the way I found myself drawn to Oren’s games. Maybe it was the nagging curiosity that wouldn’t go away, or the way I couldn’t stop thinking about his voice on the phone. Maybe it’s the way he looked at Lily, his eyes softening when he saw that she was alright. Just for a moment before hardening again. Whatever it is, I can’t help myself. I start watching him, needing to see him, needing to understand what he is going through, even if I’d never admit it to anyone.

I’ve officially watched four games now, so I can probably call this borderline obsessive. I like hockey, there is a reason I have the job I do, but I’m not watching this for the sport. I don’t even bother trying to kid myself. The Phoenix Red Wolves versus the Miami Sharks. I should be working, but instead, I’m glued to the screen. I can tell from the way Oren moves across the ice that something’s off again. He’s beyond aggressive, borderline reckless. He’s always been a physical player, always liked to push the boundaries, but this…this is different.

The commentators are already picking up on it, too. “Samuels is looking a little hot-headed tonight,” one of them says. “He’s got to be careful not to end up in the penalty box again.”

I find myself gripping the edge of the couch, my breath stuck in my chest. He’s looking for a fight. I can see it in his body language. And sure enough, it doesn’t take long. One bad pass, one shove from an opposing player, and suddenly, he’s swinging. His gloved fists connect with another player’s face, and the refs are on them in an instant, trying to pull them apart.

My heart clenches as I watch Oren yelling at the ref, his rage unleashed on the referee who is just trying to keep the peace. The camera zooms in on his face, shouting something, gesturing wildly, his tension radiating even through the TV screen. He’s pushing the ref, resisting his interference. He is acting like an absolute asshole. It’s like he can’t control it, can’t keep it inside.

I scream at the screen to calm down, to stop, but of course, it’s pointless. Instead, I watch as he’s sent to the penalty box yet again. At this point he has been in the penalty box more often than he’s played any damned hockey. The commentators go on and on about how he’s playing distracted, off-kilter. This is all my fault. I should have never told him the truth in the middle of hockey season.

I want to reach through the screen, and tell him to snap out of it. That everything will be okay, but I can’t. Instead, I watch him self-destruct in front of thousands of people and on national television. It's painful to watch, but I make it to the end of the game, and I turn off the TV. I can’t shake the feeling of dread that spreads throughout my chest. I know I shouldn’t care this much. He is a grown ass man, more than capable of regulating his own emotions, but the part that I’ve played in this kills me. I shouldn't let how much he is struggling get to me like this. But I can’t help it. I’m worried. And I hate that I’m worried.

I try to distract myself, busying myself with chores. There are plenty of those around this cluttered apartment of mine. Once I’ve done all I can stand, I prep Lily’s bottle. I think about calling him, asking him if he’s okay, but I know how that will go. He’ll brush me off, change the subject, maybe even get pissed, who knows. So, I leave my phone on the counter and push him out of my mind.

But then it rings, and his name flashes on the screen. I leap for the phone, not bothering to wait to answer it.

“Oren,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Hey,” he replies, but there’s something different in his tone. It’s tired, worn out.

I take a deep breath, unsure of his mood. “I saw the game,” I say cautiously. “Are you… are you okay?”

The silence lingers before I hear him sigh heavily. “I’m fine,” he says, but there is still an edge in his voice. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

My concern transitions quickly to frustration. “Oren, you’ve been in the penalty box four games in a row now. You’re clearly not fine.”

He cuts me off, his tone sharper. “Rachel, I said I don’t want to talk about it. I called to ask about Lily. How is she?”

I bite back my irritation. Of course, he’s doing that. He isn’t calling to talk to me. “Lily’s fine,” I say, calmly. “She’s been a little fussy, but that’s normal.”

“Good,” he says quickly, almost like he’s relieved to change the subject. “Did she eat okay today?”

“Yes,” I reply, feeling the frustration start to spread, and I don’t even try to control it. “She ate fine, Oren. She’s doing great.”

“Good,” he repeats, somewhat in a daze. “And she slept alright?”

I close my eyes, but that does very little to keep me from snapping. “Oren, why are you asking me all these questions? She’s fine. She’s a baby. She eats, she sleeps, she cries. That’s what babies do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he hung up on me. But then he speaks, his voice softer. “I just…I just want to know, okay? I want to know how she’s doing.”

