#mark barberio imagine

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons- Part 14

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD  etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail.  These warnings are  relevant to the whole fic, not just particular  chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 4500

Word Count Total: 62,779

Author’s Note:  Huge shoutout to @newlibrary​ for the graphics and @hockeylvr59​ for the editing reads.

Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic  starts during the summer of 2019. I   will be tagging the Avs and  Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV   change. Flipping between Mark  and Clementine. This part begins with  Clementine. THERE BE SMUT.

Part Fourteen*

My stomach swooped like I was on a roller coaster, and I knew I’d forever remember this moment as the one when I fell in love with Mark Barberio, or at least one of them. There seemed to be many moments when I fell a little more in love with him.

I kissed the underside of his chin as I murmured, “You’re so full of it.”

He wrapped me up in his arms again, hugged me to his chest and shifted his hips as he replied, “I’m full of something, and I’m gonna have to go take care of it in a minute.”

Bracing a hand on his chest, I sat up. How he could toe the line between being romantic one minute and entirely asinine the next I might never know, but, much to my great dismay, it was incredibly endearing and I felt my heart squeeze in my chest. My hair fell in a curtain around me as I scooted back onto his thighs and I tilted my chin in the direction of his crotch as I whispered, “Can I?”

His grin was impossibly wide as he chuckled and informed me, “Lemon, for the record you never have to ask a dude if you can touch his junk.”

I hid behind my hair, faltering as I offered, “Ok, I just…”

I trailed off, because how to do you tell someone you’re about to be intimate with that indescribable trauma happened to you and you don’t actually KNOW what to do with a dick since you’ve never had a healthy sexual relationship before? I wasn’t exactly sure, hence why I grew quiet.

Mark settled his hands behind his head— which just accentuated his arms and chest, and I realized that it was really unfair that there are men who looked like this in real life and not just on romance novel covers and I was still halfway shocked that I was curled up on the couch with one of said men— as he responded evenly, “Lemon, just do what you want. It’s ok, I promise.  If I don’t like something I’ll tell you.”

“But I don’t want to do something you don’t like,” I bit my lip after answering. Perfection wasn’t a suggestion with Bill and I hated that I kept comparing them together because Mark was kind and wonderful and Bill was a shitstain on humanity. 

“Babe,” he countered, “I do shit you don’t like all the time. But I stop and let you adjust or call me an idiot or we talk about it. That’s how you ended up on top, remember?”

I nodded and scooted back a little farther down his thighs, trying to sit on my heels instead of his knees. He had tucked his erection under the waistband of his underwear and jeans, leaving the head of his cock sticking out; without thinking, I reached out and, with the tip of my finger, smeared around the precum that had gathered there

His breath hitched, and I heard him hiss through his teeth. He unclenched his hands from behind his head, moving them to grip the arm of the couch instead. I bit my lip, palming him through his jeans and then tentatively, unbuttoned his fly. As I slid his zipper down, I took a moment to appreciate how he was straining against his boxer briefs.

I dipped my hand under the waistband of his shorts and when I wrapped my hand around the base of his dick, his hips jerked and he swallowed a moan. The way his body responded to me made me feel a little dizzy with power; the novelty that I caused him to react that way and that I was calling the shots here was almost too much to bear, but I knew one thing for sure: it was incredibly hot and I kind of loved it. With my free hand, I shoved his underwear down and freed him completely, letting my fingertips trail up his length. His dick jumped into my hand and I enjoyed feeling him, enjoyed the velvety feel of his skin over the hardness of his erection. When I risked a glance up at him, he had sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes were intense, and laser focused on me. “Is this ok?” He nodded vigorously.

I watched him react as I stroked him, never having the opportunity to explore someone so thoroughly. Precum was dripping onto his stomach and I swiped it up with my finger and licked it off, rolling the bitter taste over my tongue. Mark’s breath hitched again and his dick twitched in my hand.

This time when he exhaled, there was a distinctive “fuck,” muttered under his breath.  Watching him straining, gripping the arm of the couch so hard I thought there would be permanent divots in the leather, I realized he was doing his best to give this completely unpressured experience to me, and as hot as this moment was already, the fact that he could be so unselfish in it, despite everything, only endeared him to me more. 

I rubbed my thumb over the head of his cock, and I saw the muscles in his jaw clench as I spread around some more of the precum that was leaking out.

“Lemon,” he choked out, “Spit in your hand.”

“What?” I asked. His words broke my trance, and even though I understood what he was saying, it took a moment for me to process the suggestion.

“Spit. In. Your. Hand,” he panted.

I did my best to gather enough saliva in my mouth before I did what he asked. The lubrication changed the texture of his skin, and he went from velvet to silk. I loved the feel of him against my hand, the easy slide of him across my palm almost hypnotic. As I stroked him, I felt him get impossibly harder.

He was trying to control the movement of his hips, but they kept jumping up underneath me, shoving the length of him through my fist completely. 

He wasn’t completely shaven, but he was trimmed and I moved my other hand to palm his scrotum, rolling his testicles in my hand. I heard him curse softly as I teased them, felt them tighten as jet of cum landed on his stomach and he groaned, “Fuck. Don’t stop.”

I had indeed stopped what I was doing to watch the cum jet out of him, but with his encouragement, I started again, stroking him through each spurt and firmly holding his balls in my other hand. 

FInally, he was done and he reached down and grabbed my wrists in his hands as he conceded, “Okay, now you can stop. Too much.”

He flopped back, sinking into the couch as he let my wrists go and with his eyes closed he rasped, “Holy shit, Lemon, that was… hot.”

It was hot and now that I wasn’t transfixed by his genitals, I was able to sit back on my heels and just look at him: his hair was disheveled from my fingers carding through it and the cross on the silver chain was resting against his chest, carving a shimmering path through all of the muscles there. I took that moment to appreciate that there were so many muscles. Even if I worked out just as much as he did, I still probably wouldn’t have half the amount of muscles— which I personally thought was unfair.

HIs abs were splattered with his cum and I gave in to the urge to reach down and trail my index finger through the milky fluid, pushing it through the valley of his abdominals. When I risked a glance at his face, he had one eye open and he was watching me carefully, his rakish eyebrow raised. “You’ve never gotten the opportunity to just enjoy someone’s body, have you?” he asked. 

Shaking my head, I impulsively licked the cum off my finger.

He grabbed his shirt off the floor and wiped his stomach off before he sat up. When we were facing each other again, his hand went to the back of my head and he pulled me down for a kiss, his tongue invading my mouth almost like he was trying to lick his own cum out of it.

When he finally pulled away, I had to touch my lips to make sure they were still there. “Come on, Lemon,” he prompted, picking me up and setting me on my feet next to the couch. He made it seem so easy, even though I knew there was no way it was. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom, trying to hold his jeans up with his free hand. He ended up kicking them off in the hallway.

Once we were through the door, he pulled me forward and spun me around like we were dancing, his bed hitting the back of my knees and I fell backward onto it. I had been dreading this moment and I shut my eyes, bracing for the moment of panic I knew I would feel when he fell on top of me.

When his weight didn’t hit me right away, I opened an eye to catch him falling to his knees. He had disposed of his boxer briefs and tossed them with his shirt into a pile and I realized he had gotten fucking naked and I had missed the show.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I asked, “Barbs? What are you doing?”

He reached up to hook his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and stripped them off with my underwear in one smooth pull, throwing them in the same pile as his clothes. “I should think that is obvious,” he whispered into the skin of my thigh.

“It’s… not?”

He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret and grabbed me gently, dragging my body toward him until I was almost hanging off the bed. He arched a brow, like that was supposed to give me a clue and I shrugged, clueless. I was still unsure as to what was happening, but I wasn’t uneasy about it, which was a miracle in and of itself. 

He walked closer to me on his knees as he instructed, “Arms up.”

I lifted my arms, more as a reflex than anything, and when I settled back on my elbows, I was naked. It was the first time I had been naked with a man since my marriage, and I fought the urge to cover myself. Mark sat back on his heels for a moment and I could feel his gaze traveling up and down my body. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that I barely heard him murmur, “You are breathtaking.”

I looked down, half concerned that my body had been replaced by body snatchers. But, all I saw was the same old body I saw every day: one with a faint map of stretch marks from gaining weight too fast; battle scars, that were both literal and figurative, from fighting my marriage and myself; a smattering of cellulite, weird tan lines and broken capillaries; and assorted other imperfections that seemed to be emphasized in this moment of vulnerability. Before I could voice any of this, Mark slid his hands from my ankles to my knees and twisted them to skirt along the inside of my thighs. He ran them upwards until his thumbs found the crease along my vaginal lips, which proved to be sufficiently distracting and quieted the self-doubt racing through my brain.

When he pulled my folds apart and blew on my clit, I fell back onto the bed, a whimpered “fuck,” escaping my throat. I felt the smile on his lips as he pressed them to me and licked the length of my pussy.

I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to watch him or just lay back and enjoy the sensations. He explored me with his tongue, his fingers spreading me apart as he licked around my pussy. When he closed his lips over my clit and sucked, my hips arched into his face, and when he slid a thick finger into me, I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

My orgasm hit me like a tsunami; the sensation started to rise, and suddenly I was drowning, my hips bucking wildly into his face. I swear Mark growled when he locked his free arm over my pelvis to hold me in place as he sucked my clit and finger fucked me through my orgasm. As I was coming down, he slid a second finger in with the first and the stretch caused a mini orgasm on the heels of the first. With a flat-tongued lick, he detached from my “pleasure nub,” and I suddenly understood why terrible romance novelists called it such.

He continued to slide his fingers in and out of me, leaving trails of wet opened mouth kisses along my thighs until I relaxed completely, the occasional tremor shaking my body. 

When he slipped his fingers out of me, he sucked them into his mouth to clean them off before crawling over me and resting against the pillows; once situated, he hauled me up his body and arranged me half on top of him, his dick resting along my thigh.

With our naked bodies like this, it painted a stark picture of how different we were. HIs body was thick and toned. I don’t think he had one tiny cell of fat on him and his skin was a dark olive after having been in the sun all summer. I, on the other hand, looked like poorly proven sourdough bread that Paul Hollywood would have been ashamed of… with blue hair.

I felt Mark take a breath below my ear as he whispered in it, “Was that ok? I don’t want to brag, but I have been told I’m pretty good at that.”

I stretched my jaw a bit, willing the muscles to work since all of them felt like they had the integrity of wet cardboard. “I don’t have anything to compare it to,” I ventured, “So you could be the absolute worst in the world, but if that’s the worst, then the best might kill me.”

He went completely still beneath me as he processed my response, taking a moment before he responded, “What do you mean you don’t have anything to compare it to?”

I set my chin on his chest and looked up at him as I clarified, “I’ve never experienced that before?”

He looked a little shocked, and rubbed the hand that wasn’t cradling my ass down his beard as he thought that over. “Never tell Landy this,” he murmured, “but I’m actually at a loss for words.”

I shrugged. “Honestly,” I admitted, “If getting that as my first time meant I didn’t get it other times, I think I’m ok with that.” Mark smiled down at me and I returned the smile before I schooled my face into a more stern expression and continued, “Also, please don’t even mention Landy again while we’re naked, in bed together, or naked in bed together. ”

Mark’s face softened and he kissed the top of my head, chuckling lightly and he concluded, “Well, Lemon, I was glad to give it to you.”

His cock was still hard against my hip, and I ran a finger up the length of him as I began, “You’re still..”

“Mmmhmm.” I felt his chest rumble as he responded.

I looked at him inquisitively, “can I?”

He just looked amused as he answered, “Babe, if it involves you and my dick, I’m going to have very few restrictions.”

I bit my lip and straddled his thighs again, mimicking our position on the couch earlier.

“Do you have… you know?” I hoped he would know.

Mark’s face was caught up in a grin as he answered the question I couldn’t finish, nodding as he informed me, “your inability to finish sentences when referring to anything about sex is adorable.” His long arm reached up and he somehow dug a condom out of the drawer of his nightstand and tossed it near my knee. “Knock yourself out, babe.”

Suddenly faced with a hard dick, a man with his hands folded behind his head, and a condom, I didn’t know what to do or where to start. I looked up at him for guidance and he just shook his head as he told me, “This is your show, Lemon. No judgment.”

I bit my lip and traced the outline of his testicles in his scrotum, fascinated when the skin drew up tight in response to the stimulation. Mark sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t react otherwise. I was nervous all of a sudden and the moment felt charged, in a different way than it had earlier; some of the urgency was gone, and we had all the time in the world, which meant there was plenty of time for me to prove I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and make a fool of myself. I didn’t want to throw all of that at him right now so I just said simply, “You have to tell me what you like.”

“Clementine, you are naked, on top of me, playing with my junk… I like all of this.” He made no effort to hide his amusement. 

I wrapped my hand around his balls and rolled them between my fingers, causing another sharp inhale from Mark and and an exhaled “fuck.”

His dick twitched against his stomach, the tip leaking clear fluid onto his skin. Letting go of him, I scooped it up with a finger and sucked it off. 

His big body squirmed beneath me as he groaned, “Fuck, you are killing me, do you know that?”

Comments like that filled me with confidence and made it easy for me to toss aside all of my hesitation and it occurred to me I should thank him for that later. Feeling reinvigorated and embracing my newly-found inclination for power, I teased him, “You taste good. I didn’t know you could taste good.” I may or may not have made a show of licking my lips to prove my point.

He threw his head back and moaned.

I ripped the condom wrapper with my teeth, gripping his length in one hand and rolling the condom down it with the other. I let him slap back against his stomach and he twitched again as he cursed, “Damnit, Lemon.”

I gave him a sickly sweet smile. Had he not looked so incredibly good imbued with such a level of desperation, this wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun as it was.

“Oh, she’s playing now,” he chirped at me, before looking at me dead in the eyes and stating, “If you had a different past, this would be going way differently.”

 I moved forward, feeling the length of him settle between my pussy lips and I rolled my hips, the friction so good that I swear I could feel it in every inch of my body. The crown of his head dragged against my clit and I moaned as I asked him, “What would you do differently, Barbs?”

As I slid along the length of him again, coating him in copious amounts of my wetness, he hissed, choking out, “We wouldn’t have made it this far; for one, because I would have fucked you over the back of the couch.”

“Oh?” I quipped. I honestly didn’t know being this turned on was even possible and my hands went to my breasts of their own accord, holding them in my hands and rolling both nipples between my fingers.

Mark slammed his head back into the pillows, eyes screwed shut, as he took a deep breath and rasped, “Fuck babe, this is better than literally every fantasy I’ve ever had about you.”

“Really?” I breathed, rocking against him, enjoying hearing him say it. “I’m not really even doing anything…” As the pleasure coursed through my body, I could hear my voice falter and I was pretty sure that Mark was almost at a breaking point, if the tremor I could feel in his thighs underneath me was any indication.

“Really,” he confirmed, as I kept up my steady grind against him, his breath shallow as he continued, “What you’re doing is…..so fucking hot…” I felt him twitch against me as he confessed, “The only thing that could possibly make this better would be if I was inside of you.”

I raised up off of him and the action caused him to open one eye. Reaching between us, I angled his cock just right and started to sink down on it, pausing every few millimeters. Mark arched a brow at me as he watched, admitting, “Lemon, if you want me to beg for it, all you have to do is ask. But since you haven’t, I gotta know, are you trying to kill me?”

