Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

arden

It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s worse.

Even though Noah confirmed that Carter had been released, and it looks like what happened at Icebox won’t be the end of the world, I still keep internet-stalking the situation to make sure.

I shouldn’t have. I should have stopped while I was ahead and pretended Carter was living his own happily ever after on skates somewhere, twirling around and punching people to his heart’s desire.

Noah is a police officer. He can get the inside scoop when it comes to arrests and charges, but there can be much more to the aftermath than a simple arrest if the person involved is famous.

Carter Forkerro is very, very famous. Especially around here.

That handsome mug is plastered on every corner of this city. On every billboard. He’s on murals painted on the walls of coffee shops and bookstores. He’s the blood of this city. He’s shed blood for this city .

Carter Forkerro doesn’t just get arrested and the story ends.

As the news broke, the sports podcasts and television segments started reporting. The fan accounts and hockey pages started posting. There is a lot of talk about Carter being a burden, about him causing more damage than he’s worth.

To translate: there are conversations going on about him being suspended, traded, or worse… Fired. From the league altogether. Like, Carter Forkerro could lose his job.

The city would riot.

I would be responsible for one-half of the infamous Dangerous Duo being tossed from the Pittsburgh hockey team.

Shit.

Nobody else might know that fact but me, Spill Guy, and my friends, but that’s a weight I don’t want on my shoulders.

Pittsburgh became my home when I ran from the only other home I’ve ever had.

It welcomed me. It kept me sane and whole.

I made a life here. Made friends. I don’t want to be any part of why this city hits a rough patch.

Carter not being on the team would be a big ol’ rough patch for the community.

“Earth to Arden.”

I blink, looking up from my phone. Whitney is leaning against the desk with an arched brow, dressed in the most perfectly-fitting teal scrubs.

“What?”

“I said, the lovely Nancy has advised me for the third time that she’d like someone with a penis to help her.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Tough luck, Nance.”

“She realizes that she’s in her seventies, right?”

“I believe she knows that, yes.”

Whit scoffs. “So, she either keeps doing this because she wants to earn her cougar stripes, or she doesn’t realize that no nurse in their seventies is still doing the heavy lifting this job requires.”

Nancy is a frequent flyer in the emergency room. She hurts herself, calls the ambulance, and comes here to flirt with nurses and doctors. We see her rolling in here once every couple of weeks, calling us by name and promising that this one was an accident.

She ends up in mental health more typically than not, but she’s always back. This time, she smashed her fingers with a hammer. Last time, she placed her hand on a hot element for over two minutes and claimed that she barely flinched.

“I’ll call Psych.” I reach for the phone.

“Already done,” Whit says, and her hazel eyes flicker to my phone. Open. On the Carter Forkerro tag. “Still stalking Big Boy?”

Big Boy.

That’s what Whitney and Autumn have taken to calling Carter. They were with me that night at Icebox . Whisked me away from the scene when the blood started dripping. Autumn hauled me to the car and Whitney met us at the curb after she did the initial assessment of the guy and determined he’d live.

Whit is steadfast that I should contact ‘Big Boy’. I think she wants it to go further than that. You know, for the plot. I’m not sure Carter would be excited to hear from me after that mess of a night, nor do I have any intention of calling to find out.

One, I would have no idea how to even find his number.

Two, I remember his horrible comment about me being in Declan’s bed.

I lock my phone to prove to myself I can choose to ignore this whole situation.

“No.”

Whitney stares at me. “Right.”

“Just checking for updates. ”

“They’re not going to fire him.”

She says it like it’s a fact, but she couldn’t possibly know that. Rumors usually start with a whisper, meaning this conversation is happening behind the scenes. The fact that this has become viral enough to have gone from a whisper to a full-on shout means there is merit.

“He was just defending me.”

“I know. I saw.” Whit nods, leaning forward on the desk.

She shrugs. “He’s too valuable and that guy was completely in the wrong.

I know that you feel bad, but I don’t think anything too severe will come from it.

Plus, Carter Forkerro doesn’t throw a punch that he doesn’t want to throw. That’s not on you.”

She’s said that before.

Whit’s the hockey fan in our friend group, The Charlie’s Angels .

Susan, one of the senior receptionists, bestowed that title on us one day, and it stuck.

Autumn is our music girl, Whitney is our sports girl, and I’m just…

a girl. I have no passions that shape me, besides volunteering at the animal shelter when I can, and putting on these scrubs every single day.

I’m too busy trying to survive each week without falling apart to have any time for hobbies or dreams.

Life isn’t easy.

At twenty-eight, I feel like I should be in my late forties.

The amount of pressure I feel every morning when I open my eyes is overwhelming.

Don’t get me started on stress. Two years ago, I started losing my hair.

My hair is my shield. My armour. But my red strands started thinning and falling out by the day.

The reason for it? Stress.

Imagine that. Nobody warns you about that when they talk about the impacts of mental health.

