Page 7

LENA

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve thrown up since I saw Brad making out with someone else on the jumbo screen at my new job. The fact that Brad was even at a hockey game is surreal. I wish I felt more surprised that he was cheating.

Most of the nausea came alongside a deep certainty that he’s never cared for me. Not like I cared for him. I clutch my stomach, glancing around the empty apartment where I slept a total of zero minutes last night. He hasn’t answered his phone. He certainly didn’t come home.

Home.

This place will never feel like home to me. It is a den of betrayal.

I don’t know much right now, but I do know that.

I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror, at the dark smudges under my eyes, at my unkempt hair. I need to get my shit together and drive to the hockey facility–a special building north of the city where the players practice, work out, and sometimes seek dental care.

Since I don’t know if I can bear to come back here ever again, I grab the first suitcase I can find and stuff a bunch of things into it: my laptop and some underwear, not my clothes because I’m between sizes right now and was counting on wearing scrubs most of the time.

I spit out a laugh, remembering all the zeroes on my new salary. Now that I’m not going to be funding anyone else’s lifestyle, I’ll be able to divert some of that money toward a plus-sized wardrobe that feels comfortable. After I take a whack at my student loan balance, I guess.

I rush through a shower, glance around the apartment again, and realize how much of it centers on Brad and his wants and tastes. The spare bedroom? His office where he can ponder his dissertation.

The living room? His furniture choices, his artwork. His dishes. His blender and specialty cookware. Like the clay tagine, he insisted on getting, donating our other pans, and then using them exactly once. I’ve been microwaving my pasta in a glass measuring cup for a year. A fucking year.

I swipe at the tagine on the counter and watch in satisfaction as it strikes the tiled kitchen floor, shattering into three pieces. “Good,” I say to the empty apartment.

I climb into my beat-up Honda Civic, drive north, and head to my dental suite to wait for Tucker Stag.

This is what a dental suite might look like in a fantasy land, surely.

Everything is painted in soothing beach tones.

The artwork appears as if it came straight from a meditation retreat.

And the equipment! It resembles a catalog we see at a dental conference, fully aware that any practice hiring us will likely only afford shabby, outdated versions.

I run my hand along a water pick, state-of-the-art 3D imaging devices, and modern X-ray machines.

There hasn’t been much time to explore since the team has been in the playoffs.

My predecessor has a closet full of small drawers, each labeled with a name: G STAG, ROGERS.

I pull open some of the drawers to reveal plaster mouth molds and, in some cases, loose teeth. Fascinating.

Well, if this is where I get to work, there’s at least a small silver lining to my humiliation.

I could sleep in this office quite comfortably, I’m sure.

The desk chair alone is one of the five-figure options I used to laugh at with my cohort in dental school.

I sink into it, noticing that I can widen the base to comfortably accommodate my hips.

Yeah, this is okay.

I hear male voices arguing and kick my bag under my desk. I tuck my hair behind my ears and straighten my scrub top as a third, angrier male voice joins the fray. Should I wait here for them to approach?

I don’t have to wait long until a middle-aged white guy with dark hair sticks his head into the office. “You the new doc?” I nod. He presses his lips together. “Well, I’ll let you go to town on Tweedle Dee here, but I’d appreciate it if we could talk after.”

“Certainly, Mr…”

He smacks his forehead. “Sorry about that. Brian Klein. I’m the agent for these two.

” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, and I glance around him to see two identical hockey players.

Well, nearly identical. One has a bruised face, and I last saw him bleeding on the ice as I filed down the sharp edges of his broken incisor.

I slip into my work focus, forgetting everything else for the moment as I rise to greet my clearly terrified patient. “Tucker, I’m going to take good care of you today.”

The non-injured twin slaps his brother on the back. “You should call him Fucker. He’s going to be good.”

Judging by his face, there’s nothing good going on for Alder today. He looks about as healthy as I do after the kiss cam. Maybe he’s just concerned for his brother.

“Tucker,” I repeat. “How is your pain this morning?” His eyes dart rapidly around the room like he’s searching for a drill.

“Tell you what.” I approach him and realize my head only comes to the shoulders of these massive athletes.

I look up into his bearded face, wondering how someone could play such a violent, brutal sport, and feel so intimidated by the tiny tools I use to tend teeth.

“Let’s get you in the chair, and we can take a look at things.

I promise I will only use my hands until we discuss a plan. Okay?”

Tucker looks at his brother, who rolls his eyes and shoves Tucker toward the exam chair. Tucker clutches his twin’s hand in a move I find deeply endearing, and I’m glad when they both make their way toward the chair. Now, I need to set Tucker at ease… or at least distract him while I work.

“How are you today?” I reach for the box of gloves on the wall of the exam room. They’re all XL, of course, but these will have to do until I can order smaller gloves to fit. At least my hands aren’t plus-sized.

“Fine,” he grunts and looks away.

“Okay, Tucker, Alder is going to stay right with you. I’m going to tip you back, turn on my light, and reach inside to check things out, okay?

