"Cause you say you love me and then you do it again, you do it again. You say you're sorry and then you do it again, you do it again"

- Travis, "Reoffender"

January 2010

Something is wrong.

It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm suddenly awake. I try to remember what the dream, or more like nightmare I was having that startled me awake. But the images, the voices that were just a moment so clear, so vivid, evaporate into the night, swirling in the wind, mixing with the flakes that fall steadily outside my window.

I'm out of it. My brain is trying to catch up and my phone says 3:30. It also has a number of missed calls from Chelsea. All within the last hour.

I groan.

I love Chelsea, in the past six months she has become a good friend. My best friend really. But calls at this hour usually means she's drinking and dialing. Life in Wilkes Barre moves too slowly for Chelsea, so she's always up to something to spice it up and I usually get to hear it through slurred speech and excessive giggling at 3 o'clock in the morning. But I can't complain. I will be there for Chelsea, because she had been there for me.

She was there to pick me up that June day, from the dark depths of heartbreak.

She was there taking me out, telling me to "put myself out there." We had a summer filled with pool days and concerts, shopping and movies, late nights up and down Carson Street. She was the best, is the best. If it hadn't been for her, I would have just holed myself in my apartment and put in the next year like a prison sentence, waiting to get enough money to get out of this town.

And away from him.

But Chelsea wouldn't let me wallow. She was in Pittsburgh for the summer, her sales job on hiatus until Fall. And she was determined to make it the summer of Chebecca.

Her word, not mine.

And it was a pretty great summer, all things considering.

And then September came. And so did the nerves. Chelsea went back to WBS and I braced myself for the upcoming season.

Claude returned late in the summer. He'd lost about 30 pounds and was taking it easy. I was given more responsibilities and he'd often get lost on a tangent about me taking over when he retired. I'd remind him this was only for a year and he'd just humor me. Nevertheless we worked well together and by mid September I convinced myself that I didn't care about Sidney Crosby.

That was until I saw him.

I'd just finished up my weekly briefing with Ray, when there was a knock at his door. Before I could even rise from my chair, Ray called come in and the door opened.

I wanted to disappear. Hide behind a plant, dive under a desk, anything but be standing there when a familiar head popped in and looked at me.

For a fraction of a fraction of a second there was surprise, then nothing.

Dead eyes flicked onto mine and that was it. Eyes that once looked at me with intensity and earnestness. Eyes that seemed warm and soft, sweet but dark with some sort of emotion, are now flat and and lifeless.

He spoke curtly to Ray, indicating he would be back later.

Ray didn't want to hear it and ushered him in.

And I just stood there, frozen.

And all the feelings were back. Full force.

Why? Why did you leave me?

And I knew in that tiny moment, that they were one sided.

He didn't acknowledge me. His gaze stayed right on Ray's as he started to speak, the frost flowing off of him like a block of dry ice dumped in a bucket of hot water. And the freeze, it enveloped me, surrounded me in a fog until I could see nothing. I reached blindly for the door and rushed past him just like the coward and fool I was.

After that split second, in September, he hasn't looked at me since.

Sure I've seen him many times over the past few months, even spoken to him.

But he doesn't look at me. His gaze stays just over my shoulder as he speaks with a clipped tone. He keeps it brief, whatever travel needs he has, I provide. He gives me the required information and leaves quickly.

It's so obvious. He masks his face pretty well, but I can still see it. The regret. It shames me. I feel so silly. I think I should be the one who is cold and distant. I was the one left all alone. I'm the one who should be mad.

Not that he seems mad. He doesn't. Instead it's like, I don't exist in his world. Not anymore. And whatever memory of that night he indulges in must bring him the same shame. Embarrassment that he'd drop so low to be with someone like me.

Because this is reality. And in this reality. He's famous and I'm a glorified secretary. And the way he is around me, tells me that.

Tells me that our worlds will not collide.

Not if he can help it.

The phone rings again, the low buzz brings me back to the present. To this cold January morning.

I recognize the number and answer, the heel of my hand rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and I say hello and wait for the drunken giggling.

Only it's not giggling.

It's sobbing.


As a team, we stand quietly in the corner, as we watch people come in and out of Mario's foyer. It's the one occasion when people are less than interested to see us. Guys talk amongst themselves making awkward small talk, because who knows what you're supposed to say at a funeral reception. People mull about in hushed tones and with red rimmed eyes. Claude's wife and daughters sit in the formal living room. The girls sob quietly as Mrs. Renard thanks guests for coming. Nathalie is sitting next to her, holding her hand. Groups of men, members of the Penguins organization that have been here for years before me, cluster around the large home and tell stories of Claude and the kind of guy he was.

I see people everywhere, but I'm looking for just one.

I don't bother to lie to myself that I'm not wondering where she is.

I watched her in the church. We were seated a few rows behind, which allowed me to look at her openly for the first time in six months.

When I got back to the Igloo in September, I wondered when I would see her. What would I say?