I have tried everything the doctor recommended. It’s helped, but it’s not foolproof. I know how to ground myself better now. My hair is coming back to life, slowly but surely, yet that’s only one consequence of being in Arden Doll’s head.

Sounds quite fun, doesn’t it?

I’m the oldest of three girls. Serena is two years younger than me, and Anya is one younger than her.

My parents had three kids under five. Girls with drastically different personalities and a chronic need to be independent people in their parents’ eyes.

One would assume that it would have been a recipe for disaster, but it wasn’t.

It was a great childhood, and it probably would have stayed that way if Mom didn’t die.

Those three little girls would have grown into three moody teenagers who ripped each other apart, only to become best friends in our twenties and have that unbreakable sisterly bond you see in all the movies.

But Mom did die.

I was eleven. It was sudden. Any source of womanly mentor or motherly understanding died with her.

When one parent dies, some parents jump into action and take on both roles for their children.

My father wasn’t able to do that. When Mom took her last breath, he wept for hours and hours and completely lost himself.

I took care of my sisters from that very moment onward.

I didn’t get to mourn. I went straight into mothering mode.

I lost my identity before I was a teenager. I existed for them instead.

It never changed. I took care of Serena and Anya, and when I had the time, I took care of Dad.

I had no time to take care of myself, and nobody was around to do that for me.

Dad busied himself with everything but his kids.

He found it hard to look at me specifically, probably because I have her eyes and the same shade of red hair.

I think I was a harsh reminder of what he lost. Instead of looking at it positively, realizing that he could see the woman he loved more than anything, each and every day through his child, he hated that he had to.

There came a time when I had to start choosing myself, but in a way, I am still choosing them.

No matter what, I’m always choosing them.

Dad got sick when I turned eighteen. He was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease and as he sat us down to explain it, I realized we were screwed. He wasn’t going to be able to work, and he was eventually going to die, just like Mom had.

We would have nothing. Just the house that he managed to pay off.

At least he did one thing right.

I went to nursing school back home in Maine.

When I finished, Dad was still around. I hadn’t expected him to be.

My sisters went on with their lives. They did their school work, they dated boys, they called me at two in the morning for drunk rides home.

They got to be kids, and I had become their parent.

I made sure they were keeping up with their classes in high school and college, I grilled those boys they dated, and I got my tired butt out of bed to pick them up while they puked in a grocery bag the whole way home and apologized through tears.

They had become entirely reliant on me.

So had my father.

I was drowning.

The girls didn’t know how to be independent because they never had to be.

The world changed when Mom left it, and I was so desperate to protect them that I trained them to need me for everything instead.

So, I applied for nursing jobs in other cities and I left, just like that.

I barely gave them any warning before I fled.

Serena was freshly twenty-one. Anya wasn’t even twenty yet. Still, I ran. I left them to care for our dad while I made money for them to do so. To me, it was the perfect compromise. The best thing for all of us.

I needed distance. Not from them, but from him .

They needed money. I could help with that now.

It’s very hard to care for a person who can’t look at you. It’s difficult to be the sole caregiver for someone who resents you as deeply as he does me. It’s inexplicably painful to love a person who can’t stand the sight of your mother’s face when you’re growing into a different version of it.

It all broke me a bit, way back then. I never really figured out how to put those pieces back together. My body just healed itself around those wounds that still exist and I learned to live with the lingering pain.

Serena works at a law firm as a clerk. Anya is a hairstylist who does well enough for herself.

They help with the bills as best as they can, but Dad’s illness is expensive.

The word ‘expensive’ doesn’t seem to encapsulate the costs well enough.

Taking care of him is taxing, both financially and emotionally.

Since I left them to deal with his physical and emotional care, I pay for most of his medical costs.

It’s a bit messed up, isn’t it? The one child who has a career in medicine, who helps sick people each and every day, refuses to care for dear old Dad?

I know it is. You’re welcome to judge me for it. Just remember that you didn’t have to grow up in that house. I did.

He’s still beating the odds. He’s still kicking. It’s been a decade, and he’s still here. As his doctors say, he’s a fighter.

Whitney is staring at me, her face morphing into concern.

“It’ll blow over, Arden,” she assures me. “It always does for these guys. They get away with tons of stuff just because they can skate. A punch is not the worst thing a famous man has done.”

The good ol’ system that we loathe. Men are allowed to be awful because they’re talented, or powerful, or because they make a lot of money and have the right connections.

In this case, I hope the ass-backward system is still in operation. Just this once.

I nod, leaning into my hand. “You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right.” She glances toward the doors to the ER, which are now opening. She shakes her head in disbelief. “Time for Nancy to move on out of here.”

I follow her gaze and break out into laughter.

Cooper is the one who lifts his hand to wave, a smile on his mouth.

He winks at us, a gesture we both understand the moment we spot who he brought with him.

Two more nurses. Both men. Both muscular and pretty cute.

The exact people who Nancy will allow to take her out of this unit and into another without losing her mind.

Her penises have arrived.