Page 27 of Temptation On Ice

I pull my phone out with trembling hands and snap a photo of the fiery sky, catching the reflection on the water, with the trees in the background. I turn to Tucker, flipping to selfie mode, and hold up the phone. He gives me a shy smile as I look into the screen and take a photo that captures a bit of the sky behind us, but mainly shows us sitting on the dock, with Tucker mostly looking at me.

It’s perfect.

I put my phone away and shake my head, feeling awkward. It’s not like how my wife used to collect photos of the sky and sort them into a folder on her phone that she would look at when the sky was gray or she had seasonal depression and said they made her happy again. I sigh, the sound deep and resonant between us as it mingles with the night sounds.

“It was Eliana’s thing, you know?” I say, finally answering Tucker’s earlier question. “I enjoyed them because she did. I never thought too much about them before meeting her, but now she always shows up in the summer sunsets that take my breath away unexpectedly. Like when I leave an evening practice and the sky is on fire, or I happen to glance out the window just as the sun is dropping below the horizon, and everything is streaked with deep purples and orange. Those were her favorite colors. That was unfortunate for our first apartment when we were in college, because we realized that enjoying two colors separately doesn’t make for a good combination when you decorate with them.”

Tucker laughs with me, and I notice he’s been listening intently as I speak to the sky and the pond in front of us, which ripples with fish surfacing to eat insects that dip into the water.

“She sounds like an amazing woman. You must’ve been happy together,” he says.

Tell him.

Fuck, Eli, you’re bossy even now. I run a palm across my face and blink at the sky, following a bat making a jagged path across the expanse of orange in what I swear is an E shape. Okay, okay. I’ll tell him.

“We were, but I realized that even the happiest relationship still has its struggles. We fought about stupid stuff all the time.”

“Everyone fights, even the perfect relationships, or so I’ve heard,” Tucker says. “What stupid things did y’all fight about?”

“So many things.” I shake my head and chuckle ruefully as I take a sip of beer. “If I knew how little time I would have with her, I wouldn’t have fought those battles, because they didn't actually matter. She was Brazilian, and I’m Italian, and we both had legendary tempers. She was fiercely independent, and I wanted to take care of her. She once left me at a bar and walked two miles home to prove a point. The girl was a powerhouse.”

“A true firecracker.” Tucker laughs. “Was it just your tempers that got in the way, or did it go deeper?”

I roll my eyes because it all seems so stupid now, but at the time, they were big fights between us. I run my thumb along the condensation on the bottle in my hand before lifting it and draining the rest. This is my fourth beer, and I'm starting to feel a buzz. Might as well get drunk as I tear my heart open and bleed out all the things I haven't been able to say to anyone in years.

“She wanted to settle down and start a family right away, but I was just starting my hockey career and knew it would move us around a lot. I thought we should wait until I was a more established player and had a chance to stay in one place a long time, so our kids weren’t moving around the country, or even the world, so much. She gave me three years of marriage before she said it was time, and that was that. She got pregnant and was so happy to have won that argument. She liked to gloat. Neither of us planned for a future that didn't include her, so when Enzo was born, we weren’t expecting any complications. She was healthy, a collegiate soccer player, she ate well, and there hadn’t been anything during the pregnancy that would have indicated trouble, but we still lost her. I didn't know what to do. It’s so unfair. My dreams all included her, but she was torn out of those images we’d painted, and all that was left were nightmares I still can't navigate through.”

I let the bottle drop to my feet with a thunk and cradle my head in my hands as the memories rush through my brain, burrowing out of the nooks and crannies I’d stowed them in and beating me senseless until I can't breathe from the pain. No one’s asked me about Eliana, thinking it was too sensitive a subject, and I haven't been able to say these thoughts out loud. They’ve just lived in my head, becoming a tortured ball of dread that I avoid whenever I can because I can't pick out the knots to untangle one from the other. Tucker’s calm, quiet acceptance allowed me to give voice to the ghosts that have haunted me for four years. Now I’m pulling them out like an abscessed tooth, full of throbbing pain, yet hopefully left better for it. And fuck, it hurts so badly.

Is this what you wanted, Eli? You wanted me broken? Well, guess what? I haven't been whole since you were taken, and it’s not okay. I hate it. I miss you. This isn’t fair. I have no one.

I hear a muffled curse as rough hands pull me out of my chair, where I land on my knees on the dock. Tucker crushes my body against his unyielding chest, strong arms wrapping around and holding me tight. I crumple, my defenses nonexistent after opening the box of memories I’d kept carefully sealed. I bury my face in Tucker’s shoulder as tears I’ve held back assault me, burning my eyes and dripping off my face into his shirt while I fight for my life.

I mourn Eliana because Enzo will never know the mother he resembles so much, down to his pouty lips and fiery temper. I cry for the future that was ripped from me, knowing my life will never look the same. My body is wracked with sobs for the injustice of it all, and I cling to him, feeling like the only way I’ll be able to pull myself back from this whirlpool of despair is by clawing my way up using his strength.

Let him hold you up.

Stop it, Eli.

I gasp in ragged breaths that are full of clean cotton, warm skin that’s salty with sweat, and a hint of sandalwood that gives me a flashback of my shower earlier, imagining the man who’s now holding me while he was doing unthinkable things that felt incredible. I pull back enough to rub at my eyes, forcing myself to get a grip and stop using Tucker for his abundant emotional support. I’m a grown man who should be fully capable of managing his emotions without breaking down all over someone else.

That’s when I realize Tucker is speaking. Well, he’s whispering into my hair, and I have to quiet my inner turmoil and sobs to hear his words.

“You’re strong and courageous. You’re a good dad. You’re doing your best, and that’s all you can do. Let it out, City Boy, feel everything. I got you. You're safe here.”

Slowly, my stupid, choking tears slow, and I’m no longer struggling for breath against my sobs. I’m simply resting my forehead against Tucker’s shoulder, listening to his affirmations, focusing on the low, soothing cadence of his voice that has a honey-thick Georgia drawl to it when he’s emotional. His palm is resting on the nape of my neck, the warm weight reassuring. I still have one fist balled in the back of his shirt, holding him as tightly as he’s holding me.

When I raise my head, it’s hard to look Tucker in the eye after my breakdown. Grown men aren't supposed to cry like babies on their male friends. I have to push through the discomfort to do it, anyway. His blue eyes are rimmed red like he’s on the verge of tears for me, and his face is twisted with concern.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp, my voice hoarse and scratchy from the violence of my sobs. Look at me, having a fucking mental breakdown in the country and letting someone else pick up my pieces again.

So much for establishing my independence.

“Nothing to be sorry about. You needed to talk about this and get it out. You can always do that with me. This is a safe place for you.”

He inclines his head at me, and it’s like a magnet for my forehead to fall forward and rest against his. The fucked-up thing about having an emotional breakdown is how much it exhausts you. I’m hardly able to hold my head up, but he’s strong enough for the both of us and isn't afraid of me being so close we’re breathing the same humid night air.

His hand is rubbing comforting circles on my back, and it feels so good. When was the last time someone rubbed my back who wasn’t one of the PTs for the team as part of rehab or recovery? They sure as shit weren’t doing it softly for comfort, either. His eyes drop to my mouth before darting up again, and I watch as his pupils get larger, darkening the blue of his irises in the fading light as he struggles to maintain eye contact this close to my face.