Page 47 of The Replay

God, I still can't wrap my head around having a quickie with her in the study room, or the battling emotions that swept through my chest when she appeared in the pool room, asking me to vent my anger via text. Something soft, and something rough. Jagged. Like having sex with Mariana again— when I thought that could never happen— that it wouldn't happen— opened a door to a space within me that hasn't seen light in years. I'm not sure of what's in there or whether I want to look, but sealing it off isn't in my control.

Just in case I get a chance to close that imaginary door, I collect mental wooden boards and nails. Grip a hammer tight in my fictional hand. Because I happened to read the last several texts I sent her so long ago. The one when she left for England, and the collection of messages I sent her when I called her and she hung up on me. The ones that remained marked with 'not delivered' in red beneath them. All of them brought a pang to that space between my lungs, and blew oxygen on the simmering annoyance I've found solace in.

Dom: Are you seriously scolding me now?

I press send and watch her read the text. She stares at me and shakes her head in a tiny, chiding movement meant only for me. I snort and turn to Evie.

It's fine. Even if I can't figure out why we ended up kissing and having angry sex that day, I'm letting it serve as closure. A final goodbye, after I re-read those texts she never received, and it brought me back to being alone with my need to fight for us.

If it's farewell of a new kind, my hurt can hurt less, and my anger can tone down. A good release has a way to bring about some peace. Just not enough to have everything settled and resolved. It's okay. Eventually the anger will go away too and, if I can do that, the emotional distance I've been looking for will be mine at last.

"Right." I frown and turn to Evie. "Are people in the media implying some sort of bias?"

I gaze down at the rink. The Zamboni takes care of the ice, while the large screens hanging from the ceiling in the middle of it all match game attendee lookalikes with famous people. Laughter erupts periodically around us.

"That's precisely what I'm monitoring," Evie says, ignoring the entertainment. "I knew it could be an issue when we accepted the invitation, but it's not like this stuff never happens."

"I bet that's why Cora isn't here. She has power over our contracts, and Alicia Montt wouldn't let her daughter show up if it could cause bad press. Casualrelationships with a small subsection of players could look like favoritism to some people."

That has Evie casting a sideway glance at me. "Or, hear me out. Cora decided not to come to not blur the lines. All these circles— they're actually small. Overlaps happen."

I scratch my eyebrow. "Okay. I hear you."

The screens above the ice are now showing our group. I scoff at the cheers and boos mixed in, and laugh when they put the kiss cam on Nat and Damián, then Saint and Ames, then Pen and Bear. Date Night is written in hot pink, with a glowing heart where they frame each couple as they share respectable kisses in public. They get cheered on each time.

I didn't expect it to land on Evie and me. We startle and shake our heads vehemently, which only gets everyone louder. I point at Logan with one hand, while using the other to run a finger over my throat, like I'm afraid the QB would kill me. Evie points at her engagement ring and at Logan.

It's her fiancé that comes to the rescue, jumping to her side, turning her head to him, and planting a big kiss on her lips.

I feign relief by pretending to melt on my chair.

The camera leaves our section altogether, and Evie and I laugh. Logan shakes his head as fans in the level below us clap.

"The two of you," Logan growls. "Come chat with everyone. Stay out of trouble."

Evie and I laugh again, but do as told.

The game starts again, but I stay behind filling up a plate with food by the bar. That's where Alicia Montt approaches me.

"Dominic. Interesting seeing you again after all this time."

I smirk and gaze at her. She's aging beautifully. Still dressing with that understated-yet-elegant look. Her hair is peppered with white, unhidden despite the highlights that give depth to her dark brown hair. More wrinkles than I remember surround her eyes. Her make up is flawless. She smirks at me, too.

"Interesting word choice, Mrs. Sinclair." I put the plate down, clean my hands, and shake hers.

"You know I go by Alicia Montt," she says. "And that you can call me Alicia."

"I wasn't sure, after so long. Would you like a drink? Can I get you anything?"

I'm being overly polite. She's hosting the night, but I'm the one making sure she's comfortable.

"I'd love some wine, thank you," she replies.

I find a glass and study the selection of reds on the bar. Inspired by the fancy dinners I've had over the years, I pick a bottle and present it to her.

"Would you like a taste?" I ask.

"I know this wine. It will do. Thank you, Dominic."