Would I be able to look at her, speak to her, without showing how hurt I was?

And then I saw her and in just a split second I saw the fear. And I knew what that meant.

It was just a confirmation that she saw this, us, as one big mistake.

So I steeled myself. I closed it off. I went into PR mode and I since then I've kept the interactions as minimal as possible. And in the cases when I do have to see her, I keep it quick, professional. Detached. Because if I don't, she will see.

See how weak I am.

See how much it hurts to be around her and not touch her.

See how much I regret what could have been.

In the church, I watched her. Sitting next to Chelsea. Staying strong, even though I could tell the tears wanted to spill over. Dressed in a fitted black dress, her dark hair up off her neck. I stared at the slope of her neck until Cookie elbowed me in the ribs telling me it was my turn to approach the podium and do the next reading.

But now, here, I don't see her anywhere.

An hour later, Nathalie finds me and asks me go get more ice from the garage. I nod and make my way through the labyrinth of their house til I get to the back where my room is, then make a left to the garage.

I hear the crying the moment I open the door. But when the door slams behind me, it stops.

I hear a few sniffles and there sitting on a crate by a bunch of hockey equipment is Rebecca.

She's wiping hastily at her cheeks and she looks up in surprise at me.

Our eyes lock.

And this time we forget who we are and what has happened and we just stare.

The tears she was wiping away are soon replaced with new ones and quickly she looks down and doesn't say a word.

I should just get the ice and go.

That is what I should do.

Instead, I find myself walking towards her.

"I don't want to cry in front of them," she says softly. "I mean, he was their dad. I just worked with him. But…"

Rebecca covers her face with her hands, "Forget it. Just go."

I stop walking.

She's right. I should just go.

"Are you going to be ok?" My voice sounds strange. Foreign. Distant.

She nods silently.

I turn and begin to walk away. To leave her, alone.

But I can't.

Leave her, alone.

I turn back.

"Should I get someone?" My voice is hollow.

"There's no one to get," her voice hardens. "My dad couldn't make it. A blizzard in Philly. And Claude's family...they need to be there for each other."

I know that I'm supposed to be forgetting her. That she isn't interested in anything with me, but right now the desire to hold her is so strong, so willful, that I clench my hands in fists and dig my heels in, not to come any further and take away her pain. In anyway I know how.

"Please…" she pauses like she doesn't even know what to call me. "Go. I really need you to not be here."

I stand there not sure if I should listen to her. Even if we can't be more, can't we at least be friends? My heart is damaged, bruised and fractured, but she needs someone more than ever.

"Go!" she shouts. Her eyes narrowed on mine. And they don't look at me like they did and I wonder if they ever will.

Still I don't move.

Abruptly she stands up. Dusts herself off and begins storming towards me, then past me.

"If you won't leave, I will." she mumbles.

My hand shoots out and grabs her arm. And the smooth soft skin is warm to my touch.

She turns, surprised and looks up at me. Her eyes are red, wet, wide. Her cheeks fiery red, matching the fury that I see building in her eyes.

I dont say anything and neither does she.

She opens her mouth and I wait for the lashing I'm about to receive. But it doesn't come.

There is a beat.

Then another.

And before I know what is happening her palms are on my cheeks and her lips press against mine.

And if I were to bet all the money I have, all the records I've set, all the awards, accolades I've received, if I were to wager them all on what I thought was going to happen, this would not be it. This would be the last thing. I would bet on her storming out, or yelling at me, telling me that I'm the last person she wants. I would bet on that.

And I would lose.

Her mouth for a moment just sits there, lips pressed against lips. Her scent surrounds me and just as I allow myself to let go, to forget for just this moment, she pulls away. Her eyes are wide with shock, her face a mix of sorrow and surprise, as if she also didn't expect that to happen. Suddenly her face flushes a deep purple and I can almost feel the heat of her blush.

"I'm, I'm sss-sor-sorry." She stutters and I can see the shame.

And it stings. It hurts. And I don't want to feel that. Like her, I just want to forget.

With a jerk of my arm, I pull her close and before she or I can make a rational decision, I kiss her. Hard.

Even right now, in the midst of all the sorrow and pain, I want her.

Especially now. I want her. I want to take away her pain. I want her to know that she doesn't have to be alone. That I am here. But I can't say it. I can't use those words. Not when I know she doesn't want that. Not when I know that who I am has to be too much for her. That's what I've come up for when trying to figure out here reasoning. That who I am is too much.

And I get it.

I hate it, but I get it.

She needs someone, no matter what lies between us, right now she just needs someone.

She seems more shocked by my reaction than her initial actions. She's motionless, her mouth still. I try to initiate some reaction. Slowly my mouth moves over hers. It's not new and tentative like the first time. It's not warm and slow like the times after than. It doesn't linger with potential like it did in that hotel room. Its more distant, methodical. Seeking comfort without care. Seeking pleasure without promise. And while this is all built on loneliness and grief, I'll take it.


