“Are you getting a balloon arch?” I ask Bea over chicken and kale.
At the last minute, I popped an organic flatbread pizza into the oven for her. The look of relief that crossed her face clued me in that she wasn’t super impressed by the kale.
A bit of sauce dots the corner of her mouth as she scrunches her nose. “No. We’re not balloon people.”
I give her a look. “Who isn’t a balloon person? What does that even mean?”
Slowly, she raises her hand. “I usually make the centerpieces and decorations.”
I groan. “This is why you’re overwhelmed.”
“Because I like to add personal details to the parties I’m, by default, hosting?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You need to delegate out. Besides, a luau needs balloons. It’s in the party-planning bible.”
Bea laughs and I’m glad I can elicit that reaction from her. Especially when I spoke to her earlier and she sounded on the verge of tears. I’ve heard that quivering before—Jamie gets it right before a meltdown. The thought of Bea caring so much, being concerned, about all the things on her plate that the plate would crack made me want to fix everything for her.
Hence, why I want to help her work through her list. She needs to prioritize and take decisions that will reduce the pressure she’s under.
“I’m skeptical about the arch.”
“That’s because you’ve probably never posed under one,” I toss back.
Her nose scrunches again as she wavers on how to let me down.
“Okay.” I place my hand over hers. “Tell me your vision for this party. Then, we’ll make a list—”
“Another list?”
I smirk. “For me. Whatever you feel comfortable handing off to me, I’ll take care of.”
Gratitude rings the edges of her irises. “Really?”
“Really.” How hard can calling a couple vendors be? Balloons and flowers, done.
“Okay.” She sits up straighter, her enthusiasm back. “I’m thinking we should stick with a pineapple theme. Nothing too on the nose, more natural and organic. Long, natural grasses—oh! Like pampas—and unbleached oak for the tables. We can alternate between benches and chairs for seating. Like rattan. Love that that’s back in…”
Shit! As Bea describes her vision in detail—many, many details—panic begins to swim through me. What did I just agree to? What the hell is pampas? And rattan? And…what did she just say? A signature cocktail?
This birthday bash is important to Bea. It’s more than the party. It’s proving to her family, her brothers, herself, that she’s capable of handling responsibility. That she can deliver on her promises. That she can…open a business. Excel in a creative field.
The pieces snap into place, offering clarity into the significance of this event. This event I just volunteered to support even though my plate is stacked too. I’ve got training and lifting. Running and practice. My meal prep alone is a full-time job. Not to mention the tracking. The meditation and visualization exercises to get into the mental headspace I need to perform on the ice.
Prove them all wrong.
My team is counting on me. My family is counting on me.
Hell, I’m counting on me. I need to prove that I can carry the future leadership of the Bolts. That I can contend for a top NHL team. That I have a future in this sport. At this level. Right now.
“Cole?”
I shake my head, snapping out of my thoughts when Bea says my name. “Huh?”
“You have no idea how much I appreciate your help. I still have two weeks at Primrose, although Noelle is trying to find my replacement sooner, so you’re taking a lot off my plate.” She slides a paper with a list—my list!—across the table. “Sometimes I wish I could just hire a party planner—”
“Can’t you?” Why didn’t I think of that? I’d gladly foot the bill if it would help Bea relax.
She shakes her head. “Gran really appreciates the little details.” She shrugs. “I don’t know, it feels like a cop-out to let someone else handle it entirely. So, thank you. Really.”
Internally, I groan. Externally, I beam. “No problem, babe.”
Except it is a huge fucking problem because I just invited a thousand distractions into my neat, orderly, routine way of life. I shove the list into my pocket.
“Do you want to come to the family dinner?” Bea asks. “It’s just my brothers and Gran, the night before her birthday. My brothers are all flying in early to spend some time together so…it could be good to meet them all not at the party.”
“Right.” I force a chuckle. “Yeah, sure, I’d love to come.” I mean it, too. I do want to meet Bea’s brothers and spend some time with them. I want them to get to know me and trust me to be good to their sister. “Is Beau okay with it?”
Bea shrugs. “I don’t see why not. We’re dating.”
I wrap my hand around Bea’s wrist and squeeze. She flinches.
Frowning, I loosen my hold. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she laughs, averting my gaze. I drop my hand and she rubs at her wrist.