I shook my head, realizing that we were on two separate pages regarding my slow pace. “No,” I told him, “I’m just waiting for it to hurt.”

Mark looked at me pointedly and sat up, his arm sliding behind my thighs to prevent me from sliding down on him any farther. “Okay,” he began, “First of all, I think we need a rule: we don’t talk about previous experiences while we’re having NEW ones. Second of all, sex shouldn’t hurt EVER. I mean, unless it’s on purpose and you’re into that kind of thing. If you’re not into that, then it should never hurt. Do you understand me, Clementine?” His voice was firm and once again I had the feeling I may have trivialized something that wasn’t really trivial. 

I nodded because I couldn’t do anything else. 

He pulled me off of his cock and slid us both up the bed until his torso was resting against the headboard. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Mark smiled at me ruefully, bringing his lips to my neck as he whispered into my hair, “I thought I just needed to let you figure things out for yourself, but it has become glaringly obvious I need to be an active participant.”

My voice was soft as I responded, half scared and half confused, “I don’t know what you mean.”

We were still pressed closely together, and his hands trailed over my naked body, fingers teasing my nipples, as he directed me, “Kiss me, Lemon.”

I leaned forward and he moved his hands to knot in my hair, my breasts pressed against the hair on his chest as I kissed him. I kissed him deeply, trying to convey with my tongue just how much this all meant to me. 

As we kissed, one of his hands slid between our bodies, his fingers slipping between my pussy lips and softly rubbing my clit. I may have mewled into his mouth, but I’d perjure myself in a court of law denying that. 

While I was rocking into his hand, he grabbed his dick and angled it just right so that the tip slid into me as I rolled my hips. The sensation made me gasp, and I rocked harder, needing more.

“That’s it, babe,” he murmured, “That’s it.” His hands were on my hips, guiding me. I curled my hands into fists on his chest, wishing his hair was long enough to grab like this, but it was still short from a summer wax.

I needed him, I needed to feel full. I slammed myself down on him and he cursed in response, cautioning, “Fuck. Easy, babe.”

“Mark, please,” I whimpered, “I need more. I need you.” My hands unclenched, and I dug my fingers into his chest desperately.

His hands tightened on my hips as his punched up forcefully and he confirmed, “Ok?”

I nodded, almost delirious with pleasure as I begged, “More.”

He set a quick rhythm with his hips, and soon all that filled the room was the squelch of our bodies coming together and our sharp breaths. 

“Fuck, I’m almost there,” he groaned, “Tine, touch yourself.”

One of his hands left my hips and he took my fingers and pressed them to my clit, “Cum with me,” he urged.

“I can’t,” I choked out.

“You can,” he encouraged, “Look at me.” 

My eyes met his and he held my gaze as he continued, “I’m gonna get tested by the team doc tomorrow, because I can’t wait to fuck you skin to skin and fill you with my cum. I can’t wait to make you mine so you never have to worry about a man hurting you ever again. Even me.”

My voice was a whisper, as I whined out “Holy shit.”

“Now fucking cum with me, Clementine.” He punched his hips up hard and I came apart in a million pieces, like a stained glass window shattering from a bomb. He thrust into me irregularly until he sagged against the headboard and cradled me to his chest. 

We lay there in a sweaty mess, panting, until I broke the silence, and repeated, “You want to fill me with your cum?”

“Lemon, I swear to God, if you ruin this perfectly good moment with some self-deprecating sarcastic comment, I’m going to tell Landy you think his magic is dumb.”

I gasped in horror, “You wouldn’t. Also, again with mentioning Landy in bed!!!”

He kissed the top of my head chuckling, “You know I would. Now, just lay there and be quiet and soak in the moment.”

We were quiet again for a long time, long enough that the sweat was starting to dry on my skin and giving me goosebumps. I shivered, and this time it was Mark who broke the silence, asking “Does Daze need dinner or something?”

At the mention of dinner, my stomach growled. “Probably,” I guessed, “I know I need dinner. Why?”

I looked up at Mark and he was staring in the direction of the door as he told me, “Because she’s been quietly staring at me since we finished. Honestly, she started even before that, and if you weren’t half as hot as you are, I wouldn’t have been able to finish.”

I chuckled against his chest and sat up, pulling my leg over him, intimately feeling the loss of him inside me. “I’ll go feed her if you order pizza,” I offered.

Grabbing his shirt from earlier off the floor, I pulled it on, though it hugged my body a little more than I would have liked.

“Babe,” he sighed, “That one is covered in cum, grab a clean one out of the drawer.”

I gave him a saucy wink as I sashayed out of the room, shouting behind me, “Maybe I wanna be covered in your cum.”

He fell over into the pillows laughing and I heard him grumble, “Fucking minx.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[whockeywhore]

Nothing Serious Preview feat. Mark Barberio

I heard her before I saw her, a soft tune rolling over the fence that separated our backyards. Her voice carried on the soft summer breeze and I settled into a chair next to Aunt Julia, nodding towards her. 

“Who’s that?” 

“Caroline. She’s renting for the summer.” She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “She single.” 

“Aunt Julia-” 

“Broke up with her boyfriend right before she moved up here. And she’s cute. You should go introduce yourself.” I forced a smile but shook my head, taking a bite from my burger. She ignored me and continued as I chewed. “She’s from Toronto and she just graduated with her PhD from the University of Chicago. And she’s cute!” 

“You already said that Jules.” Uncle Don finally chimed in and rolled his eyes. 

“How do you know all of this?” 

“She came over, asked to borrow a cup of milk, and we started talking. A nice, smart girl for you Mark. Much better than that Dana.” 

The mention of my ex ruined my appetite and I pushed my plate away, leaning back in my chair with a sigh. A rough end to playoffs and the nastiest breakup I’d ever been through were the reason why I’d come up here for the summer. The idea of jumping into anything new made my stomach flip and I shook my head again. 

“I appreciate it guys but I think I’m just gonna hang this summer, spend some time alone.” 

They both watched me as I stood, picking up my plate and heading into the house. The dogs were gathered by the door and I fed them my scraps before pulling on my shoes. Aunt Julia and Uncle Don came inside as I was heading for the front door and I turned back when she called my name. 

“Where are you going?” 

“For a run. Figured I’d take a few laps around the lake to work off some of that dinner.” I patted my stomach and she came close to pinch my cheeks. “It was absolutely delicious.”  

“You’re such a sweetheart, Mark. Before you go, would you mind dropping this off next door?” She put a wrapped plate in my hands and smiled. 

“Aunt Julia-” 

“I’ll write a note saying it’s from me, you won’t even have to talk to her.” 

She slapped a post-it on top of the foil and sent me on my way, watching from the porch as I crossed the yard. I could hear music playing as I climbed the stairs and I knocked loudly, waiting for an answer. I was about to leave it and start back when the door swung open. 

“Can I help you?” 

She had a towel draped over her shoulder and a bright yellow apron tied around her waist. Her hair hung long and loose around her shoulders, dark red against skin that had been kissed by the sun. I stared for a moment and cleared my throat as she leaned against the door jamb, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Mark. I-I’m Mark.” 

[leafsbabe]

how Mark Barberio is like as a boyfriend

- he’s just very kind and romantic

- loves cooking together a whole lot

- like standing beside each other in the kitchen, chopping veggies and stirring pots while soft music plays in the background?

- peak romance

- even if the recipe calls for lots of garlic or you have to cut onions that make him cry

- light a few candles, play footsie under the table, forget the candles while you hurry to the bedroom, nearly burn the place down

- he likes staying at home and cooking more than going out 

-  but when he takes you out on date night he won’t take you to some super fancy place and instead like more small family run restaurants

- because the atmosphere is nicer

- and he always tips nicely even if it’s your turn to cover the bill

- maybe get some ice cream after

- you can get different flavors and share 

- lowkey he just wants to take care of you

- whenever the team get free merch he shows up at your door with like three boxes of hoodies and jackets like a proud caveman that just killed you a bear

- his favorite look on you is giant sweater, no pants, and fluffy socks

- because you just look so cuddly and he wants to gather you in his arms and just smother you with love

- lets you decorate the place however you like

- because he’s barely home anyway and when you’re there more than him he wants you to feel at home

- but you can’t tell me he doesn’t have tons of plants

- like enough plants to make it difficult to water them all

- and he gives them names and you have to learn them because he never says that big tree in the corner he’ll just say Andy

- and yes i’m projecting 

- that’s basically how he gets you to move in before actually asking you

- you have a key, you have a wadrobe, you’re there most of the time anyway 

- so you might as well move in

- good luck getting out of bed in the morning

- because Mark is such a giant cuddler

- he will starfish out over you and not let go

- and he’s a heeping lump of man to move

- i bet he has tons of pillows

- like you can not tell me he has less than 20 pillows that he artfully places on his big king sized bed 

- most of them end up on the floor each night anyway

- but if you’re lonely while he’s on the road you can just surround yourself with warmth and his smell

- loves it when you hang out with the team and better halves 

- because it’s just a good group

- and he just likes that you get along so well

[burkymakar]

Mikko Rantanen Imagine: Remembered (Part 1)

Summary: After an accident that finds you on the side of the road, you’re lost in the middle of the Vail mountains with no memory of who you are. Mikko Rantanen, with several Avalanche players, finds you and takes you in. 

Word Count: 3.2k

Rating: T (Blood and vomit mentions, nothing graphic) 

Note: I’ve never had amnesia and this is not medically accurate. This is soap opera amnesia. This is also basically the plot of the Hallmark movie A Christmas To Remember.

BLM Resources

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pure rage coursed through your veins, but tears streamed down your face.

That was the worst part, that you were sad.

You wanted to feel joy, you should feel free. 

Maybe you will tomorrow, but tonight, all you felt was misery. 

You wiped at your face harshly with a gloved hand. When that glove was soggy, you used the other but found just your bare hand.

Fuck, in your haste to shove everything in your suitcase, you forgot your other glove. Who knew what else you forgot?

But you definitely knew what you left behind.

You looked at your car’s radio station, and tried to fiddle to get some music. But the storm seemed to be dulling the towers, because it was mostly static. You had no idea what Vail’s music stations were. Too bad your phone was dead. 

You should have waited until the snow blew over but you needed to leave the resort immediately. 

Giving up on music, you looked up to see a deer, standing in your headlights as you barrelled down on it. Shrieking, you swerved out of the way, and felt your car lose traction. 

Desperate to right yourself, you lost all control of the car as it practically drove itself off the road and through the snow on the street side. 

The deer and spinning snow were quickly replaced with a tree, and you didn’t have nearly enough time to react in this instance. 

The car crashed into the tree, and metal crunched around you. Your head hit the steering wheel, the airbags went off, and everything went dark. 

+

Mikko Rantanen was pleasantly sore from a long weekend of skiing with his Avalanche bros. Colorado snows were a lot different than Finnish winters, and he appreciated that. When he first moved to Denver, locals kept saying how the snow was “different here.” And he didn’t get that until he started skiing. It was like a winter wonderland that people always sing about.

It was also good to distract from the season, and just spend time as friends instead of teammates. 

“You keep going this way, then get onto the highway in fifteen miles,” Mark Barberio said, reading from his phone.

“I still don’t get why you get the front seat,” Tyson Jost said, playing on his phone sullenly next to him in Andre Burakovsky’s car. 

“I’m a better navigator, and I’m older,” Barbs replied. 

“If Burky drives fast, we won’t have much to go,” Mikko reassured.

“I will turn this car around,” Andre threatened mockingly. 

“Please, I already miss our lodge,” Josty said. 

“I miss fireplace,” Mikko agreed. “So warm.”

“Get one in your place, Mr. Fancy Contract,” Barbs said.

Mikko kicked the back of his seat as they all laughed. Ignoring them and their playful jealousy, he looked out the window as the snow fell. Part of him was worried about the season returning, but this was a great reprieve. Andre always talked about “work-life balance” and he finally felt he hit a balance. 

Outside the window, he looked at all the passing trees, covered in snow as the sun slowly set. It looked like a postcard. Fuck, he should send his mother a postcard.

But then, out in the trees, he saw someone on the side of the road, walking alone. For the briefest flash as the car drove fast, he saw your face, blood trickling from the forehead.

“Vittu! Burk, stop car,” he ordered, almost forgetting English. 

“What?” Andre demanded, slowing down.

“There’s someone out there,” he said and hopped out of the car just as it slowed to a stop. 

“No! No hitchhikers in my ride,” Burky yelled but Mikko was already racing to meet the stranger.

You looked freezing cold, in only a ski jacket and missing a glove. There was a bright pink beanie on your head with one of those puff balls on top, and you were wearing Uggs. 

But the most concerning thing was the blood on your face.

“Are you okay?” He asked, once he was about three meters away. 

You looked him in the eye, “Hello?”

“Hello,” he said. He could hear Burky and Tyson yelling at him, but he ignored them. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t think so,” You said. “Who are you?”

“I was gonna ask you that,” he said, trying to hide his obvious worry. You smiled a little. “What’s your name?” 

“My name?” Your eyebrows furrowed, and you swayed a little. “My name is- Uh, fuck. I- I dunno.” 

A chill different from the winter cold ran through him. “I’m Mikko,” he said. “You’re bleeding.” 

“I am?” Your non-gloved hand went to your face and you winced as you pressed against your wound. 

“What are you doing out here?”

“I don’t know,” You said, and took a step before losing footing. He rushed over and caught you before you hit the street.

“It’s okay,” he said, and kept your elbows in his grip. “I think we need go to hospital.” 

“Are you okay?” You said, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“I mean for you,” he said. 

“Okay, Mikko,” You said. 

“My friend Andre gonna drive you,” he said, gently leading you back to the car. “Do you know how you got here?” 

“Got where?”

“On the side of the road?”

You shook your head and winced again.

“It’s okay, we figure it out,” he promised and saw Josty now standing outside the car, dancing slightly in the chill. 

“Dude, what the fuck? Who is she?” 

“I dunno,” Mikko admitted. “But I think she’s hurt.”

Tyson walked over, “Jeez, she looks like she fought a goon.”

“I might have,” You said. “Who are you?”

“This is Tyson,” Mikko said. “He’s nice but idiot.”

Tyson rolled his eyes, but they helped you into the car, gently putting you in the middle seat between them. 

“I said no hitchhikers,” Andre said, turning around then pausing at the sight of you. “Shit, is she okay?”

Mikko grabbed one of the spare Nike towels Andre had lying around in his backseat. After it passed the sniff test, he gently held it to your forehead’s wound.

“Can we take her to hospital?”

“A hospital, oh god,” You said, looking nervous. “I- Do we have to?”

“I think Katie’s still around,” Barbs said, referring to Katie Chen, one of their medics. “I’ll see if she can take her in.”

“Thanks,” Mikko said. “It’s okay, we’ll get you help.” 

“Thank you,” You said softly. “What’s your name again?”

“Mikko,” he said. “That’s Mark, Andre and Tyson.” 

You waved hesitantly, “I’m sorry. I really appreciate this.” 

“What’s your name?” Andre asked. “If I’m your chauffeur.”

“I don’t know,” You admitted. 

“Do you think she has amnesia?” Mark asked. “And Katie said she can stay late at the Can and meet us there.”

“Oh god,” You said, tears welling in your eyes. Fuck, that made Mikko nervous. Since he was still applying pressure to your head wound, he patted your knee with his other hand. 