” Tucker shakes his head, but Alder places a hand on his shoulder.

This is going to be a rough one. The twins are probably six-three, their frames occupying the entirety of the available space. Relatable.

Tucker opens his mouth a wee bit, and I nod, reaching a finger inside.

“I’m just going to feel your gums for signs of swelling.

Good.” I touch the jagged edge of the broken tooth.

“Breathe, Tucker.” I didn’t have time to grab a surgical mask, and I inhale a nose full of Tucker’s leftover alcohol.

I don’t blame him. I wish I’d gone with him to the bottom of that bottle last night.

He clenches his jaw as I note the fracture lines in what’s left of the tooth.

“That’s going to be sharp and sore,” I say, checking for nerve exposure and finding none.

“We have a few options. I could put a plastic cap over the remainder of the tooth. It would be pretty fragile…you’d have to be careful chewing, and you would lose it if you got hit in the face again. ”

Alder snorts. “You lost him at ‘careful,’ Doc. What’s the other choice?”

I wince and nod. “Well, I’m afraid I’d have to extract the tooth and build you a removable one. I would advise against a permanent implant--”

“Implant?” Tucker’s eyes fly wide, and he jerks his head away. Alder sighs and pats him on the shoulder.

Brian, the agent, tired of waiting, I guess, starts to yell. “Tucker, quit being a baby. She’s going to numb you first and it’s fine.”

“Yes,” I concur. “I’m assuming we don’t want a permanent tooth until you retire.

” Tucker shrugs. I spin around in my chair, opening drawers until I find the supplies I need to numb Tucker’s mouth so I can prepare his tooth for extraction.

I grab the numbing ointment and a cotton swab, holding it up so he can see. “Numbing gel first, then a shot.”

Tucker emits a wail. Alder leans toward me. “Just do it. He does better if you go fast and just do it.”

I gaze into Alder’s eyes, seeing pain there alongside compassion. I nod and swab Tucker’s cheek, then quickly prepare the shot. “Little pinch,” I say, shaking his lip to distract him. It doesn’t work, and he clenches.

“Do it, Doc,” Brian yells, and I sigh.

I lean closer. “Tuck, I promise this will only hurt for three Mississippis. Okay?” His eyes water, but he nods. I inject the gum as Tucker squeals, then stops.

“There.” I sit back and peel off a glove. “Should be a few minutes, and we can get started.”

Brian takes this opportunity to clear his throat and start talking. “Dr. Sinclair. Lena. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines by now.”

I furrow my brow. “Headlines?”

He mutters in Yiddish and holds up his phone.

There’s a giant headline, Fury Defenseman's Boyfriend Caught in Kiss Cam Scandal , followed by a picture of Brad and Adam making out at the hockey game, and another photo of Alder screaming in…is it rage or anguish? Humiliation?

Brian licks his lips. “According to my client, your boyfriend.” He points at me. “Is fucking his boyfriend.” He points his other hand at Alder, then smashes his fists together, mimicking an explosion. “The media is going nuts.”

Brian launches into a rapid-fire discussion about how Alder is being dragged through a gauntlet of speculation, analysis, and criticism, with the worst of it coming from fans who claim he cost the Fury the season on purpose after realizing what his partner was up to.

“This is cruel,” I shout, clapping a hand over my mouth.

Tucker sits up, drooling. “Thath what I shaid.”

Brian shakes his head. “This is pro sports, ladies and gents. We need to control the narrative. It doesn’t help that Alder refused to talk to the media after the game.” He taps Alder on the back. “You’re getting fined, by the way.”

“Fuck if I care,” Alder mutters. He meets my gaze and slumps against the wall, nearly falling off the rolling stool.

It seems so cruel to discuss his humiliation like this: the betrayal. I almost forget about my nightmare. I open my mouth to suggest… what? That there’s an explanation? A reasonable excuse?

Brian mutters something about taking calls and waltzes out of the room.

I wish I could slip away from the visible pain both these men are experiencing for different reasons.

I thought I could quietly slip into this job.

I believed this was a financial windfall that would help me regain my footing in my relationship.

Instead, it’s set me up for an extremely public analysis of all my deepest shame.

My mother’s refrain echoes in my head. Nobody will ever love me, not when I look like this.

Nobody will ever take care of me. I will need to be more nurturing, more available, more, more, more, while striving to be smaller and take up less space.

I hear another whining sound and realize it’s coming from me. I shove a knuckle into my mouth. “I apologize,” I say to Tucker, who reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I choke out a laugh, realizing what it means for him to work through his terror to comfort me.

Alder’s blue gaze bores into me as I try to think. “I don’t know what to do,” I say to him. Not sure why I’m addressing him, but his face is in my line of vision. “I don’t know what to do.”

He swallows, the muscles of his throat working behind a scruffy blond beard. “You’re going to fix my brother’s mouth, and then we’re going to get revenge on those assholes.”