After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Spencer
Returning to your ex's place is never fun. Nor should it be encouraged.
Dread ravages my gut as my shoes scuff against the cement steps. I feel like I'm dragging myself into hell. Brandon was always one for theatrics. Now that we're no longer together, I can only imagine how overdramatic he'll act. Every ounce of my conscience is telling me to forget my box of belongings and run. But my old Cassidy jersey, favourite bronzer, and other personal trinkets are too important to forget.
Especially the jersey.
My knuckles rap against the door, and I take a step back, tapping my foot against the cement while I wait. As the seconds tick by, my anxiety intensifies. Last time I saw Brandon, we got into a screaming match. He didn't want me to leave. I wanted more options for my career and a happier lifestyle. Plus, words from our previous phone conversation are ringing through my head. Support's never been an option for Brandon. If the limelight isn't on him, he doesn't give a flying fuck. I also think he hates seeing women succeed. My aspirations to become a romance novelist were only pipe dreams, according to him. And my career as a journalist was fickle.
Which makes me wonder what I ever saw in him. A relationship's foundation comprises support, trust, and love. With all these memories and anticipation, I feel like a fool. I enabled his behaviour instead of putting a stop to it.
When Brandon opens the door, I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep my game face on. Or, as he likes to call it, resting bitch face. My gaze sweeps over him with distaste. His dark-brown hair is slicked back, the tips brushing his broad shoulders. Despite it being mid-October, he's wearing board shorts and a black long-sleeve athletic shirt. His bright hazel eyes are wide and focused. I watch as his gaze inspects me.
It makes me squirm, and I adjust my baby-pink blouse, regretting how low the neckline dips. Thinking about hooking up with Brandon makes my stomach uneasy. He's good-looking, but his personality is rotten.
"Spencer."
His voice is void of any emotions.
I suppress an eye roll. Okay, so he's playing the careless asshat. Great. Instead of engaging in a conversation, I push past him. The duplex looks the same as it did before: dingy and smelling of mildew. Well... maybe not dingy. It's a nice sized living area with plenty of space thanks to the open-concept style and buttery hardwood floors. My emotions are clouding my judgement, and they make me second-guess myself. Emotions are what kept me in a relationship with Brandon for so long; they clouded my perception on what I truly wanted in life. This repetitive pattern makes me uneasy.
Prior to landing in Vancouver, I texted Brandon and told him to collect my belongings and have them ready. Sure enough, my belongings are stowed away in a box that's sitting atop the dining room table. With each step, my shoes squeak against the hardwood. Behind me, I can hear Brandon loitering by the couch. He keeps clearing his throat or shifting his weight between his feet.