“It’s okay,” Mikko said. “Dr. Katie is real good. She fix you.” 

“Thank you,” You said softly. “You are all being so kind. I- I don’t know if I can repay you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he assured. “Let’s just get you safe.” 

“We’ll be there soon,” Andre added, and they kept driving back to Denver.

+

You stepped out of the very nice car and onto the streets in front of a giant building. All the lights were on, and the sign read Pepsi Center. 

Your mouth watered, but you didn’t know what that name meant. 

“Where are we?”

“This is where we work,” the one named Tyson but they called Josty said as Mikko steadied you with a gentle hand at your elbow. Christ, he was so tall. “One of our coworkers is a doctor, she can help you.”

You nodded and followed them into the building. They flashed badges and you were guided to a small room that was very brightly lit and it made your head hurt. 

“If any of you fuckers got injured while skiing, I will kill you,” Someone said, and you jolted at the threat.

“Not us, Mikko picked up a stray,” the one named Mark said. The one who drove, who’s name you didn’t remember, elbowed him in the side. 

“Oh?” A young Asian woman stepped up to the five of you, her clothes bright blue. “Oh jeez, that’s quite the head laceration. Bring her to me, what’s your name?”

You were moved to a chair, and you found you really hated the question what’s your name? 

“I don’t know,” You said.

The woman looked at the four men and sighed, “That’s not a good sign.”

“I’m sorry,” You offered.

She finally smiled at you. “Not your fault. I’m Dr. Katie, I take care of these idiots. Let’s get that wound sealed up. We’ll figure out what to call you later.”

After numbing the wound, she sewed you up and performed “concussion protocol.” 

“You definitely have a concussion,” she said. “Try not to look at screens- Oh, wait! If you have a phone, we could get your information?”

“Why didn’t we think of that?” Josty asked, berating of himself.

“Check your pockets,” the doctor ordered, and you instantly shoved your hands in your jean’s pockets, and in the pockets of your coat. Nothing except a gum packet. No wallet, no phone, no keys.

“It was a good idea,” You said. “I’m sorry I’m so useless, I don’t know why I can’t remember.”

“I know why, you have amnesia,” Katie said. “Retrograde it seems.”

“I know that,” the driver one said. “Mercury does that sometimes.”

“You so dumb,” Mikko said, and you hid a smile because that was mean but funny. “Is she get memory back?” 

“She might. Ideally, we’d have her be in familiar places to jog it, but you guys said you said you found her on the side of the road.”

“She could have been skiing,” Mark said. “Or snowboarding.”

“Or she lived there as a lumberjack or she could be a tourist from New York,” Katie added. “Unfortunately, there are hundreds of possibilities. She’s gonna need a place to stay, routine is best for amnesiac patients.”

“She can stay with me,” Mikko said.

Everyone looked shocked at that idea, even you.

“Mikko, thank you, but I can’t ask you to do that,” You said.

“You not ask, I offer.” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal, I have extra room at my apartment.” 

“Thank you,” You said, feeling lost in more ways than one. But at least you’d have a room that night. You didn’t even think about that.

Everything was swirling around you, and in panic and fear and exhaustion, you gagged. The doctor was prepared and handed you a wastebasket that you promptly threw up in.

“It’s been a rough day for you,” she soothed you, and you let the shame fill your body instead of the dizziness. 

“I’m sorry,” You said. Not sure if you were saying it to the doctor or the men that found you or to yourself. 

After that, the doctor sent the guys out, and it was just you and her. She ran a couple more tests on you, checking if you had whiplash (which you didn’t) or if you were dehydrated (you were). 

“I don’t know if I can pay you back for this.”

“Don’t worry, I do this for fun,” she said with a grin. “Mikko!” She called, and you winced a little at the sudden sharp sound. 

“Rantanen, bring her back to me in ten days so I can get those stitches out,” Katie said then turned to you. “Hopefully, though, you’ll be back at your doctor by that point.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Mikko said, and you nodded as well. You had no idea where home was but you wanted to find it so badly.

“And I was thinking, you found you on the side of a highway,” Katie said. “You could have gotten in an accident. Did you see a car nearby?” 

“No, I was distracted by the bleeding girl.” 

“That’s fair,” she conceded and turned back to you. “Do you remember anything before Mikko found you?”

You stared at Mikko, with his fluffy blonde hair and gray-blue eyes. Then blinked as you forced yourself to try to remember. 

Before Mikko ran up to you, it was all white and green and gray. The snow, the trees, the road. When you tried to think back farther, it turned completely fuzzy and it even hurt to attempt to picture it.

“I don’t. At all- is that bad?”

“Not necessarily, you might have entered a minor fugue state,” she said. “That happens sometimes in amnesiacs. Considering you don’t have frostbite or hypothermia, you probably weren’t out there long. I’ll get the information to the police, and maybe they can find your car if it’s out there.”

You nodded.

“You can take ibuprofen for the pain,” she said. “Not best to go harder than that, especially with your memory fog. You got some at home, right, Rantanen?” The man nodded. “If you were serious about her staying with you, you can take her there now.”

“I can be serious.”

The doctor rolled her eyes, and lead them out of her office. 

You stepped out of the Pepsi Center with Mikko, and stared out at the expansive parking lot. 

“The snow is so pretty,” You couldn’t help but say, letting it fall on you without stepping anywhere to shield yourself. “I don’t even mind the cold.” 

“Do you think you’re from somewhere cold?” He asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You turned to look at him and pursed your lips, “I dunno. I seem to be used to it, but... When I think back, it’s just a haze. Like a cloud, you know?”

He nodded.

You stared out at the big city and tall buildings. You didn’t even know where you were. The guys mentioned Denver but that town didn’t ring a bell. 

Maybe your family was there. Maybe they were far away, and you were trapped. Did they know you were gone?

“Do you think people are looking for me?” You asked.

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. 

“I hope so,” You said, shoving your own hands in your pockets as the snow picked up and flurried around you both. “That’d be awfully lonely otherwise. And just plain awful.” You cleared your throat to fight tears. You’d been too embarrassing already in your short amount of consciousness.  

“It’ll be ok...” he said then trailed off. “I don’t know what call you,” he said. 

“I don’t either,” You admitted. “I don’t even have a guess.” 

He pursed his lips and looked around them, then said, “How about Snow?” 

You stared at the falling snow again, and felt warm. “I like that. Please call me Snow.” 

“Great, Snow. Let’s get you to my place.” Mikko gently held your elbow again and guided you to his car. 

+

Mikko Rantanen had brought his fair share of women to his apartment in Denver, but all of them could remember their own name.

Until now.

“This place is really nice,” You said as you kicked off your boots at his front door. There were still snowflakes in your hair, but you didn’t seem to mind. 

He was about to warn you about his dog when Bobby booked it into the front entryway and wiggled around.

As he knelt down, he told his dog how much he missed him in Finnish and gave him all the pets he could as Bobby licked his face.

“What language is that?” You asked.

At the sound of your voice, Bobby noticed you and barked at you, causing you to jump back into the wall. He left Mikko’s hands and immediately went to you, wiggling again but in an angry way this time. He jumped on your knees, still barking.

“Bobby! Ei! Alas!” He ordered his dog to get down. He always got too excited with new people. But you no longer seemed frightened. 

“It’s okay,” You said. “We never had dogs but I love them,” You knelt down to scratch his ear and give him scratches. Bobby, enthused with the attention, switched from barking to happy whining. You perked up, “Wait, I remembered something! I remembered we didn’t have a dog.”

“Who’s we?” He tried to encourage you. 

You paused, looking almost comical with Bobby licking your chin if it weren’t for the dimming excitement in your eyes. “Dammit. I don’t know. I can just almost picture wanting one, for a long time. You know?”

He couldn’t relate but he nodded anyway. 

“I show you room, okay?” You pushed up and followed him. As he lead the way, he caught a note from Nazem Kadri, who nicely looked after Bobby while they were gone for the weekend. Naz’s wife is a cat person, so he loved looking after dogs when he could. 

Bobby danced and weaved between both your feet but Mikko pushed into the guest room, still clean from when his parents visited to see American Thanksgiving. 

“Wow,” You said, stepping in. “This is lovely.”

“Thanks,” he said, wondering absently if he was showing off. But you just seemed nicely impressed instead of taken aback. You shrugged out of your ski jacket. “The bathroom is across the hall. And- shit, you have no clothes.”

You looked down at your outfit, “Shit. You’re right.” 

“One sec, I can grab some.” He stepped into his room, Bobby abandoning him for Snow. He dug into his closets and found a comfy Avalanche shirt from last year’s playoffs and some old trackies when he was a teenager that he packed like an idiot. 

He came back to your room, and handed them to you in a stack. “I don’t have any ladies’ underwear, sorry.” 

He wanted to warn you, but that seemed to just make you burn bright red. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he continued, wishing he could rewind time five minutes. “I no know what I’m doing.”

You looked him in the eye, “You’re being absolutely kind, that’s what. I- It means so much to know I’m safe here. Thank you. I don’t- I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to pay you back.”

“You keep saying that,” he said gently. “No payment here. Just get warm and safe. We will find where you from.”

“Thank you,” You said.

“Good night, Snow.” 

“Good night, Mikko.” 

He closed the door and went back to his room. Bobby whined at your door for a bit, but Mikko bribed him with treats and they stayed in the master bedroom. 

“We’ll see her in the morning,” Mikko reassured his dog, and got out of his clothes and into pajamas. Normally he liked to sleep naked, but you might need something in the middle of the night, and he didn’t want to frighten you.

Bobby curled up at the foot of his bed, and Mikko got himself situated. Even with his mind running a mile a minute (who are you? Will you be okay? How long will you stay?), he slowly drifted off to sleep from the effort of a big day.

Note: not sure when i’ll be able to update with part two but I’ll try to have it out soon. Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it!

[halliewriteshockey]

Do you use real life NHL players as inspiration for your characters...does that make sense? English is not my first language. If yes can you give rundown of who your inspiration was for each character?

Hi! I quite often do, yes. The main casts of Blindside Hit and Roughing are here. Caveats are in the posts that I tend to take the rough outline of a player and expand on it. I use players as a jumping off point but no one I write is exactly like the players I mention. Some are also inspired more by personality than looks.

Also here’s Double Shifting

I’m putting Felix and Fisher (and Theo and Niklas!) under a cut because this is gonna get long.

So Felix physically is inspired by Matt Dumba.

And Fisher, while not a hockey player, was inspired by Mark Barberio, because the thought of that gorgeous man teaching kindergarteners made me weak-kneed.

Then we have Theo, who is similar to the very lovely Elias Lindholm physically, although very buttoned down in personality.

And finally Niklas, whose personality is very much inspired by one of my very favorites, Elvis Merzlikins:

(On the right, because that’s a very Niklas thing to do)

Ironically, I don’t really have faceclaims for Power Play. If you want to imagine them as Tyler and Jamie you can, although they definitely don’t look like them in my mind. ;)

[memequeme]

Hi friends, as the regular season comes to a close, I thought it would be a great time for me to debut my 2018-2019 Thotckey All-Star Team roster. 

Forwards

Brad Marchand | Tyler Seguin (C) | Patrick Sharp

Colin Wilson | Auston Matthews | William Nylander

Kevin Fiala | Mat Barzal | Patric Hornqvist

Paul Bissonnette (A) | Derick Brassard | Tom Kuhnhackl

D-men

Kris Letang | Tyson Barrie (A)

Erik Gudbranson | Brady Skjei

Mark Barberio | Ryan Graves

Goalies

Carter Hart

Juuse Saros

This team has been hand-picked meticulously. Objective parties have been consulted. The criteria for the team was a display of blatant thot ENERGY, while attractiveness may play a role in thotiness it certainly isn’t the deciding or most important factor. (Disclaimer: This is in no way an attempt to speculate on the actual thot activity of any professional athlete. This is about the type of energy a players brings out on the ice and in interviews. Actual thot activity is truly none of my business.) Congrats to those who made it and for those who didn’t, there is always next year. 

While I will be taking absolutely no form of criticism or critique about my choices, please feel free to submit your own nominees you feel I may have over looked or tag me in your own thotckey team roster! (Also I compiled a little bit of evidence for each person on this list if you are interested in a justification for a certain player, although I imagine some will be self-explanatory) 

[sarahburness]

Why I Now Appreciate Years of Pain and How Gratitude Healed My Life

TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of abuse and may be triggering to some people.

“Hope is faith’s impoverished sister, but it’s a start.” ~Maureen Barberio, Gettin’ Out of Bullytown

My life wasn’t always easy. It’s not always easy now, as a matter of fact. But there was a very long period where it was quite difficult and painful. It is sad how many of us can say that, isn’t it?

I grew up in a dysfunctional home with two sisters. My father was an alcoholic and was physically and verbally abusive. My mother, herself a victim of my father’s verbal abuse, was very loving and complimentary but could do little about my father’s behavior. My mother, sisters, and I have always been very close.

Each time I was yelled at, and with each blow I received, a little bit of my spirit was broken.

Instead of gaining confidence during my grade school years, so I could enter the teen years ready to face the hormonal changes and roller coaster of emotions that go along with them, I went into the teen years feeling unworthy of anything good. I looked at my sisters and saw such beauty in them. I looked in the mirror and saw nothing but flaws.

In addition, I had done what so many children do: I assumed all blame for the abuse my father was heaping on me. I continued to look up to both my parents, as impossible as that may sound, and I took to heart every word spoken about me.

The fact that my father found me so imperfect and flawed meant it must be so. And being imperfect and flawed meant I was unlovable. The guilt and shame I felt about this was devastating, although at the time I had no idea that guilt and shame was what I was feeling.

While other girls in high school got prettier and prettier, while my sisters became prettier in my eyes, I viewed myself as less and less attractive. I watched the excitement others had about boys and dating, and I knew in my heart I would never have those things. I’d never fit in. I was different. I was unworthy.

There’s nothing like leaving a house of sadness on a sunny day, unable to enjoy the beauty of nature because your heart is so heavy that you want to die. There’s nothing like going to school and seeing how carefree your friends are, all laughing and having a great time, and joining in with them even though inside you feel like a piece of garbage who shouldn’t even have friends.

I felt phony because I had so many secrets, not the least of which was my unworthiness, which they either didn’t see or they recognized but never mentioned out of pity for me.

Even the most confident girls struggle in high school with all the changes they’re faced with. Imagine going into it convinced you’re nothing but a hideous thorn in everyone’s side. Those high school years magnify the negatives, but with the help of a loving, supportive family, young women come out of them feeling good about themselves and their future. I came out of those years just feeling worse about myself.

By the time I hit my late teens I was convinced I would never have what ‘normal’ people have in the way of a life where there’s a man who cares about you and you plan for the future and build a life together.

I was living in emotional pain, and to lessen that pain, I began drinking and using drugs. I wasn’t resorting to these things all the time, but I was using them as tools to help me instead of seeing the root of my problems and pain.

In my early twenties, I met a man I thought was simply wonderful. The attention felt incredible. I started feeling better about myself. He loved me! This was as close to feeling loved and carefree as I had ever felt before, and it was so different that I embraced it.

Six months after meeting, we began living together and then married when I was twenty-six, despite the fact that by that point he was drinking heavily and doing a lot of drugs. I guess it didn’t matter to me, because I was doing the same.