This is a terrible idea.

I'm crossing a line. Entering a territory I'm not cut out for. I know this. But I don't stop.

His mouth moves over mine so expertly, so well skilled that I can't begin to stop it.

When he'd grabbed me and looked at me, I couldn't think, everything blurred together and the need, the craving, overcame me. I know this is wrong, that this will only hurt me more in the end, but I can't stop it. I don't want to.

So I don't.

It takes only seconds for his hand to be up my dress. I let my brain shut off and just feel. His fingers are rough against my skin and my body presses up against the steel of his chest. He smells like him. And its not till the scent fills my nostrils that I realize how much I missed his nearness. The months of moving on are gone with a single inhale.

This will never be anything, so for now I take whatever I can get. And if that questions my morals, my sanity, my dignity, then so be it.

Because Im addicted.

And I can't stop.

Finally we separate. My mouth feels as huge as his mouth looks. Im buzzing all over and while the sorrow still remains, I feel comfort.

I don't know what to say that doesn't make me sound like a cliche. But I want to not feel anything right now. Claude is gone and while I only knew him a short time, we had developed a bond, a closeness and I depended on that relationship to get me through each day. I depended on his guidance and help as I navigated through a world that was so foreign, so much bigger that I knew of.

And there's the other thing, the small voice in the back of my head, the voice that I keep silent because when it speaks, it paralyzes me with fear. The voice that tells me that everyone goes away. At some point everyone goes away.

And that voice its chiming in, it's starting to roar and the only way to quiet it right now, is distraction. And he is the best distraction possible, no matter what the consequence.

He's guiding me backwards, one hand firmly on my hip, the other fiddling with the hooks on my bra. My brain is shut down as I all I can feel, smell, taste is him.

His hair is shorter, though the locks are still thick beneath my fingers. his body bulkier, his mouth relenting as I try to keep up. I want to breathe him, consume him, so I press up against him and hope that he wants this as much as I do.

He moves quickly. In seconds I'm on the washing machine, my dress is up, my underwear is off and before I beg shamelessly for him, he's inside me.

I cling to him. My head is now buried in his shoulder, the cool silk of his dress shirt cool against my hot cheek. I can feel every inch as my body stretches to accommodate him. So much of that night in the hotel room is blurry, fuzzy. But this, feeling him inside me brings it all back. His hand moves over my breast, teasing the flesh as his body rocks into me faster and faster.

We don't speak. I close my eyes and let go. It doesn't take long. His body seems made for mine, so it's only minutes before I feel the crest. My body hungrily awaits it, craving and pulsing for its fix. He moves faster, in and out, the sound of our bodies meeting the only noise in the silent garage. I feel the crest and then it crashes, hard and fast, over me. And I can't help but let out a moan, a sob of completion as my body shudders with pleasure. It's only a moment until he follows. His hips move jerkily and the warmth of his completion flows into me. And it's everything I need.

Right now it's everything I need.


We don't move. For a second or two, she nor I make a move. My brain that was shut off for the past 20 minutes, turns back on. Her body, which was soft and warm beneath me, stiffens.

And in that slightest movement, it's like nothing has changed. And the distance between us grows.

Awkwardly, I take a step back. I clumsily shove myself back into my pants and pull up the zipper.

I don't want to look at her quite yet. I don't want to see the regret.

I watch her bend forward and pull up her panties that hang around her ankles. My eyes watch her knees as she adjusts her dress. The rustling happening all above my eye level.

Nothing is said.

It's over as quickly as it began.

And we are back to the beginning. Where she doesn't want this, want me. And so I do what any good Canadian does.

I apologize.


"I'm sorry."

He won't even look at me.

His voice is mumbled, almost like he is embarassed and the self loathing takes hold of me in an instant.

Stupid, I'm so stupid. What was I thinking? Im sitting here on an old washing machine in the garage of the team's owner, after having random, grief induced sex with his star player. This going against everything I always thought I was, or wasn't. But there is something about him. I can't say no.

I don't want to ask any questions or get any clarifications.

This was a mistake.

"This was a mistake," I repeat, only not in my head but this time out loud.

He finally looks at me when I say it. His eyes once again flat. His mouth set tight. I can see how much he wishes he wasn't here right now. So I do him the favor and brush back my hair and shimmy off the washing machine with as much dignity as I can muster.

He just stands there. His cheeks are bright red, his hair sticking up in all different directions. And my heart clenches.

Why? Why did you leave me?

I brush past him quickly and this time he doesn't grab my arm.

This time he lets me go.

***Author's Note: The good news is I'm not dead, the bad news is I continue to suck at updating on a timely basis. Having a few writers blocks which are driving me crazy. I know what I want to happen and what I want to say, but everytime I type it, it reads like a bad lifetime movie. And I don't want that. So I figured I'd put up what I have for you all. I do feel like I made a breakthrough the other day and feel positive, but I need to get this part out, so I can move on (seems to be a pattern with me!). Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy! Go Pens!***