A wave of horror washes through me. “Bea? Did I hurt you?”
“What?” Her eyes widen, her mouth dropping open. “No, of course not.” She rubs her wrist faster.
Something is off. Bea’s never fidgety and right now, her eyes dart all over the kitchen and she rubs both wrists like she’s going to break out in hives.
“What’s going on?” I ask slowly, trying to sort out whatever the hell just transpired.
Tears spring to Bea’s eyes and the emotion she shows causes my mind to clear and my body to lock down. Something fucking happened. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you? I didn’t mean—”
“Jay came to the studio last month.”
My eyes narrow, waiting.
“He…” She pauses, shaking her head. “I’m fine.” She holds up a hand before I can rapid-fire questions at her. What the hell does that mean? What the fuck did he do? I zero in on her wrist. Did he fucking touch her? “He’s having a hard time understanding that we’re together.”
“How hard of a fucking time?” I snap.
A tear slips down her cheek and I want to throw up. What the hell did he do to my girl? Could I have prevented it if I stood up for her earlier? Did she need my support in stopping him and I missed all the signs, assumed she handled it?
“It’s nothing. He just grabbed me, that’s all.”
“That’s not nothing,” I shoot back, moving to her side of the table. I wrap her in a fierce hug, holding her close. “You’re scared.”
“He told me I’d regret it. Not getting back together.”
I close my eyes, pressing my mouth to the crown of her head. My biggest fear tumbles from my mouth. “Do you?”
“What?” Bea pulls back, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. “Of course not.”
“Bea,” I whisper, pulling out the chair beside her and sitting down. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.”
“It’s not your job.”
“Of course it is.” Visions from my childhood, handprints on my mom’s cheeks, bruises around her throat, fill my mind. “Fuck!” I bring the butt of my fist down on the table. The plates jump and settle. Bea shrinks away from me and instantly, I feel fucking worse. “Baby, I’m sorry.” How the hell could I lose my cool in front of her?
She reaches for me, her eyes burning with the same need I feel, and I wrap her back up in a hug.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“I thought I handled it.”
“Are you worried?” I murmur. I’m fucking worried. Worried and furious and—I should have put a stop to this shit. But I hate confrontation. I shy away from getting involved. My dad used his fists too much and by holding back, by not being like him, I put my girl at risk.
Bea shrugs.
Prove them all wrong.
“If he comes around again, promise you’ll call me?”
She nods.
“I need the words, Bea.”
“I promise. But I don’t think he will.”
“If he does—”
“I’ll let you handle it.”
“Good. Tell Beau too.”
Bea makes a face.
“Why don’t you want Beau to know?”
She blinks rapidly. “I want to prove to him that I’m an adult. That I can make decisions about my future.” Her voice pitches lower. “That he can trust my judgement.”
“I get that, baby. But your safety is non-negotiable. You have a lot of people that care about you. Let us in. Let us help. Please.” My voice cracks.
She holds my gaze but slowly nods. “Okay. I will.”
I take a deep, cleansing breath. “What do you need, baby?”
She scurries into my lap, clinging to me. “Just you.”
My arms wrap around her waist, pinning her to my chest. I kiss her hard.
Being close to Bea centers me. I need her just as badly as she needs me.
After an intense kiss, Bea pulls back and rests her head on my shoulder. I stroke my fingers through her hair, down her back, and back up again. “The thing with Jay rattled me on top of everything else.”
“I’m sorry that happened.”
“I’m more worried about getting everything done on time.”
“I got you, baby.” Bea’s never been anything but present for me and the one time she asks me to step up, well, I offer to step up, I need to show her it’s a two-way street. That I support her too. “Let me handle Jay. We’ll finish your list. And I’ll be at the dinner.”
Bea presses a kiss to the side of my neck, relaxing in my arms.
I tighten my hold, hopped up on adrenaline and regret and fear.
My mind races and my body feels jittery because…how the hell am I going to pull this off?
Other than a handful of text messages—no sign of Jay, Bodhi arrived—I haven’t spoken to Bea all day. While I got a run in this morning, I’m behind on my lift. I still have a handful of things to cross off the to-do list for Gran’s party. And I’m supposed to attend her family dinner tonight.