Somewhere along the way, he began being very critical of me, so I found myself on the receiving end of verbal abuse once again. I tried harder to please him, as I had spent my childhood and teen years trying to please my father while always missing the mark. The little bit of my spirit that remained was constantly chipped away.

To cope with the reality of increased disappointment and anger on the part of my husband, I went through periods of abusing drugs. During other points in our marriage I decided to live without taking substances, but my husband would push me to join him, and to keep the peace, I did.

Even though I was a fully functioning adult, had jobs and attended college, I spent more than twenty years in a verbally abusive, alcohol and drug-fueled marriage.

Each morning I’d wake up and tell myself I wasn’t going to drink or do any drugs, and each day that I failed I grew more and more disappointed in myself. I felt such intense shame about who I was and how I was living that it was difficult to even think about. I spent much time feeling depressed in a place of darkness.

Growing tired of our lifestyle, we eventually stopped drinking and taking drugs and discovered we had nothing in common. The verbal and emotional abuse continued. So at the age of forty-five, I moved out of our home into another property we owned. I had no faith that my life would ever be better, but I hoped it would, and as the quote above states, that’s a start.

There is something that is so satisfying about seeing a neglected garden of weeds and taking steps to clear them out to see what you can grow. Or watching a caterpillar move through various stages until a beautiful butterfly emerges.

There were many uncertainties I was facing, but I decided that the Universe gives us each a garden—our lives—and it’s up to us to tend to that garden to see what beautiful things we can grow. Each of us is a beautiful butterfly, and sometimes we must let ourselves go through the process of getting rid of a hard shell in order to emerge as our true, beautiful selves.

I was uncertain about who I was, what I wanted to do next, and had a million questions that couldn’t be answered. At the urging of a friend who had mentioned it numerous times, I finally gave in when she once again said, “Why don’t you try Centers for Spiritual Living? I think if you go it will help you.”

And so I went. As soon as I walked in the door I felt like I was home. I actually felt something within me that was so moved on an emotional level that I cried.

A wonderful speaker talked about gratitude and challenged us to spend forty days writing down everything we were grateful for, an exercise meant to shift our focus and put it on the good instead of what we felt was lacking in our lives. The Minister handed out a journal to each of us, and the person who walked out of the church that day wasn’t quite the same as the one who had walked in.

Over the next forty days I diligently did my homework by trying to find something I was grateful for. At first it was hard. I’d sit for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and wonder what it was that I was grateful for.

Oh wait, I’m grateful I don’t drink and take drugs anymore. I wrote that down. I’m grateful to be out of an abusive marriage. I wrote that down. Those seemed a little bit like I was still putting my focus on negative things, however, and I had to ask myself whether or not I was grateful about anything positive.

Well, yes, I was grateful I finally took my friends advice and went to the Center for Spiritual Living. I was grateful my friend told me about it. Oh, and I was grateful for my friend! In fact, I was grateful for all the new friends I’d made. I was grateful to be living in a place where there was a Center for Spiritual Living to even go to. I was grateful to be living in a place that is surrounded by beautiful nature. I was grateful for nature!

This is how it went every day. I would struggle to write something I was grateful for, but once I wrote down one thing, it would lead me to another and another and another.

Sometimes I would close my journal and notice I’d spent thirty minutes writing and it felt like it was only five minutes. The floodgates would just open and I’d get lost in thinking about how wonderful my life had become. One more thing for which to be grateful!

I so loved this exercise that I did it for a second time once the forty-day challenge was up. What happened after that was nothing short of astounding. I became more interested in the spiritual aspect of life, and filled with a bit more confidence, signed up for A Course in Miracles. I was starving for this kind of information, which seemed to fill me up!

I began getting out more. I signed up for a couple of classes at the local university, in order to complete my studies and get a degree. I continued the practice of writing down the things for which I was grateful, only now it didn’t take five, ten, or fifteen minutes before I could think of something, I was already coming up with things while I was still reaching for my notepad and pen. I still found the flow to be the same though. I’d write down one thing, which would lead to another and another.

I continued spending time at the Center, signing up for classes, and reading books to be discussed. It was a whole new world I was being exposed to.

In the years that followed the dissolution of my marriage I achieved my goal and actually earned two degrees, graduating Cum Laude. Somewhere along the way, I began looking at my image in the mirror differently. I thought: Deborah, you’re not half bad! In fact, you’re pretty! You’re kind. You have a good heart. You’re lovable!!!!

I met a wonderful man and got married. I started my own business, and I love the work I do.

As I continued my spiritual studies and practice of gratitude, I came to be blessed more and more. I became a licensed Practitioner at our local Center for Spiritual Living, started a second business, and have become even closer to my two wonderful sisters, enjoying my time with them laughing and joking as though we’re three little girls.

My life looks nothing like the life I lived until I was in my late forties, and yet, I’m grateful for that earlier life because the pain of it has led me to so many wonderful places. My heart and spirit have healed, and I am committed to spreading the word about the blessings you will receive through the daily practice of gratitude.

This doesn’t mean my life is perfect, or without worry, or even absent from the occasional feelings of guilt or shame about something, but I am able to quickly deal with those feelings, and put my focus back on the things for which I am grateful. And that has made all the difference in the world.

Can you relate? Just for today, write down some things you feel grateful for. There are plenty of things. Just look out the window, go for a walk, and you’ll find them. Keep doing that each day and make it a habit.

Think of some things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t pursue because of fear, shame, lack of confidence, etc., and commit to doing just one of those things. Baby steps. That’s all it takes.

And when you start feeling down or worried, open up your journal and read through your lists. It will move the focus from the negatives to the positives. You’ll find that writing about gratitude will lead to feeling more positive about your life, prompting you to take action that brings positive results—and even more blessings and opportunities. I’ve noticed this snowball effect in many lives, starting with my own.

As I live a life that consists of gratitude, I see where every negative experience has molded me, taught me, made me compassionate, and led me to be the wonderful and best version of me that I can be today.

Isn’t that a blessing?

About Deborah Perdue

Deborah Perdue is the author of several books on Gratitude and a practitioner at her local Center for Spiritual Living. She owns a graphic design company and creates book covers, logos, business cards, etc. for wonderful people nationwide. Deborah lives in Grants Pass, OR with her husband and menagerie of animals. You can find her at illuminationgraphics.com and graceofgratitude.com.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

The post Why I Now Appreciate Years of Pain and How Gratitude Healed My Life appeared first on Tiny Buddha.

from Tiny Buddha https://tinybuddha.com/blog/why-i-now-appreciate-years-of-pain-and-how-gratitude-healed-my-life/

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons- Part 13

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail.  These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular  chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 4677

Word Count Total: 58,279

Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I   will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV   change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with  Clementine. THERE BE SMUT (kinda).

Part Thirteen*

When I woke, my heart was racing, Daze was planted on my chest with her head tucked under my chin, and Barbs was in a towel, soaking wet; standing over me. Absurdly, the first thing I noticed was how the droplets of water followed the trail of his chest hair down to his belly button.

I petted Daze and took a few deep breaths, focusing on the water dripping down Mark’s chest, the nightmare featuring Bill fading into the recesses in my mind where he would lurk until next time. 

When my heart rate approached a reasonable rate, the Border Collie lifted her head and licked my cheek. 

I was still focused on watching the water trail down Barbs’ body, and without thinking, I reached up to chase a droplet with my finger.

HIs brows disappeared into his hair, as he asked, “What the fuck, Lemon?”

My focus was still on that droplet and it took me a minute to realize that that wasn’t what he was asking about. My voice sounded like it was coming from a different room and when I put the pieces together, I responded, “Oh, I have night terrors,” like I was mentioning I bought the wrong milk and not a serious psychosomatic issue. 

His voice was stern, which pulled me out of my body-hair-water-droplet-related rapt state, when he said, “Clementine.”

Daze retreated to the other end of the couch and gave me a weary look. “I mean,” I started defensively, “I don’t know what you want me to say. I have night terrors. It’s not something I can control.”

He pushed away from the couch and ran his fingers through his dripping hair, looking sort of frantic. “Fuck,” he exhaled, “I thought you were dying. Do you have these every night?”

He was pacing, water was still dripping off of his body and, amongst other things, I was a little worried he was going to slip on the concrete floor. 

The more wound up he got, the tighter I felt the boa constrictor squeeze my chest. I knew that I was only going to get one chance to reason with him or explain myself before I felt like I was going to completely suffocate and it would become impossible to do so, so before I got there, I pleaded, “Mark.”

I don’t know what he saw, but his face closed down and he turned on his heel, walking down the hallway and muttering to himself, “Fucking night terrors.” The loud slam of the door made me jump, and Daze was trying to crawl in my lap, likely because she realized that I was all of a sudden overwhelmed by the feeling I needed to be anywhere else right the fuck now.

I pushed her off of my lap and made my way to the front entryway, snagging my tote on the way. My hand was reaching for the door when Mark came out of the bedroom, tucking himself into his jeans, calling “Lemon?”

My bare feet didn’t make a sound on the polished concrete floor as I walked toward the bank of elevators. Daze was trotting beside me trying to cross in front of my path and I started to dig in my bag for an extra leash; I usually had five on me. You know, just in case. 

I veered right at the elevators since I was still taking the stairs these days, which was when Mark caught up to me, a pair of my of shoes in one hand and his house keys in the other.

“Lemon, wait,” he implored. When I didn’t respond, he repeated, a little more forcefully, “Lemon, babe. Shoes.” How he managed to leap down a flight of stairs and skid out in front of me to block my passage, I don’t know; however, I will say that I wasn’t too wrapped up in my panic attack to prevent my noticing this feat of athleticism and subsequently file in away in my brain as something to appreciate at a later time and place. But now was not it.

Mark knelt down in front of me, laces on my shoes undone, and he slipped a little ankle sock on each foot. Honestly, the image was so ridiculous that it provided me with a moment of clarity just long enough for me to take a deep breath. I used his shoulder for balance as I put one shoe on, then the other. I could feel his body heat through the palm of my hand; his muscles were like granite, and he just felt so warm and solid in front of me. 

By the time he was done lacing both shoes, my panic attack had ratcheted down from a 7 to a 3 out of 10. My fingers were gently tracing random patterns into his shirt, allowing me to feel the intersections of muscles beneath his skin. Mark didn’t say anything as he remained kneeling in front of me, letting me have my moment or ten. Eventually, though, he stood and slid his arm through mine, pulling me in for a hug and setting my hand on his forearm so I could twirl his arm hair, much to my heart’s delight.

Things after that were a bit of blur and I don’t know how far we walked, but we ended up at a small park that was completely devoid of people. Taking Daze’s leash off, I started to dig in my purse and she knew whatever was coming out was going to be for her, so she started dancing on her front paws. I sat on a bench and handed the ball to Mark. He showed it to Daze, who let out an excited bark as he threw it.

He sat next to me, arm behind me on the bench, his voice almost light, as he murmured, “I didn’t know service dogs could play.”

I leaned into his body, suddenly tired even though I had just woken up. Between the night terror and the panic attack, I felt like I had run a marathon. “Dogs are like people,” I reminded him, “They’ll burn out if it’s all work all the time. They just need to be dogs sometimes.”

We sat in silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “You know,” he began, “even the most well-adjusted, intelligent man would struggle with this situation, right? And we both know I am neither of those things.”

“What situation would that be?” I asked, playing very dumb.

Mark didn’t pull any punches as, without hesitation, he responded, “Trying to date a woman who has survived some serious trauma and not without physical and mental scars.”

I was glad to hear that, if nothing else, he didn’t say ‘crazy person.’

Daze came back and dropped the ball at his feet; he picked it up and threw it again, wiping his hand on his jeans. “You’ve had a lot of time to get used to what happened to you, to learn how to make jokes about it, but this is all new to me.  I never think it’s your fault, I never think this is something wrong with you.” He took a deep breath before he continued, “You just need to give me a minute to fucking process some shit. Like, when I hear you scream like you’re being murdered on my couch while I’m in the shower, for example. I don’t think my heartbeat has ever been that fast and I am a professional athlete. And then you’re totally just chill, telling me you have Night Terrors like you’re informing me the Queen got another Corgi.”

I cleared my throat, vaguely uncomfortable, informing him, “Actually, the Queen isn’t actually breeding corgis anymore…”

His hand settled on the back of my neck and he squeezed lightly, as a tight smile crossed his face and he shook his head ruefully. “Lemon,” he chuckled, “that’s not the point.”

I halfway turned to face him, asking pointedly, “What is the point then, Barbs? That we’re both perfectly imperfect?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he clarified. “What I mean is that only one of us can freak out at a time, Lemon, and sometimes that person needs to be me. Like, when you casually drop the bomb that sometimes you wake up screaming, solely because some asshole traumatized you that much.” He looked at me and went on, “And it feels like I have about half a second to process that information and go through a range of emotions related to that. Today, for example, I went from thinking “putting that dude in a hole in the ground is too kind” all the way to “holy shit, what does this mean for my sleep on game days?” in about two seconds flat.” He gave the back of my neck another squeeze before he continued, “And sometimes I’m probably going to need to walk away to process. But I’m not walking away from you, ok?”

I nodded, understanding what he was telling me; as someone who had spent a good chunk of time overwhelmed by a variety of feelings, I didn’t have to imagine very hard what a situation like that felt like for Mark.  “I think that’s fair,” I acknowledged, meeting his eyes. I took a deep breath and continued slowly, “I’m just… surprised you’re willing to try at all.”

He pulled me into his body, whispering in my ear, “Of course I am. But we are going to have to figure something out regarding the shoe situation, because I can’t have you wandering around Denver in bare feet. It’s where I draw the line.”

“That is an acceptable request,” I said through a smile. “I will work on it.”

Daze brought the ball back and Mark threw it farther this time. Clearly upset it was so much farther away, she offered a hysterical bark as she tore after it. 

We sat in silence for a while, watching Daze take her time coming back with the ball; there was a quasi-pattern to her actions, but she tended to rotate between the following: dropping it to sniff an interesting smell, picking it up again, pausing to pee on a dandelion plant, sniffing said pee with the ball still in her mouth, sniffing said pee after dropping the ball, etc.

Meanwhile, I appreciated the fact we could sit in comfortable silence, especially because it gave me time to absorb what Mark had said. After I’d mulled things over, I was the one who finally broke it and asked, “So, what do we do now?” I wasn’t sure if I meant in a general existential way or in this “relationship” or with the afternoon ahead of us, but he didn’t ask me to specify.

He was running his hand down my hair, combing it between his fingers,  and with the amount of time that task was requiring, it seemed that taking a nap while it was still wet was a poor choice, and I was grateful I hadn’t yet seen a mirror. “I don’t know,” he replied, “I was thinking we could order in, but you didn’t exactly get a second date, so if you want to put on something nice, we could go out instead.”

“What?” I was very confused.

“Lemon, I know I’m the dumb one, but this isn’t really that complicated. You asked what we do now, do you want to eat in and bingewatch TV, or go out?��

I blinked, still not understanding. “You don’t want to take me back to my parents?”

His hand stilled on my hair, and I realized I had caught him off guard. “I mean, I can take you if you want to go,” he offered. “Do you want to leave?”

I shook my head.

“Then, I’m lost,” he told me.

