Stand and Defend (Lakes Hockey Series Book 4)

In the kitchen, I sit on a stool as I mix ingredients and slide a tray in the oven. Step one, fudge brownies. Step two, get drunk. I reach into the wine fridge, feeling around for a bottle. My fingers wrap around the neck of the first one I touch, then I pull it out, uncork the bottle, and take three very healthy gulps from the rim.

“I owe Camden Teller one bottle of whatever this is,” I announce, then glance at the label. “Ah, a Riesling. Lovely.”

Forty minutes later, Cam comes home from practice. I’m three-quarters of the way through the wine and halfway through the nine-by-thirteen pan of chocolate heaven. At least, I think it’s half. It’s not like I’ve started on one end of the pan and am working across. No, I’m plunging my fork wherever it lands. The whole pan is mine, who cares where I start? He walks in to me sitting on his sofa watching reality TV.

What stage of grief is binging brownies, wine, and RuPaul’s Drag Race? Is it the one before or after bargaining? I can never remember.

He looks surprised to see me. “Hey. Saw you called. Sorry, didn’t have my phone on me.”

The silly straw in my wine bottle spins around the rim, and I struggle to get my lips around it for a drink. When I finally take a sip, it makes a sucking noise, unable to reach the wine at the bottom of the bottle. I pluck out the now-useless straw. “Well, that’s disappointing,” I mutter.

He gets closer and jerks his head back. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

“Oh!” I respond with the most facetious smile I can manage. “I’m having a horrible fucking day! Would you care to join me, sir? It’s BYOB.” I hold my breath to burp. “Want my straw?” I offer it to him.

He cautiously sets down his gym bag. “Why?”

“Because everything is better with a silly straw!”

“Jordan. Stop.” He grabs the remote off the table and pauses my show, then takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me—blocking my view. Rude. It was getting to my favorite part!

“Dick! Put it back—they’re sissying that walk! It’s Mermaid Fantasy Extravaganza. I need to see this.” I shove another bite of brownies into my mouth and gesture with my fork. “Trixie’s our bitch, she’s gonna slay this shit,” I say with my mouth full. Hopefully, the muffling hides my slurred speech.

He raises his eyebrows, gives a paused blink, and blows out a breath. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not near enough.” I take another pull from the bottle, bummed I no longer have my fun plastic orange straw.

“Okay, tell me what happened.”

I hiccup. “Pass.”

“No, you’re done deflecting. You gotta face your problems.”

“I’ve faced them, Cam!” I throw my arms out to the sides, wine sloshes inside the bottle as I emphasize my words. “All morning!”

He furrows his brow. “I thought you were at work. And where is your car?”

I raise the bottle of wine into the air victoriously. “At the impound!”

“Why is it at the impound?” he asks with furrowed brows.

“That’s what happens when you steal a car,” I answer in the same cadence. “Which, apparently, I did.”

“Wait—”

“Thankfully, dear ol’ dad funded the department for a slew of new vehicles last year. It helped convince the officer to not arrest me. Well, that, and I may have bribed him. Shit, I’m on fire.” I almost forgot that even happened. I laugh and take another sip and wipe my mouth with my arm. “I was almost arrested!” I laugh.

He squints at me. “Stolen? So, wait, how did you get home?”

“Buses, baby! I got to the library and walked from there.”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

He stands and points out the window, shouting. “The library is miles from here!”

Duh, didn’t he hear me when I said I walked it?

“I’m aware, thank you.” I point to my feet.

He slowly sits again and lifts my ankles, setting my sock-covered feet in his lap. The movement makes me wince.

“Jesus. Got any other good news, Sunshine?”

“Sure do! It gets better. I tried to pay for a rideshare, hence the bus, but he deactivated all my cards—Oh! And I was fired.” My eyes burn with tears. “It’s been a hoot-and-a-half,” I say with a cracked voice.

“What?” His hands flex and jaw tics.

The sadness returns as I say the words aloud. I smile, but my eyes are filled to the brim. “I have no money, no job, no car. I’m having a bad fucking day, Cam.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of the tears return.

Now, more than ever, I want to sabotage Bryan. One final, Fuck you. Love, Jordan.

My voice comes out scratchy and angry. “This is why they stay, isn’t it? How do women leave if they don’t have anyone? How the fuck do they do it?”