I glance at my Apple Watch and swear. I need to decide. I’ll have to skip some of the list items to attend tonight’s dinner. Or miss this dinner but have everything done for the party tomorrow.
Fuck. Either way, I’m letting Bea down. Guilt and failure line my stomach and I feel nauseous. Why the hell did I agree to this? Why didn’t I realize it would be too much?
This is why I don’t do distractions. When you let people in, there are expectations you’re obligated to fulfill. Right now, I’m letting my girlfriend down and I fucking hate it.
I dial Jamie.
“Hey!” my cousin answers.
“If you were dating someone—”
“Uh-oh.”
“And you had to let him down—”
“Shit. What happened?”
“Would you prefer he bailed on a family dinner—”
Massive gasp.
“Or skipped some items on a birthday bash to-do list you promised to fulfill for his grandmother’s party?”
“You’re screwed.”
“Fuck,” I swear. “Tell me about it.” Ever since I learned about the shit Jay pulled, coupled with this to-do list, I’ve been reeling. My head is all over the place and my body feels ready to snap.
“When’s the party?” Jamie asks.
“Tomorrow.”
She groans. “How many people?”
“Seventy. Seventy-five.”
“Damn!”
“Gran’s a popular lady. And it’s her ninetieth.”
“I’ll say. I hope I know that many people in my seventies.”
I snort. “Same. What do you think I should do?”
Jamie sighs. “What’s more important to Bea—the party or the dinner?”
I think about the pressure Bea’s been under. About how she’s taken on this party-planning role and run with it, clearly trying to prove something to her family. Or to herself. “I think the party. She’s been really stressed about it and all her brothers, except for Beau, are flying in to attend.”
Jamie’s quiet for a beat. “Okay, I say skip the dinner. At least if the party stuff is done, she won’t lose face in front of her family and friends. And you can explain that completing the list took longer than you thought and you didn’t want to disappoint her or go back on your word. Even though you’re super sorry about the dinner.”
“Right,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. When Jamie words it that way, it sounds like I’m doing the right thing. Making the right decision. I don’t bother mentioning my lift because Jamie will tell me to skip it, but…I can’t. Missing one lift will lead to skipping a run. I was planning to have some cake and drinks at the party, but if I don’t workout, will I enjoy myself at the event? Besides, with all the stress coiling in my body, I need the release a workout provides. I need to sweat this shit out.
“Cole,” Jamie says slowly. “You’re overthinking this. Text Bea and tell her you’re working on the party stuff, and you want it to be perfect. You’re super sorry but you can’t make dinner. Then, offer to go to the party early and help her set up.”
“Okay, okay.” That’s a good plan, isn’t it? I’m messing shit up but not all the way. Not too badly. Right?
“Go. Message her!”
“Okay. Thanks, Jaim.”
“Talk to you later.”
I end the call and clench my phone.
Putting this in a text feels shitty so I call Bea. It rings several times before her voicemail picks up. Damn.
I’m texting her when a message comes through.
Bea: Hey! Sorry, can’t chat. Just leaving to pick up the twins from the airport with Bodhi. What’s up?
I cringe. Bodhi’s first impression of me is going to be my bailing on dinner.
Sighing, I tap out the message.
Me: Babe, I’m so sorry. This list took longer than I thought. I swear I’ll have it all done in time tomorrow, but I can’t make dinner tonight.
I press send and grip the phone.
Minutes pass without a reply and I feel like throwing up. Why didn’t I manage my time better? Why did I take on too much? Why does letting Bea down feel like the worst thing in the world? Worse than losing a game or taking a jab to the face?
Bea: I understand. I’m sorry the list was so much.
Shit. Now, she feels guilty.
Me: Not at all. I just didn’t manage my time well.
I bite my inner cheek.
Me: I’ll come early tomorrow, help you set up.
Bea: No pressure.
I roll my eyes.
Bea: Come whenever.
Me: Have fun tonight with your brothers. I’ll see you tomorrow, babe. I love you.
Please say it back. Please.
Bea: Love you too. Thanks for your help, Cole. Really.
I let out a slow exhale at her message. Even though I know she’s not mad, I still feel awful.
I still feel like a failure.
Shouldering my gym bag, I head to the arena and lift until my arms give out.