“I mean, this has been kind of stupid,” I said, looking at him, feeling like it was a totally obvious assessment of the situation. As he looked back at me with that same look regarding our plans for the evening, I realized there was a huge disconnect somewhere and so, I continued, “Last night I slept for 15 hours. I was awake for like, two, during which you cooked me a meal, then I fell back asleep and after sleeping for however long again, I woke up and in doing so, I scared you half to death. I’m just surprised you aren’t itching to get rid of me.”

I yelped slightly as he dragged me into his lap and I could practically hear him rolling his eyes as he replied, “Lemon, were you not listening earlier?”

Frowning, I answered, “I was paying attention.” 

“Did you miss the part where I said I wasn’t going to walk away from you and none of this is your fault?” Mark asked.

“No,” I grumbled.

“Great. Then, do you want to order in or go out?”

I reached out to finger the silver chain peeking out of his tee shirt, as I offered, “Order in?”

He captured my chin with his fingers and angled my face toward his, confirming, “Order in, it is, then.”

The kiss was hard but brief, though during it, he managed to stand and gently set me on my feet all in one motion and I remembered that I needed to be in awe of his body. 

He cleared his throat and quirked an eyebrow at me as he wondered, “Why are you looking at me like you’re 3 days into going carb-free and I’m a fresh baked loaf of french bread?”

I did my best to school my face into a more neutral look, but he wasn’t buying it. I knew I wasn’t off the hook, but to give me some time, he whistled for Daze, who picked up her ball from the grass and came running. After clipping on her leash Mark tucked me into his side, asking again, “Lemon?”

I sighed, admitting “I just realized today I don’t think I was ever attracted to Bill, but I am very attracted to you.”

The smug practically radiated off of him and I knew I had to clarify, lest it go to his head. So, I continued, “But sometimes, I still want to dump a 1 billion degree McDonald’s coffee over your head, so there is still room for improvement.”

When he spoke it was under his breath and through his smirk as he singsonged, “You liiiiikkee me. You want to dddaaattttee me, you want to kiiiiissss me.”

“Calm your tits, Gracie Hart,” I said, rolling my eyes.

He pulled me impossibly closer, “Mmm I think we both know Sandra Bullock’s tits have nothing on yours and I mean, Sandy is hot.”

I had to concede there, allowing, “Sandra Bullock is hot.”

Mark grinned again and kissed my temple, saying, “My girl has good taste.”

I made a face but let him have the small victory. 

When we finally made it back to his apartment, my phone was vibrating on the coffee table and I grimaced, realizing I hadn’t checked in with Nora yet, save for a brief text this morning. I scrolled to the bottom of the text thread, which took me an embarrassingly long time, and unfortunately, they were still coming in.

Nora: I’m calling Columbo.

Nora: The national guard

Nora: Homeland security

Nora: The feds!

I shot off a response before the situation escalated further, though it did give me pause to consider who might be above the feds on Nora’s hierarchy of emergency contacts; maybe The Pope?

Hi! I’m here, I'm alive! 

Nora: Quick question: WHAT THE FUCK?

Nora: FIRST of all, you are at a cute boy’s house and you don’t text for awhile, ok, I get that. You have better things to do, but Clementine Jones, it has been almost 24 hours and all I got some bullshit brief shit this morning. SECOND OF ALL, take a picture of Mark, right now. Right this second. 

Mark was downing a glass of water and I zoomed in on him with my phone and snapped a picture before sending it to Nora. He lifted a brow and I just shook my head.

Nora: Why is he wearing clothes? Are you wearing clothes? I’m realizing now that maybe we need to have a conversation about the birds and the bees before I sent you off with The Italian Stallion and that’s on me. 

I rolled my eyes at her, even though she couldn't see me.

I have had many revelations over the past 24 hours and 1 of them is that I now know for certain I was never sexually attracted to Bill and the 2nd is I don’t own enough panties.

Nora: !!!!!!!!

Now, Barbs and I are ordering dinner. 

I turned my phone off and set it back down on the coffee table as I was joined on the couch by a tired Border Collie and a less tired Barbs.

“Was it Nora?”

I nodded and settled into the corner of the couch.

Mark snatched up my legs and hauled me down the length of the couch, putting my feet in his lap. He slipped off my shoes and socks, the very same ones he had put on earlier, and started rubbing my feet. I tried to pull them away as I whined, “Mark, stop.”

He stopped massaging, but didn’t release my feet, “What,” he asked, “why?”

“I don’t like it.” 

“Have you ever had your feet rubbed?” he prodded.

“I mean, yeah, like pedicures and stuff.”

“Well, did you like it then?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, suddenly aware of where this line of questioning was going, and it was a checkmate on the conversation. I relaxed back into the cushions grumbling, “Yes.”

“Ah, so you just don’t like ME rubbing your feet,” he teased.

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Why don’t you want me rubbing your feet, Lemon?” he continued, pushing on despite my reticence. “You actually fight me every time I try and do something nice.”

“To be fair,”  I said, defending myself, “a lot of this is touch related and I am a little gun shy.”

“Mmmhmmm,” he acknowledged.

He returned to rubbing my feet, and I did my best to relax. When he dug his thumbs into the bottoms of my arches, I may have moaned while my muscles turned to warm jello.

“That’s it, she’s finally relaxed,” he said, with more than a hin of smugness, but I really wanted him to continue doing what he was doing so I stayed silent. Of course, he couldn’t let that go without comment.

“Oh, wow,” he chirped, “No smartass remarks?”

I opened my eyes long enough to roll them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

She had these walls she didn’t even know she had about issues she didn’t know she had, and I really enjoyed taking a sledgehammer to them and getting a little closer to her with every swing. 

Finally, after that moan— which, honestly, had me hard in my jeans— she took a few deep breaths and I literally felt all the tension drain out of her body. 

I knew she wasn’t sleeping, because every so often, her foot would twitch when I hit a ticklish spot. 

“Hey, Lemon?” I prompted, “What do you want for dinner?”

She didn’t open her eyes to answer as she murmured, “Whatever you want, Barbs.”

“Pizza?”

She opened one eye and asked, “If you gorge yourself on pizza, are you going to be slow as fuck at camp on Monday?”

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have anything to say and I gaped at her.

Her smile was small and sly, but I caught it. “You little minx,” I spat, setting her feet back on the couch and levering over her, fitting my hips to hers. “Are you accusing me of being slow?”

“I’m just sayin’,” she intoned, “everyone looks good this summer and it would be a shame if you got sent down because you couldn’t hack it. I’d be forced to take pictures of Gabe… or worse! EJ!”

I kissed my way down her throat as I whispered against her skin, “You say that like you only take pictures of me.”

She squirmed under me as she admitted, “I have a secret folder on my computer that’s just you. I download the excess photos before I turn in the memory cards.”

I sat up a bit and braced myself on an arm above her, looking her in the eyes as I asked, “Seriously?”

She made a face I couldn’t decipher and nodded slowly. 

I don’t remember deciding to kiss her but I just suddenly was, my tongue against hers, trying to coax it off the bottom of her mouth. Her hands hesitantly slipped under the hem of my shirt, and I sat up again, pulling it over the back of my head with one hand.

She seemed to freeze as I did that, and pulled her fingers away. I missed her touch immediately and maybe it was a little selfish but with my free hand, I reached for both hers and replaced each on my body. When I settled back down to kiss her again, the cross around my neck settled in the hollow of her throat.

She removed her hands again, but this time pushed her fingers into my hair as she murmured, “I can’t get enough of your hair.” Finally, the hair gene paid off. 

Her fingertips massaged my skull and I dropped my cheek to her chest, giving a contented sigh. “If you never stopped doing that and I could lay on top of you forever, I might just die a happy man,” I informed her.

She finger combed my hair, nails scraping against my scalp and suddenly the intimate idea of a relationship didn’t sound awful. I currently ONLY wanted to fuck Clementine ANYWAY and if this intimacy and this closeness was a bonus, I suddenly understood all the guys on my team with wives and long-time girlfriends. These were moments that just didn’t come from a one night stand or a hookup. These impromptu moments of intimacy filled a part of me I didn’t realize was empty. 

And just as suddenly, I realized Tine was the only woman I could picture myself with like this, just laying here, while she ran her fingers through my hair, close, intimate, with a weather ear on the golf tournament I had turned on. 

“Mark?” She asked, trailing her hands out of my hair and down my back.

“Hmm?” I resisted the urge to rub my beard scruff against her.

“Are you going to fall asleep?”

I smiled and shook my head against her chest, “Nuh uh.”

She was dragging her fingertips against my skin and I could feel the goosebumps chasing her fingers. “Then can you kiss me?” she asked softly.

I lifted my head and pressed my lips to hers, more than happy to oblige. This time, she was the one to deepen the kiss, her tongue licking across my lips. 

My moan may have sounded more like a growl as my tongue shoved hers out of the way and I kissed her hard. The moment I did, she backed off, almost seeming to freeze. I pulled my lips from hers, sensing her limits and asked “Too much?”

She nodded. I took a breath and slid my arms underneath her body flipping us so she was on top. “Okay,” I affirmed. “What if you drive?” I suggested.

Her knees settled on either side of my hips. I could feel her heat through my jeans and her leggings and I shot a little prayer toward the sky that I would be able to control myself and give her an experience she deserved. 

Tine rocked on my erection, adjusted her position and rocked her hips again, letting out a small gasp.

I folded my hands behind my head contentedly, and she placed her hands on my chest to change the angle. She looked down at me through the veil of her hair that fell over her shoulders. 

“Is this ok?” she asked

“Does it feel good for you?” I responded.

She nodded.

“Then it’s more than ok,” I said easily. 

Her hips rolled again and she bit her lip as she set a rhythm, grinding against me as she whimpered, “Fuck, Mark.”

She was fully clothed and still, it was quite possibly the hottest, most intimate thing I had ever experienced.

She adjusted her position again, her pace increasing and when it started to falter, I grabbed her hips and thrust up against her, holding her steady. As she shivered above me, I did it again. And again. And again. Finally, she threw her head back and her entire body shuddered; I watched as the tremors rolled through her and I was sure I’d never been harder in my life. When she pushed against my chest and tried to wiggle away from me, I stopped moving and she collapsed against my chest. From her place tucked under my chin, I heard her whisper, “Barbs?”

“Mm?” 

“What the fuck was that?” she wondered.

“An orgasm?”

“That’s an orgasm?” she asked in disbelief.

My next words escaped before I thought about them, because all the blood to run my brain was currently in my dick and the affection gripping my heart was almost overwhelming, meaning I was basically fucked. “Babe,” I blurted out, “I watched you have an orgasm in the shower.”

She sat up and looked at me, her face inscrutable. “You watched me?” she echoed.

I grimaced and nodded, elaborating, “I knocked and called your name, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Ok, gross invasion of privacy aside, even that didn’t feel like this.”

“Baby, I don’t know what to tell you. That was an orgasm.”

“Holy shit,” she breathed, sounding a little awestruck.

I pushed the hair away from her face, wanting to check on her, because I figured this was A Lot. “Are you ok?” 

She nodded, smiling as she said, “An entire genre of books and television suddenly make sense.”

I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her to my chest. Eventually, her breathing evened out and I was almost certain she fell asleep. I squirmed and tried to snake a hand between our bodies to adjust myself.

“Am I too heavy?” she mumbled.

“No, babe, just… too sexy.”

She snorted into my chest as she rejected this answer, informing me, “You’re such a liar.”

“Lemon,” I sighed, “when you wore that dress did you not look in the mirror?”

“Ok,” she narrowed her eyes at me, skeptical “but I don’t exactly look like every other hockey guy’s girlfriend.”

“But you’re not every hockey guy’s girlfriend,” I retorted, “you’re MY girlfriend.”

She turned her head, our eyes mere inches apart, as she questioned, “Am I your girlfriend? Are you going to put a label on me?”

I pushed her hair out of her face again so I could look at her as I confirmed, “Yeah. I’m gonna put a label on you. So I hope you’re okay with that. And plus, maybe that’ll help keep Comph and Josty’s ass-ogling at bay.”

The smile on her face was faint, but it was there, “They do not do that,” she dismissed.

“You have no idea,” I said earnestly, “I had to threaten all of them.”

“When?” she pressed. 

“When what?”

“When did you have to threaten them?”

I twirled the ends of her hair, brushing it against my beard and pretended I didn’t hear her.

“Barbs, when?” she pestered.

I cleared my throat and mumbled without making eye contact, “thedayicaughtyouinmyarms.”

She turned her head toward me and chirped, “Excuse me, I didn’t catch that.”

I captured her lips with mine for a soft kiss before I pulled back and smirked, “I said, the day I caught you in my arms.”

Her face was soft as she recalled, “Barbs, that was the first day you met me.”

“Nothing wrong with your memory, Lemon.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

I posted 1,747 times in 2022

384 posts created (22%)

1,363 posts reblogged (78%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@horsesandhockeyplayers

@starshine-hockey-girl

@joeyisourranger

@laurenairay

@hockeymenorattractiveboys

I tagged 529 of my posts in 2022

#colorado avalanche - 81 posts

#mark barberio - 67 posts

#avs lb - 62 posts

#clemberio - 47 posts

#lausanne hc - 37 posts

#wlgyl - 32 posts

#nhl fic - 32 posts

#avs imagine - 31 posts

#colorado avalanche imagine - 31 posts

#when life gives you lemons - 31 posts

Longest Tag: 123 characters

#serving “mom returning from a work trip and just hoping the kids didn’t overrun her husband and tear the house apart” vibes

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 2

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic not just particular chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 3663

Word Count Total: 7,949

Author's Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can't seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn't have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. Today we are beginning with Clementine.

Chapter 2

I rolled my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I saw my own brain, but despite that, I ended up sliding down the wall and sitting next to him. Thanks to the tilt of the floor, I slid next to him until we were touching, shoulder to hip.

“Is it difficult being this dumb all the time or does it come naturally?” A warning blinked behind my eyes, Brain to Mouth Filter Failure.

His beard was short, but thick; despite it, I saw his lips curve into a smile. “Around you it’s effortless.” He paused before continuing, “You know you seem pretty unperturbed about being stuck in a leaning elevator with a certified moron.”

I offered an anemic shrug before continuing nonchalantly, “Ohh ‘unperturbed.’ Did you hurt yourself?” One of his thick eyebrows arched and he flashed a 1000 watt smile but didn’t dish the insult back which made the game less fun so I answered, “My world feels like it’s on fire all the time. I’ve had complete mental breakdowns because I accidentally used a blue pen in a journal that I only used a black pen in. Comparatively, this feels like no big deal.” It felt weird to share that personal detail with someone I found so annoying.

He nodded at Daze, “Is that what she’s for?”

A personal detail was one thing, spilling my entire life story was another thing completely and he must have picked up on my hesitation because he held out his hand and said, “How about we start over. Hi, I’m Mark Barberio.”

Ok. He WAS an idiot, but at least he seemed aware of his hoof and mouth disease. I gave his hand a firm grip and shake. “Clementine. Clementine Jones, and this is Daisy, but I just call her Daze.”

“She seems like a good service dog and not at all for a blind person,” he grinned like this was now our inside joke.

I rested my hand on her head thinking about the freedom she gave back to me and took a deep breath, “She’s the best.”

The conversation lulled and I’d be the first to admit that I let it die. We sat in silence for a few minutes before I had a thought. “Wait, you said you texted Gabe?”

His answer was a lazy nod of the head with a “mmhmm” that sounded like it reverberated in his throat.