My heart softens, despite myself. “She’s good,” I say more gently. “Growing fast, getting stronger every day.”

“That’s good,” he says, but there’s something in his tone that makes me think he’s somewhere far away.

I try again. “Oren, really…are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but definitely in the scoff category. “I told you, Rachel, I’m fine. Drop it. Just…just keep me posted about Lily, alright?”

“Whatever,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “I will.”

There’s a pause, the distance between us more than just physical miles, “Thanks,” he says finally. “Goodnight, Rachel.”

“Goodnight, Oren,” I reply, and the line goes dead.

I stare at the phone feeling a rush of irritation coursing through my veins. Why does he have to be so damn stubborn? Why can’t he just talk to me, let me in, instead of shutting down every time I try to reach out? First and foremost, after every interaction with Oren, I am left feeling frustrated. But underneath the irritation there is worry gnawing at me. Logically, I know what he’s going through, but I will never be able to understand how it feels to go through this. I had nine months to accept and embrace having Lily in my life. He’s only had a few short weeks after being ambushed in the worst possible way. I’m not going to let him spiral out of control without trying to help. Even if he doesn’t want it. Even if he never asks.

I push the thought away for another time and focus on getting Lily ready for bed. She’s been fussy tonight, so naturally it takes longer than normal to get her to sleep. I rock her gently, humming until her tiny eyes finally flutter closed.

Once she’s down in her crib, I tiptoe out of her room and check the baby monitor, making sure she is still asleep. Once I know that she is down for the night, my shoulders automatically slump with exhaustion. I’m tired, more than tired—I don’t know if there is a word for how tired I am. It goes beyond mentally, emotionally, and physically tired. I should shower, but I don’t. The motivation just isn't there.

I sink into my bed, pulling the covers up around me, but I can’t relax. My body is dead tired, but my mind is a live wire with thoughts of Oren, that damned game, and the way he sounded on the phone. Like he was annoyed with me for existing, which just makes my blood boil. I get it, I kept Lily a secret, but he will have to get over it eventually. And I doubt he is up all night worried about what I think about him.

I can’t get his face out of my head—the way he looked out there on the ice, so angry, like he’s ready to fight the entire world. I try to push the image away, but it sticks. I grit my teeth, turning over in bed, trying to will myself to sleep, but that damned stubborn feeling won’t let me go. Exhaustion finally gets the best of me, and I eventually fall into a fitful sleep.

He appears in my mind like an unwanted phantom; images of the way his muscles move under his jersey, the way he skates with such power, his face tight with concentration haunt me. The intensity in his eyes burns a hole in mine, the edges of dreaming blurring with what feels like reality. I let out a slow breath, biting my lip, feeling his warm body on mine. His hands are rough and demanding over every inch of me. His mouth is against my neck, his breath hot and ragged. My pulse quickens at his touch—strong, certain, pleasing. The hunger in his eyes and his voice, thick with need, whispering my name elicits dangerous thoughts in my subconscious.

His anger from the game is gone, transformed into an uncontrollable passion. Oren’s eyes darken with desire, like I’m the only thing he needs in the world. A soft moan escapes my lips as his fingers press deeper, his thumb moving expertly over my clit. His mouth explores every part of my body. Pushing me right to the edge, only to pull me back again. I let myself give in to his touch, his kiss, the weight of him pressing against me. I arch my back, my breaths coming faster, my body tightening with anticipation. I feel the need for release building inside me, growing stronger with every moment, every thought of him, until it crashes over me like a wave. And then I wake up.

My eyes snap open, and I’m tangled in the sheets, my skin covered in that freshly fucked sheen, my heart still pounding. What the fuck! A rush of embarrassment spreads across my cheeks, my body humming with the remnants of desire. The lust, not quite satiated. I can’t believe I dreamed about him like that. I slam back against my pillow, feeling equal parts irritated and…something else. Something that feels like satisfaction but is tinged with an annoyance I can’t quite shake.

I stretch and despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. Damn, that was a hot dream. I shouldn’t be feeling this way, definitely not thinking about him like that. But it felt so real. I roll over, feeling the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and even though I should be pushing him out of my mind, I feel strangely alive, refreshed. And damn it if I’m not horny.