He peels the rolled-up socks off my feet and sucks in a breath. He should have seen them before, when they resembled hamburger meat. “Jesus—fucking—Christ.”

“Ya know what’s funny?” I tap my fork against my lips. “I always thought I was independent. I wasn’t. It was a ruse.” I treasure another gulp from the bottle, it’s mostly empty. “I was so stupid. Bryan’s had his claws in every part of my life. This whole time he’s been giving me the illusion of control, but it was simply a leash with a long lead. With the snap of his fingers, it was all taken away.”

I stab my fork into the pan of brownies, then stuff it in my mouth. I can’t imagine what I must look like. At least after today, I know Cam won’t be attracted to me anymore. Drunk, red swollen eyes, and hair I never bothered to brush after my shower. That’s one less problem on my plate.

“Have you talked to your parents?”

With my shoulders held back, I lock my eyes with him. “No. I’m fixing my own problems this time.”

“You’re not thinking about going back, are you?”

I think about the taunting text message I saw from Bryan that came through as I was shutting down my phone. “Ready to come home yet?”

“No.”

“Good . . . you know what you need?”

“To get laid?” I mumble into my mess of brownies. The pan looks like an excavation site, peppered with random holes.

“Oh, did you finally decide I’m your type? I was gonna say go for a ride, but we can do that too.”

I purse my lips and stare at him. “Is a ride on the back of your motorcycle going to help me get a job and avoid my ex?”

He sighs. “No, but it’ll take your mind off it for a little while. And afterward, once you’ve eaten some real food and not this shit”—he snatches my tray of brownies away—“and gotten a good night’s sleep, you might be able to look at the bright side.”

I bark out a laugh and reach for the brownie pan. “What bright side? Enlighten me.”

Ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth tips up. “That this is the best thing to ever fucking happen to you. He’s cutting you off.” He leans forward, and his intense hazel eyes bore into me. “Let him.”

Sitting back in my seat, I stare at him and consider his statement. I didn’t think about it that way. When I finally pull my gaze away, I press my palms to my eye sockets, surely smudging whatever mascara is left on my lashes.

“It’s like he’s trying to start a war,” I huff.

“As long as you don’t go back, he’ll never win. Like Braveheart, ya know?” He breaks out the worst Scottish accent I’ve ever heard. “You can take our jobs, our credit cards, and our Lexuses, but you’ll never take our freedom!”

The corner of my mouth tips up. “Hm. I almost forgot about that time when thirteenth century Scotland went to battle for their luxury sedans and corporate careers. William Wallace and I are basically the same person.”

“You’re way hotter than William Wallace.”

I tip my bottle at him. “But am I hotter than Mel Gibson?” I try to take a sip but, sadly, it’s empty.

“No, I’m sorry.”

That makes me laugh. It’s my first, nonmaniacal laugh of the day.

He smiles back, pleased with himself.

“Come here.” He wraps me up in a big hug, and I let him.

“You’re not my type,” I quip.

“I’m everybody’s type.” With his mouth pressed to my hair, he says, “I guess we’re not getting your stuff today.”

“Nope. And no checking out apartments . . . No seeing Chicken Salad . . .” Bryan torpedoed all my plans.

“What do you need?”

I speak my truth. “I need my brownies back.”

He pulls away with a half grin.

“Okay, Sunshine.” He hands me the tray, and I dig in with my fork. They don’t taste as good anymore. “Let me get you something for your feet, though.”

I hit play on the TV and finish watching the queens roll through their runway looks. As I predicted, Trixie Mattel gets top marks. For the first time, escaping reality isn’t as satisfying, but at the end of the episode, RuPaul looks at the camera, and I swear she’s speaking directly to me: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else?”

“Can I get an amen?” I respond monotone.

Cam returns with salve, places my feet in his lap again, and inspects them. As soon as he unscrews the jar, the smell invades my nose, and I turn my head away. “Fuck, dude! What is that? It smells horrible!”

He laughs. “Yeah, it stinks, but it works wonders. I use it when I’m breaking in new skates.”

“Ach! It’s gross.”

“Your feet are fucking gross,” he says, rubbing them. It smells like death, but God, it feels so good.

“Shut up. After these toes heal, you’re going to buy me a pedicure to apologize for that mean remark.”

He winks. “Deal.”

I gag at the smell once more but let him do the other foot.