“What is the likelihood of him making me suffer by association, simply due to the fact that I’m stuck in an elevator with you? Because I just met him today and he seems like a nice dude and I think we’re copacetic, but I could easily see him leaving you in a steel box for a few hours.” I flashed back to the mischievous glint in Gabe’s eyes earlier.

Mark just shrugged, “I don’t know, Lime, guess it depends on if he likes you.”

“Great.” I slumped harder against the wall. “Any chance you want to share that Wi-Fi password so I can contact some people so they don’t worry?”

A few taps on his phone and a notification popped up asking if I wanted to save the password to the Wi-Fi. As soon as I hit accept, my phone started buzzing so hard it almost fell out of my hand.

Nora: Hey, I’m running late. There was a thing with the room I’m painting. It looks NOTHING like the swatch and after sanding and refinishing the floors and having the paint not look good I had a little mental breakdown. FINE NOW.

Nora: Ok, I am 10 minutes late, but where are you?

Nora: Ok. I’m worried now. Did you get stuck at work? WHERE ARE YOU?

Nora: CLEMENTINE, THIS ISN’T FUNNY. I’M GONNA CALL 911. I’M GONNA GET CADAVER DOGS. WHERE ARE YOU?

The last one came in as I hit reply and tried to tap out a response faster than Nora could dial 911.

I’m fine! Stuck in an elevator with no service! I’m sorry. I just got on the Wi-Fi.

Nora: Oh, shit! Are you alone? Do I still need to call 911? Where are you?

I’m fine. You know I handle actual emergencies better than like… not being able to find my lucky socks.

Nora: This is true and you’ve conveniently ignored the “are you alone” question.

See the full post

102 notes - Posted February 1, 2022

#4

A Not So Southern Christmas-- Part 6

This is obviously a rewrite of my old fic. I have been feeling romantic and Christmasy, so I figured it was time to bring back my favorite holiday couple. Title banner by the wonderful @whatishockey. Thank you thank you thank you to the people who periodically peek at this fic to make sure I don't make too many typos and mistakes. @hockeylvr59 @rymurrsneckbeard and @princessphilly

Synopsis: When Adelaide Thibodeaux finds her husband to be diddling the wedding planner in the Church before their nuptials, she walks out and is determined to take her dream honeymoon by herself. Until she gets a seat upgrade to first class and ends up next to Hurricanes Defenceman, Joel Edmundson. Holiday shenanigans ensue.

Author's Notes: This was written in early 2019 before Eddy went to Montreal as a free agent. I will be tagging both teams. It's been a while since I've posted a dual POV so reminder that *~*~*~*~*~* delineates a change in POV. Today we are beginning with Eddy.

Tag List: @leafs-foreverr, @pagirl6866, @colecockfield If you would like to be part of the tag list, please let me know.

Part 6

*~*~*~*~*~*

Just over an hour later we were crawling along I-90 in an SUV the size of a tank. After the second close call of almost being sideswiped by another vehicle sliding on ice after a single mile on the interstate, I was thankful for it. It was a rideshare, so I didn’t care if it only got two miles per gallon, as long as it was able to get us to the airport in one piece.

Adelaide finally turned on her phone and I just arched a brow at her as it vibrated in her hand for what seemed like a solid minute while she looked annoyed, “You ok there?”

She gave me a withering glare, and she looked so cute that I couldn’t help but smile, which made her glare harder and the entire thing was just a circle of me being amused and her getting more furious. It was fantastic.

Poking around on the screen, a call connected and started to ring as she brought the phone to her ear. I could hear her mother’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hi Momma, is everyone there? Put me on speaker.”

I was thankful it was a regular voice call and not a facetime, because I knew her father would pinpoint the “I just fucked your daughter nasty" vibes wafting off of me from four states away.

“No, Adele, I'm not putting Eddy on speaker.” She sighed and dropped her phone to her lap, hitting the speaker button with her thumb. “FINE. Is everyone here?”

“Adelaide why are you in a car, it sounds like you’re in a car.”

She transferred the phone to her opposite hand as I stretched my arm across the seat and intertwined our fingers. “Eddy and I are going to the airport Mama, our flight leaves at one.”

Her father’s rich baritone chimed in, “I guess there’s a first time for everything, one of my daughters not being stubborn? I better buy a lottery ticket.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, “Daddy.”

“Eddy, son she IS going with you, correct?”

I cleared my throat, “Yessir, she agreed.”

“Good. Finally. Adele you’re next.”

Adelaide mouthed “I’m sorry” at me.

The conversation devolved from there. “What does that mean Daddy?” Adele sounded irritated.

“It means you need to stop being so stubborn and accept help and maybe find a good man.”

An argument started between the two of them, with Dottie interjecting at random times. There was something about college and Adele getting her Masters while working. Adelaide looked bored, like she had heard this argument before. She started massaging the palm of my hand with her thumb and staring out the window as her family argued.

Finally, Adele’s voice cut through the nonsense, “Addie and Eddy’s hotel room only had one bed!”

I caught the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror and I don’t think he felt at all sorry for my impending death.

Adelaide’s attention was suddenly diverted back to her phone, “ADELE! Daddy, there was one bed, but I slept on the couch.”

Her sister wasn’t to be swayed from her current path of turning the attention to Adelaide, “Daddy, I looked at photos of the suite, the couch was too small for anyone to sleep on.”

He sounded displeased, I was suddenly very aware the man owned a hardware store and all murdering/disposing bodies things were readily available and no one would blink twice at him having any of them. “Eddy made you sleep on the couch?”

Adele sounded breathless, “THEY WERE CUDDLING THIS MORNING.”

See the full post

110 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

#3

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Masterlist

Synopsis: Disabled OC and service dog get stuck in an elevator with Mark Barberio. Shenanigans ensue.

Word Count Total: 93K (this includes unposted parts)

Author's Note: Shout out to @newlibrary who has tirelessly created the graphics for this story. She's the true hero here.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Playlist

129 notes - Posted February 2, 2022

#2

When Life Gives You Lemons -- Part 1

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic not just particular chapters.

Word Count: 4286

Word Count Total: 4286

Author's Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can't seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn't have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC.

Chapter 1

“Ok, can you look at the camera please?”

The flash was blinding and while I appreciated the professional set-up, I couldn’t help but wonder if a nerd named Kevin with a cell phone and a white wall would be more efficient. This seemed excessive and far more painful. I found myself blinking to see if my retinas had detached.

The photographer fiddled with the settings for a moment, “Can we do one of your service dog too? I’d love to make her a little badge for her vest.”

I actually thought that was kind of cute, I doubt Kevin would have been as creative. “Sure,” I agreed, “Come on Daze.” I asked for a sit/stay on the little platform and waved a treat behind the photographer.

“Great, these are so cute,” The photographer declared. “What were your names again?”

I sighed, this was about to be awkward, “Clementine and Daisy.”

She blinked at me, her brain processing the names and trying to figure out who was the flower and who was the fruit. I took pity on her and clarified before she short circuited and smoke began to pour out of her ears, “I’m Clementine and the dog is Daisy.”

She sucked her lips into her mouth and nodded enthusiastically, perhaps to compensate for her previous reaction, “Um ok, give me just a second to get these printed.”

Within a few moments, she had handed us our badges and I had to admit the outcome was a little better than using some random nerd named Kevin with a cellphone. I attached the clip of the badge to the pocket of my jeans and Daisy’s to her service dog vest. I didn’t normally make her wear it, but it was my first day at the job I desperately needed and they had given me a chance despite my need for assistance so I wanted her to look the part.

Sports had always been one of my passions but I didn’t have an athletic bone in my body, so I embraced the rules, the stats, the analysis. Numbers had order and always made sense to me, but I just wasn’t quick enough to be a statistician. However, the very best thing about sports is all the numbers could make sense, but the underdog could still win. There was no way to measure luck, to measure a human being’s ability to dig within their soul to beat the odds. It was this, the human element, that attracted me to sports.

It was only after a nasty divorce, a complete mental breakdown, and facing the stark reality of starting my life over completely with nothing to show for a quarter century on the earth that I decided to go back to school, graduating with a Bachelor’s in Sports Communication.

Before that,I spent a year in and out of hospital psych wards, sedated while they tried to glue my brain back together. When that hell was over, I was forced to move back in with my parents, becoming their dependent again. I also got Daisy, a service dog to help me juggle depression, anxiety, PTSD, and all the medications I had to take in order to return to society as a semi functional person. With Daze’s help, I was able to go back to school and reinvent myself and now here I was, on the farside of 30 and almost human again. Truthfully, I had no idea what “normal” was but I had decided I was going to be it. I was going to be normal.

I was starting my life over from scratch, as a new college graduate old enough to be the parent of some of my classmates and a psych ward veteran who was probably the subject of several academic papers. I am the product of a really shitty emotionally and physically abusive marriage which left me with a slew of partly recovered emotional wounds, but all of that was still better than what I had been, as my therapist was constantly reminding me.

It had taken many strings pulled by my professors and, unfortunately, my father, the head basketball coach for Denver University, for me to get this job. Even then, I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t been given it because I checked the affirmative action box for being a disabled woman (double the diversity). And by job, I mean, this was a temporary paid internship gig and if the Avalanche executives liked my content the position would be created and then I could apply. Imposter syndrome was something I struggled with daily and my therapist had invested a great deal of time trying to teach me that it wasn’t nepotism, strings my father pulled in Denver, a hiring percentage, or a variety of other things that got me the job. The Avalanche Organization could have said no. They saw my academic projects and were curious enough to create this internship. It was up to me to keep it.

The makeshift photo studio was in the depths of Pepsi Arena, while Human Resources was several floors up in a part of the building that had windows. Having completed my surprisingly good staff photo with Not Kevin, Daze and I stood directly in front of the elevator ready to make our way up and navigate the next part of the new hire process. I was absentmindedly pressing the UP button as if that would make the car arrive faster when the ding sounded its arrival. I was completely unprepared for anyone to actually be inside the elevator, much less a herd of Avalanche players in full game regalia-- down to the blade covers on their skates.

I barely had time to register the half a ton of boisterous testosterone bearing down on us before Daze darted behind me to avoid being trampled. In surprise, I stepped back and felt one of her little furry paws under my heel. She gave a yelp and my knees buckled to avoid putting my full weight on her little toes.

Before I hit the ground, arms were around me and I found my face pressed firmly against the Avalanche logo covering a hard chest protector. To my credit, I managed to turn my head to avoid a bright red lipstick stain on the fabric of the jersey.

Daze whined as I was righted by the ridiculously strong arms I was wrapped in, and the chest I was pressed against stepped back, putting me squarely in front of my savior and his four compatriots. I blinked for a second as I got my bearings and tried to make my mouth move in a way that wouldn’t haunt me at 3 am a decade from now, but my savior spoke first, his voice quickly snapping me back into reality.

“Whoa, your hair is like… blue.” He sounded like the least intelligent frat boy I had ever come across and my nose wrinkled in distaste as I felt my eye twitch.

It was such an inane response that I forgot I was in front of a bunch of professional athletes, most of whom I watched on a regular basis and all of who could now get me fired on a whim. Now I will be the first to admit I put my foot in my mouth a lot; mostly, because there’s no filter going from my speech center to my mouth and I’m not ashamed to say, working in sports, I often felt like the smartest person in the room. “It’s actually more of a navy, but thanks for the commentary Captain Obvious.”

The four players who were mostly blocked by the pair of broad shoulders and helmet, took an audible step back, and so did the set of pads in front of me which was bad for my IQ. The first thing I noticed were his eyes which were the color of the hazelnut coffee I liked to drink in the morning. My face went slack and I promptly forgot everything I’d ever known, including my own name as I stared into their rich depths.

An accented voice that didn’t seem to be attached to a body floated across my vision, “Is she okay?”

“I think so?” The man standing in front of me waved a hand in front of my face.

Daze whined and I swallowed, the world coming back into focus. My voice sounded far away when I spoke, “I’m fine, we’re both fine.”

See the full post

144 notes - Posted January 29, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

We stan a man who reads

@hockeylvr59

232 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons -- Part 1

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic not just particular chapters.

Word Count: 4286

Word Count Total: 4286

Author's Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can't seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn't have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC.

Chapter 1

“Ok, can you look at the camera please?”

The flash was blinding and while I appreciated the professional set-up, I couldn’t help but wonder if a nerd named Kevin with a cell phone and a white wall would be more efficient. This seemed excessive and far more painful. I found myself blinking to see if my retinas had detached.

The photographer fiddled with the settings for a moment, “Can we do one of your service dog too? I’d love to make her a little badge for her vest.”

I actually thought that was kind of cute, I doubt Kevin would have been as creative. “Sure,” I agreed, “Come on Daze.” I asked for a sit/stay on the little platform and waved a treat behind the photographer.

“Great, these are so cute,” The photographer declared. “What were your names again?”

I sighed, this was about to be awkward, “Clementine and Daisy.”

She blinked at me, her brain processing the names and trying to figure out who was the flower and who was the fruit. I took pity on her and clarified before she short circuited and smoke began to pour out of her ears, “I’m Clementine and the dog is Daisy.”

She sucked her lips into her mouth and nodded enthusiastically, perhaps to compensate for her previous reaction, “Um ok, give me just a second to get these printed.”

Within a few moments, she had handed us our badges and I had to admit the outcome was a little better than using some random nerd named Kevin with a cellphone. I attached the clip of the badge to the pocket of my jeans and Daisy’s to her service dog vest. I didn’t normally make her wear it, but it was my first day at the job I desperately needed and they had given me a chance despite my need for assistance so I wanted her to look the part.

Sports had always been one of my passions but I didn’t have an athletic bone in my body, so I embraced the rules, the stats, the analysis. Numbers had order and always made sense to me, but I just wasn’t quick enough to be a statistician. However, the very best thing about sports is all the numbers could make sense, but the underdog could still win. There was no way to measure luck, to measure a human being’s ability to dig within their soul to beat the odds. It was this, the human element, that attracted me to sports.

It was only after a nasty divorce, a complete mental breakdown, and facing the stark reality of starting my life over completely with nothing to show for a quarter century on the earth that I decided to go back to school, graduating with a Bachelor’s in Sports Communication.

Before that,I spent a year in and out of hospital psych wards, sedated while they tried to glue my brain back together. When that hell was over, I was forced to move back in with my parents, becoming their dependent again. I also got Daisy, a service dog to help me juggle depression, anxiety, PTSD, and all the medications I had to take in order to return to society as a semi functional person. With Daze’s help, I was able to go back to school and reinvent myself and now here I was, on the farside of 30 and almost human again. Truthfully, I had no idea what “normal” was but I had decided I was going to be it. I was going to be normal.

I was starting my life over from scratch, as a new college graduate old enough to be the parent of some of my classmates and a psych ward veteran who was probably the subject of several academic papers. I am the product of a really shitty emotionally and physically abusive marriage which left me with a slew of partly recovered emotional wounds, but all of that was still better than what I had been, as my therapist was constantly reminding me.

It had taken many strings pulled by my professors and, unfortunately, my father, the head basketball coach for Denver University, for me to get this job. Even then, I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t been given it because I checked the affirmative action box for being a disabled woman (double the diversity). And by job, I mean, this was a temporary paid internship gig and if the Avalanche executives liked my content the position would be created and then I could apply. Imposter syndrome was something I struggled with daily and my therapist had invested a great deal of time trying to teach me that it wasn’t nepotism, strings my father pulled in Denver, a hiring percentage, or a variety of other things that got me the job. The Avalanche Organization could have said no. They saw my academic projects and were curious enough to create this internship. It was up to me to keep it.

