I hang up, taking a deep breath. As soon as I feel centered again, I march out into the bedroom. Glaring down at the offensive box, I tap a number into the keypad I know by heart. Then I press the green call button. Holding it up to my ear, I wait.
On the third ring, it connects.
“Hello?” comes my mother-in-law’s voice. “Who is this?”
I don’t respond.
“Hello?”
Taking a deep breath, I charge ahead. “Bea, it’s me.”
“Oh—Tess?” Her tone shifts from authoritative to surprised. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong,” I reply. “What I need to know is what you plan to do about it.”
She sighs, and I can almost imagine her slipping her readers off and setting them on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What happened?”
The time for coddling her is over. “He shredded the divorce papers and sent them to me in a box with a note calling me a whore,” I reply.
“Tess, this is all so distasteful. It’s such a complicated business—”
“Then uncomplicate it. Make him sign—”
“Is he the one making things complicated, or are you?” she challenges. “You hurt him with your latest publicity stunt—hurt all of us, Tess. I’m doing my best to clean up this mess, but thrusting yourself back into the spotlight isn’t helping anyone—”
“Those are tabloids,” I cry. “It’s bullshit, Bea. I’m not with Jake Price. It’s trash reporting—”
“It’s fuel for this fire,” Bea counters.
“And Troy means to watch me burn, right?” I challenge. “Are you going to help him? Is that what you want too?”
“He’s angry and upset,” she replies. “Justifiably so. You’re asking him to uproot his entire life, to end a relationship that’s lasted over a decade. He’s not taking any of this lightly.”
I shake my head, blocking out her attempts to minimize and deflect.
“Perhaps if you’d just agree to speak with him—”
“No.” My palms are suddenly sweaty at the mere idea of another encounter. “That’s not happening. Bea, I’m done. I’ll give him one more chance to do this uncontested. You write up the papers this time and get him to sign.”
“Tess—”
“You get him to sign, or I will see him in court,” I shout, a tear slipping down my cheek. “And then every awful thing he has ever said or done will become a matter of public record—the cheating, the abuse, the isolation, the harassment. I will drag your precious son into this fire with me, and we will burn together, so help me God.”
“Now your true colors begin to shine,” she says, her tone cold, distant.
I take a deep breath, eyes closed. “This all stops when he grants me my divorce. Only he can do it, Bea. Only he can set us both free.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I need more time.”
“Well, I have no more time to give,” I reply, wholly resolved. “So, are you helping me or not?”
39
“Come on,” I mutter, hands balled into fists as I watch Sully, Jonesy, and Karlsson skate down the ice, passing the puck. They had to reshuffle the forward lines with me missing, which means Jonesy is practicing with the starters this morning. He’s playing like a hotshot, making fancy stick moves and hogging the puck.
“Come on,” I say louder this time. “Just pass it, Jonesy!”
Sully is open and waiting, but Jonesy keeps it, trying a backhand flick that gets blocked by J-Lo. He bats the puck away and sends it down ice, leaving Jonesy scrambling to chase after it.
“Stop showboating and pass the damn puck,” I shout as he skates past me. This is the worst part about being injured: the watching. I launch to my feet, grabbing the top of the boards. “Pass it, Jonesy! For fuck’s sake—”
“Yoo-hoo, Ryan!”
I spin around, watching as Poppy St. James comes sauntering down the row of seats, her heels clicking as she walks. Does this woman ever not wear heels? She’s our public relations manager, but don’t let her Barbie looks fool you. She’s sharp as a tack and ruthless.
Her gloomy shadow Claribel walks in her wake. Poppy is loud and bright in a lavender pantsuit and blazer, while Claribel is a goth girl with dark eye makeup and dyed hair.
“Hi, Ryan,” Poppy chimes. “You got a minute?”
I stifle my groan. Whenever Poppy asks for a minute, she really means an hour. And if Claribel is involved, it means I’ll be doing something stupid like slapping a teammate in the face with a tortilla or answering questions about my favorite books and music.