The makeshift photo studio was in the depths of Pepsi Arena, while Human Resources was several floors up in a part of the building that had windows. Having completed my surprisingly good staff photo with Not Kevin, Daze and I stood directly in front of the elevator ready to make our way up and navigate the next part of the new hire process. I was absentmindedly pressing the UP button as if that would make the car arrive faster when the ding sounded its arrival. I was completely unprepared for anyone to actually be inside the elevator, much less a herd of Avalanche players in full game regalia-- down to the blade covers on their skates.

I barely had time to register the half a ton of boisterous testosterone bearing down on us before Daze darted behind me to avoid being trampled. In surprise, I stepped back and felt one of her little furry paws under my heel. She gave a yelp and my knees buckled to avoid putting my full weight on her little toes.

Before I hit the ground, arms were around me and I found my face pressed firmly against the Avalanche logo covering a hard chest protector. To my credit, I managed to turn my head to avoid a bright red lipstick stain on the fabric of the jersey.

Daze whined as I was righted by the ridiculously strong arms I was wrapped in, and the chest I was pressed against stepped back, putting me squarely in front of my savior and his four compatriots. I blinked for a second as I got my bearings and tried to make my mouth move in a way that wouldn’t haunt me at 3 am a decade from now, but my savior spoke first, his voice quickly snapping me back into reality.

“Whoa, your hair is like… blue.” He sounded like the least intelligent frat boy I had ever come across and my nose wrinkled in distaste as I felt my eye twitch.

It was such an inane response that I forgot I was in front of a bunch of professional athletes, most of whom I watched on a regular basis and all of who could now get me fired on a whim. Now I will be the first to admit I put my foot in my mouth a lot; mostly, because there’s no filter going from my speech center to my mouth and I’m not ashamed to say, working in sports, I often felt like the smartest person in the room. “It’s actually more of a navy, but thanks for the commentary Captain Obvious.”

The four players who were mostly blocked by the pair of broad shoulders and helmet, took an audible step back, and so did the set of pads in front of me which was bad for my IQ. The first thing I noticed were his eyes which were the color of the hazelnut coffee I liked to drink in the morning. My face went slack and I promptly forgot everything I’d ever known, including my own name as I stared into their rich depths.

An accented voice that didn’t seem to be attached to a body floated across my vision, “Is she okay?”

“I think so?” The man standing in front of me waved a hand in front of my face.

Daze whined and I swallowed, the world coming back into focus. My voice sounded far away when I spoke, “I’m fine, we’re both fine.”

The hand that was still gripping my elbow slid up my arm and skimmed my collar bone before the warm palm settled against the curve of my neck. His thumb tilted my head up as those coffee colored eyes stared in my mind, searching, assessing me. It was strangely intimate and I could feel the sensation of his hand on my neck shooting through my body, and I flinched.

This time his voice was low and only for me as he misread the flinch, “Are you sure you’re ok?”

I nodded against his grip begrudgingly, “I’m fine.”

Content that I had averted utter disaster and was going to physically survive this awkward encounter, the other players started walking away, one of them declaring impatiently, “She’s fine, Barbs, what do you think you are? A doctor?”

One player, though, lagged behind. He had a grin on his face like it was Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one; about what exactly he was so excited, though, I was unsure. He pointed a finger gun at me, which was both adorable and dorky as he commented, “Please tell me you work for the team.”

I nodded in confirmation, stating simply, “Yeah, for as long as I don’t fuck up.”

His finger gun turned into an outstretched palm as he reached past my personal body shield for a handshake, foregoing a normal greeting in favor of just saying, “Gabe.”

I nodded passively, “I know who you are, but thanks. I’m Clementine.”

He chuckled before he pressed, “No shit?”

I sighed, “No shit. And this is Daisy, but I just call her Daze.” I tilted my head toward where she was sitting, looking between me and the two men. She wasn’t used to people invading my large bubble of personal space.

The Swede gave a nod to the dog, but didn’t attempt to pet her, “We have to get going, but I *really* hope we see you around, Clementine.”

I cleared my throat as he drug the man with the coffee eyes away, “Just Tine, is fine.”

“Ok, Just Tine,” he mimicked. With that they disappeared down the hall. Gabe was whistling “My Darling Clementine” under his breath with a distinct saunter to his walk despite the skates. I really hated that song.

The elevator had long since closed and I pushed the button to recall it; this time, I had my wits about me and for fear of repeating the previous and unfortunate encounter, I moved to stand to the side of the doors. After only a few seconds, the elevator arrived, and Daze and I entered. I pushed the button for our desired floor and the steel doors were beginning to slide shut, when I heard, “Wait!! Hold it!”

It sounded like a douchey intern-- you know the type, the guy who unfortunately was not cut out for his sport of choice so he went into Sports Management instead. I rolled my eyes and hit the DOOR CLOSE button repeatedly trying my best dumb girl voice, “I’m hitting the button! It’s not working!” This tactic seemed to work right up until four hairy knuckles grabbed the edge of the steel and pulled it open again with what my girly bits registered as an impressive show of strength.

“Oh, hey, Blue Hair,” The voice was familiar now considering I had just heard it a few moments ago, inches from my face. It was him, the man who caught me; he jutted his chin at me and raised his eyebrows when he saw the DOOR CLOSE button illuminated, “Not working huh?” He said jovially, taking zero offense. That irritated me, I meant offense. I meant the most offense.

“Did you fail kindergarten? Because this is a dark blue known commonly as navy. I also have a name and it’s not ‘Blue Hair.’” For as much as I loved sports, I often despised the personalities that played them.

He rocked back on his skates with an amused look on his face but he didn’t push a button, so I assumed he was going to the same floor. At least, I hoped that was the reason and not something more unfortunately, like he wanted to start a conversation. His lips quirked up and his eyebrows lifted, his hazelnut eyes shining with a bit of mirth I simultaneously found irritating and hot. “Great, a name, I’d love to hear it.”

World War Three was currently happening in my body. The girly bits were definitely attracted to the possibility of his boy bits, but a coil of deep loathing of everything this man seemed to be as a person was uncoiling in my belly. I hoped my expression didn’t reveal the fact that I was fantasizing about a murder of crows plucking his beautiful eyes out of his waxy dead skull when I responded flatly, “It’s Tine, your captain and I just had this conversation in front of you.”

“TIne?” He repeated with a skeptical look.

It was difficult to rein in my snappy response and I don’t think I succeeded entirely as I explained, “Yes, Tine. Short for Clementine.”

“Clementine,” he said the word like he was feeling it in his mouth. His beautiful dumb face was arranged in confusion.

“Yes, like the citrus fruit.” My toes dug into my flats and I willed myself to keep looking forward.

Sir DudeFratBoi made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat before he questioned, “Tine isn’t a name. It’s a part of a fork.” Oh he wasn’t just dumb, he was DUMB.

I was about 1.5 seconds away from having a screaming hysterical meltdown on this asshole, mostly because he was stupid but I was attracted to him against my will. Fortunately, I felt Daze’s wet nose in my palm, grounding me.

I snorted. “Award-winning actress Tyne Daly would disagree.”

“Who? Oh hey! Cool dog.” He knelt down and started petting Daze, who patiently looked up at me.

I had met toddlers that had more restraint than this adult man, “While I can appreciate your proclivity toward dogs, she’s a service dog and she’s working.”

“Proclivity. That a word you use often in everyday conversations?” He stood, cocking his head a little while he looked me over. “You don’t look blind.”

I almost choked on my tongue, “Excuse me?”

“Blind? Dog?” His tone indicated maybe he thought I was a little slow. And no, the irony of the situation did not escape me.

My hands were halfway to my temples to rub them counterclockwise in an effort to calm down before I realized they had moved, and I dropped them firmly to my sides again. Daze put her paw on my thigh, and it served as a distraction that allowed me to redirect the urge to ferally bite his nose right off his stupid face. “I’m not blind. She’s a service dog, not a guide dog.”

He shrugged, which I took as an indication he thought they were the same thing. Mercifully, the elevator came to stop and the doors opened with a ding. One of his arms stretched out past the opening, gesturing for me to go first. I couldn’t tell if he was being chivalrous or still thought I was blind.

I had taken one step out of the elevator before he spoke, his voice tinged with amused skepticism, as he supplied “I’m Mark.”

I turned on my heel and headed toward HR, leaving him and his outstretched hand alone in the elevator while I informed him, “I know.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Watching her walk away, I felt my dick twitch which was amazing, because I was pretty sure I swallowed not only my foot, but my entire leg. She was pretentious and a pain in the ass and probably a bunch of other P words I didn’t even know, but I bet she knew them. The hints of vulnerability underneath her prickly exterior made her intriguing. Of course she was probably prickly, because I was a giant MORON. I had never said so many idiotic things in a row in my life and that was saying something as a professional jock.

My fingers fiddled absently with the mic that was clipped to my collar. I knew the audio from the elevator would be in Landy’s hands by the time I made it back, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. Even so, I took as long as possible grabbing my gloves, but we were shooting promos and at some point, I knew someone would come looking for me.

I heard them before I even rounded the corner of the door, “Dude, YOU ASKED HER IF SHE WAS BLIND.” Josty’s mirth filled the room.

Landy didn’t say anything, he just arched his invisible eyebrows and shook his head like he couldn’t believe one of his players was that stupid.

Comph grinned at his phone and it didn’t dawn on me what he was doing until I heard the telltale *swoop* of a message being sent to the team group text.

“Fuck. Seriously, guys?!” I couldn’t help the fact I was grumbling. I really couldn’t. They were right, I was a massive idiot.

The chirps were endless, and by the time we had finished promo photos, I was in a sour mood.

When the rest of the guys went back to the dressing room, I made my way to the ice. That first stride on a mirrored sheet of ice was always the best and it always felt like coming home after a long trip. It was the beginning of training camp and the rookies were trying to earn themselves a roster spot. A few people still littered the stands after the morning skate, but I didn’t pay them any mind.

I was a few strides into my warm-up when I felt my dick twitch again and I knew she was around. I looked up, scanning the seats for blue, no, NAVY hair. She peeked out from behind a huge lense, corners of her mouth quirked up like she was amused. My dick twitched again, hard enough I tripped over my own skates and sprawled onto the ice. I lay starfished for awhile praying to every god I knew that she didn’t get photographic evidence of that and I decided my dick and I were going to have a conversation about the type of women he should be attracted to. My legs felt like overcooked spaghetti and it was a struggle to stand. When I was finally upright I tried to look casually in her direction; I caught the corner of her smile behind the camera and the situation in my jock became serious. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. This entire situation was so unbelievably fucked up.

She turned to leave, and I surprised myself when I heard myself call out, “Hey, Tangerine!”

When she turned back around I could see the wrinkle of annoyance between her eyes. For some odd reason I took that wrinkle as a personal victory. My throat closed again and her eyes rolled before she disappeared into the corridor.

I sincerely hoped no one was around because that entire display from start to finish was a disaster. Tangerine was her name right? It was some kind of fruit.

Normally, I could skate until there was nothing between my ears but white noise and empty space, it wasn’t difficult to achieve, but today every time the creak of the ice tried to free my mind, I felt it drift back to Blue Hair. After an hour, I gave up and headed to the dressing room to change. Everyone was long gone and I was thankful I was spared another round of humiliation from whomever witnessed my pitiful display on the ice and told the boys about it. Everyone would probably know by tomorrow, but that was tomorrow’s problem.

10 minutes later, I was comfortable in some joggers and a tshirt with my equipment bag over my shoulder, waiting for the elevator. When it opened, I felt the corners of my mouth turn up and couldn’t help the words that escaped out of my mouth, “Hey Orange,” I said, as unassumingly as I could manage.

Her lips pursed showing her obvious annoyance, and I definitely had to use all my willpower to control my dick that seemed to develop a mind of his own when she was within 100 yards of me. In hindsight, freeballin’ in the joggers for the drive home was a big mistake.

I leaned in front of her and pushed the button she had already pressed and was lit. The resulting glare earned me the little wrinkle between her eyes I was beginning to covet.

Rocking back on my heels, I stuck my hands in my pockets, hoping to hold down Mark Jr. “So Grapefruit, what are you doing here?”

She took a visible deep breath that lifted her chest and I felt my eyes drop, easily double Ds. Score. “Basically, a year-long interview for a new position. If I’m successful, they will create the position and I will have a chance to apply and if I’m not, they’re going to scrap it and I will float away into oblivion.

That seemed heavy, “No pressure then, eh?”

Her nose wrinkled again and I wondered if she would make the same face if we kissed. Wait. what? However, my thoughts rapidly changed track of their own volition when the elevator suddenly made a horrific screeching noise; one corner dipping causing Clementine to fall into me and then the whole car groaned to a stop.

Catching her as she fell into me was a reflex and I was glad mine were quick as I wrapped my arms around her. The dog splayed all four feet in an effort to keep her balance.

We didn’t move for several seconds and honestly, I was a little surprised she hadn’t flinched or screamed during whatever just happened, because it shook the shit out of me.

My voice cracked like a horny teenager and I cleared my throat before starting again, “Are you ok?”

I couldn’t see her face, but I felt her smile as my voice hit the high note and she nodded her head. The dog whined and Clementine bent to check on her. I loosened my arms and tried to subtly aim my hips in the other direction. She actually smelled like oranges or some shit. Jesus, I was fucked.

Once she had assessed the dog was ok and had murmured whatever she needed to to reassure the dog, she stood again and started digging in her purse. I let my arms drop, but my hand settled on her hip to stabilize her as were now standing at an angle. Totally, not at all because touching her made my fingertips tingle.

“Shit,” she cursed, “I don’t have service in here-- do you? She dropped her phone back in her bag and started to turn toward me. I let go of her hip and dug into my pocket, swiping the screen open, “Nope, I replied, “Zero bars here.”

“It’s 2019, you’d think the tech bros could figure out how to get service in a goddamn elevator.” She bit her lip, though her lipstick had long worn off, they were distracting all the same which is why it took me more than a nanosecond to leap to the next conclusion, “I think I have wi-fi in here though.” I had no idea who to contact in this situation so I shot an imessage off to Landy. Rescuing teammates from awkward situations and potential peril was part of his captainly duties.

He didn’t waste a second responding. You’re stuck in an elevator?

Yeah.

Landy: Anyone with you?

Yeah, that Citrus chick.

Landy: Citrus? You mean Clementine?

Isn’t that an orange? Whatever, yes. That girl.

Landy just sent back a series of emojis and I was in no mood to try to translate his inner 13 year old girl in order to make sense of it.

“I got Landy, he will know who to call.” I informed Clementine before I asked her, “You good?”

She nodded and as a reflex, I squeezed her hip in reassurance. We both stiffened and she took a step away from my hand. I let it drop and flexed my fingers a few times. I suddenly felt like the elevator was 1000 degrees and I leaned back against the wall. If I could stop shoving my foot in my mouth and being awkward as FUCK while I was stuck in an enclosed space with this woman, that sure would be cool.

Dropping my bag, I slid down against the wall and stretched out my sore legs. The rookies may be looking to get a shot at the team, but some of us weren’t MacKinnon or Makar and we were fighting to keep our own spots on the roster. I thought I had trained hard all summer, but it was becoming apparent from my aching muscles that I should have trained harder.

Clementine was still standing and looking at her phone, like those service bars would appear like magic.

“Listen, Tangelo, we’re going to be awhile so why don’t you take a seat?”

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 3

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic not just particular chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 2295

Word Count Total: 10,244

Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can’t seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn’t have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. Today we are beginning with Clementine.

Part Three

Being stuck in the elevator with Mark Barberio was probably the highlight and lowlight of my life.There were parts I knew I could come back and savor in 20 years and there were parts that were going to keep me up at night for the next 40. But, being able to toss out that last snarky line, wink, AND not fall on my face walking away? Just call me Wonder Woman. Granted, I fell down the steps as soon as I started down the stairwell, but no one witnessed that embarrassing moment so it didn’t count.

I didn’t see Mark for a week, unless there was plexiglass and a camera between us. However, I relived the elevator incident approximately 5 million times within that week, give or take, but who was counting? Training camp was done for the day and I was clicking through the pictures on my camera, making sure I had taken an entirely normal amount of pictures of Mark and exactly zero more than that. But, there were always 5x as many of him than anyone else. Actually, I had an entire folder consisting solely of photos of him that I had deleted from the camera. It was as I was sending one such picture off into the interwebs and deleted it from the memory card that my phone buzzed.

(303) 123-4567: What does a guy have to do to get a girl to buy him dinner around here?

Who is this? I had a suspicion of who it was and my traitorous belly did a flip.

(303) 123-4567: WOW. You have Landy in your phone, but not me?

I don’t have Landy in my phone. I’m in HIS phone.

(303) 123-4567: Oh man, now you’ve hurt his feelings. Good job, Nectarine.

That’s not even a citrus fruit, Mark.

(303) 123-4567 How did you know it was me!?

Well gee, let’s see….first of all, you’re the only one who calls me random fruit on purpose.

(303) 123-4567 Whatever you say, Strawberry.

I’m gonna block your number.

(303) 123-4567: What! No! I just got yours!

I have stuff to do, Barbs-- what do you want?

(303) 123-4567: Dinner with my favorite gal named after an orange.

Clementines are actually a hybrid citrus, not an orange.

(303) 123-4567: Does it ever get exhausting knowing more than everyone else?

Only when I’m speaking with idiots.

(303) 123-4567: I don’t know how to tell you this, babe, but if that’s the case, then you are in the wrong industry.

Seriously, Mark! What do you want?

(303) 123-4567: Hadn’t talked to you in awhile and my ego was getting too big. Almost couldn’t fit my head through the door earlier.

Pfft, that must be new for you, considering that’s the only thing you’ve got that’s big.

(303) 123-4567: I’m wounded.

You’re fine.

I slid my phone back into my pocket as I got ready to end my work day and headed for the hallway. Since the elevator incident had transpired, it had become my routine to take the stairs. It wasn’t a fear of elevators per se but more so that my conversation with Mark in the elevator was the longest conversation I had had with a man since my divorce, excluding those that centered around work or school, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. I also didn’t really fancy getting stuck in an elevator again and repeating the experience with someone who was not Mark.

I think the part that was most unsettling was that I wasn’t actually unsettled at all. Surprisingly, or maybe not so, I actually enjoyed it, enjoyed his company, but it felt self-indulgent, so I was doing my best to avoid the elevator and further potential conversations and/or encounters in an enclosed space with one Mark Barberio by taking the stairs. Problem solved.

As I was passing the bank of elevators the bell went off and the doors slid open, revealing a distracted Gabriel Landeskog. Daze and I tried to dart out of his way and retreat to the stairs without incident but unfortunately, he looked up about a beat too soon and spotted us, smiling widely. “Oh hey Tine!” he exclaimed, “Are you waiting for the elevator?” He offered a jaunty wink that would have been creepy on literally anyone else but on Gabe, it was just good natured if not mischievous.

It was difficult to be serious around Gabe and I found myself smiling despite my hesitance to stop and chat, “No.” I explained, “No more elevators for a while. I’m taking the stairs.”

He didn’t say anything but looked down at Daze, who had taken the opportunity to plop down by my feet, addressing her as he continued, “That’s basically animal abuse, isn’t it, Daze?” She didn’t react outwardly to him, but I felt her tail thud against the concrete floor.

“Animal Abuse schmanimal abuse, Gabe.” I responded, “Do I look like I do too much physical activity? My fitbit basically begs for steps. Plus, she has a cushy job. It mostly involves naps.” I was also looking down at Daze, and she started wagging her tail with gusto.

“Aww,” he said affectionately, “she’s devoted to you.”

I couldn’t help the snort, “Gabe, that’s kind of… part of the job description.”

He shrugged, “It’s still cute. Anyway, Mel and I are having this BBQ thing before the season, you should come.”

Oh man. I sucked at social invitations. Mostly because I sucked at social interactions. My mouth went off without my brain’s consent again as I shot out, “I’m busy.”

His blonde eyebrow raised, “I didn’t say when it was.”

I stuttered, “I mean...I’m probably…probably busy. Probably.”

He lifted his chin and looked down on me, eyes a bit narrowed, “Well then, Tine, why don’t you give me three dates that work for you, and I’ll plan it for one of those days.”

My jaw dropped involuntarily, “Shouldn’t this be, like, a players only thing? Maybe coaching staff?”

He wasn’t going to budge, “It’s an Avs ‘organization’ thing.”

“Can you do that?” I replied, still trying to get out of potentially seeing Mark without dozens of yards and a camera between us.

Gabe shrugged, “I can do what I want.”

I supposed he could. “What if I don’t want to go?”

He looked offended, “How could you not want to go? I’m handsome and charming, and I throw great parties that would be the front page of all society pages except Mel gives me a budget. Can you IMAGINE?”

I could actually. Gabe had a not-so-secret Pinterest page that even I followed, and honestly, his party board was pretty spectacular -- it was even broken up by themes and occasion. I lowkey wanted to go to one just for the aesthetic, to experience a Landeskog party.

“The horror!” I sighed, with only the teensiest bit of sarcasm, “You can’t impose budgets on greatness!” I wasn’t sure my faux mocking tone made it through, but either way, he smiled.

“See? You get it.” His phone started buzzing in his hand and he started to walk away, “This weekend, Tine. Party, you’re coming.” He answered the call before I could reply.

I watched his retreating back for a moment before Daze and I headed toward the stairwell.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I was pretty grateful Clementine hadn’t noticed that I had been trying to skate on the side of the rink she was photographing from, but after a week, she however, seemed to be the ONLY one who hadn’t noticed. By day 3 I was getting chirped so badly.

It had taken a yet to be determined favor owed to one Gabe Landeskog of all people, to get my pervy little fingers on Clementine’s phone number. As if the prospect of owing Gabe a favor wasn’t daunting enough, once I had her phone number I would theoretically need to use it which was terrifying in itself. So, I stared at my phone for 24 hours trying to figure out what to say. The text conversation lacked a certain… je ne sais quois. Actually, I knew exactly what it lacked: an agreement. From her. To go on a date. With me. I didn’t know why this was so important to me but I wanted to get to know her better.

I was back to glaring at my phone on the coffee table, wondering how to start another conversation. I wasn’t quite sure what my body was doing when it grabbed the phone off the table and tapped her name into my contacts and hit the green button. Shit, I was calling her. This was fine. I could be cool. I could be suave. Her voice sounded surprised when she answered.

“Uh, Hello?”

My mouth gaped open and closed like an oxygen starved fish.

“Hello?”

Ok, I could do this. Be smooth, “Hey,” I rushed out before she hung up. Great, that was super smooth.

She sounded slightly exasperated, “What do you want, Barbs?”

I wasn’t usually this awful at thinking on my feet or flirting with women, but she had this effect on me I couldn’t describe and my voice sounded foreign to my ears when I heard it ask, “How would you like to go on a date with a hockey player?” I winced internally because that was definitely NOT the way to get Clementine Jones to go on a date with me.

She snorted, “Cale is a little young for me, but I suppose I could make an exception.”

I put my hand over my heart even though she couldn’t see, “Wounded. I’m wounded, Lemon.”

“Seriously, Mark, why are you calling me?” I was pretty sure I could hear her eyes rolling through the phone before she continued, “I thought someone was dying. Text me your idiotic questions like a normal person.”

“So, asking you on a date is idiotic?” I felt my lips curve into a smile, in spite of myself. I loved our verbal sparring.

“It’s absurd,” she said impassively.

I could imagine her brows arching before that little wrinkle appeared between them, “Why?”

“Because, you can’t even call me by the correct name.”

Silly girl, “I think we both know that’s not true, Clementine.” I relaxed into the corner of the couch, bare feet propped up on the coffee table. I love our banter. It was the best type of flirtation.

She was quiet for a few breaths before she threw a bastardized movie quote at me, “What do you want to date me for, anyhow?”

Now, I’d never admit it to anyone ever, other than under threat of perjury or death, but Sweet Home Alabama was one of my favorite movies and that fact may have dictated my answer as I replied, “So I can kiss you anytime I want.”

I heard her quick inhale of breath before she paused again; I was hoping that by quoting the feel-good, thoroughly underappreciated Reese Witherspoon classic would come across as romantic and charming and she would be knocked off her feet and her pause was due to trying to figure out how to contain her enthusiasm before responding. I was wrong.

“As a French Canadian,” she began, “you should never ever try a Southern accent ever again.”

I was pretty sure the smile was going to be etched into my cheeks forever, “Duly noted.”

“But that is a great movie. Hey, listen I have to go take Daze out. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, ok?” It was a deliberate severing of the little moment we had.

The smile fell a bit, as I found our conversation ending far sooner than I would have liked. “Yeah sure. See you tomorrow.”

I spent a long time staring at the phone in my hand after she hung up. I’d never ever met a woman that was completely immune to my charms and my attempts at flirting, even if they were lame. Maybe it was a good thing she’d hung up on me, as the more I said, the worse I seemed to make the situation. But yet, I couldn’t bring myself to feel too embarrassed about it, or at all dissuaded from continuing to think about her.

My phone vibrated and in that millisecond before the screen lit up with who was texting, I hoped it was Clementine.

Landy: Yo, bbq this weekend. No dates allowed.

Dudes night, sweet.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Nora: Wait. He asked you out AGAIN? How many times is that now?

Two?

Nora: Okay. I know you think it’s a joke, but like, what if he’s serious?

Ok but like. He’s a man child who plays a game for a living and bros out like a total bachelor. If he is serious, what part of that do I want?

Nora: You have valid points. However, I would like to counter with 1) He’s hot. Like Gabe is ‘baby Swedish’ hot but Mark is like ‘Italian Stallion Man Who Would Worship Your Body’ hot. 2) he’s dumb as a post and wouldn’t even begin to know how to emotionally manipulate and abuse you so…there.

I mean...how serious could he possibly be?

Nora: About dating you? Probably 100 out of 10 serious.

No, I mean, like...to date.

Nora: K so, I’m going to preface this by saying ‘I love you,’ BUT you married the only dude you’ve ever diddled AND said dude emotionally abused you for YEARS and then you were a shell of a person after that. SO….. maybe he doesn’t need to be husband material. Maybe he’s just rebound dude material.

Does a rebound have a statute of limitations?

Nora: Irrelevant. And not to play therpist, but why is sex illegal in your head? A statute of limitations is like… for felonies and it’s interesting you chose that phrase.

Well, you are A therapist. You tell me.

Nora: Yes, but not YOUR therapist. Although, I do play one on TV. I’m hoping to get syndicated soon, just you watch. But seriously.

Nora: OH AND are you going to go to Gabe’s party? I should go also, you know, in a professional capacity.

But you’re not my therapist.

Nora: But I want to go to where the hockeys are.

You are married.

Nora: But I’m not dead, and I find their brains fascinating. And also maybe their bodies, too. Consider it a good deed for the future. Of science and stuff.

I had no idea you were so fond of elevator music.

Nora: It’s my jam. :dancer emoji:

I slid my phone onto the nightstand and leaned back into my pillows. Half of my brain started mentally cataloging my entire wardrobe, and the other half thought about Mark: why he called me and texted, if I liked him or hated him, his intentions behind asking me out, and strangely, whether he was currently waxed or not. And if he was, how far down said waxing went. It occurred to me that I couldn’t remember seeing his chest hair curling out from under the collar of his polo the other day.

Finally, I had to admit to myself that I maybe was a little attracted to Mark. As a rule, professional athletes were not my preference. I tended to like pasty nerds or equally pasty hipsters. Safe men. Even if I happened to be attracted to a hockey player, it was someone cute and endearing and soft and a lot less… testosteroney and macho and overwhelmingly male.

If I were honest with myself, I’d admit that I had imagined him naked, more than once, but these thoughts were brief fantasies that often ended in me choking him after he said something incredibly stupid. He had a hefty dose of that Italian man machismo that I normally hated, but if I was even MORE honest with myself, I kind of liked it on Barbs. Which, yes, since we’re being honest, I had taken to calling him, in my head. Goddamnit. I realized it was getting late and in that moment, when maybe I was feeling a little soft for the man, I snapped a picture of Daze --who was laying horizontal across my bed using my calf as a pillow --and sent it off to Mark. My moment of positivity, however, was fleeting and I instantly regretted sending the picture.

Then, that internal negative voice, which I couldn’t seem to drown out and had been reinforced out loud for years, started. And I was too tired to do the mental gymnastics to shut her up. I don’t even know why you bother. You’re so fucked up no one could love you anyway. And you’re all fat now, thanks to your fucked up eating and the meds you pop like skittles to make you ‘normal’. You couldn’t even get some normal nerd to love you so why would a professional athlete with abs like a washboard give you the fucking time of day?? Pathetic.

With a sigh, I climbed off the bed to do what I normally do to turn the voice off. My routine went as follows: pop a sleeping pill, get into a scaldingly hot shower (like I could burn the voice out of me, no matter how many previous such attempted exorcisms she had survived), scrub my skin until it was red and raw (like I could rub off all of my imperfections and wash them down the drain with sudsy hot water), put screaming death metal (so loud I couldn’t hear her in my head even if I wanted to) on my shower speaker, and then, when I was finally about to pass out, get out of the shower and fall unconscious onto my bed, still wrapped in a towel. Daze was so used to this behavior she didn’t even bother getting off the bed.

I woke up sometime in the middle of the night, freezing. With a sigh, I shed the towels from my body and hair and climbed under the covers.

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 4

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic not just particular chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 3954

Word Count Total: 14,198

Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can’t seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn’t have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. Today we are beginning with Clementine.

Part Four

The next morning I was in a fog that not even a venti latte with two extra shots could clear. I hated the feeling, but I hated the voice more and she was vicious. Man, you are sad. Can’t even put up with some valid self-criticism without medicating yourself into a coma and entirely screwing up your ability to function the next day. How are you supposed to keep this job? You’re pathetic. Just realize that you don’t even deserve to run the drive-thu window at McDonald’s.

I sighed and tried to tune her out; absently, I set my stuff on the chair behind me and started fiddling with my camera. Suddenly, she shut up and there was a presence looming over me. Barbs was on the other side of the glass, so close, his nose was almost touching it.

My eyes rolled of their own volition, but I felt the corner of my mouth quirk even though I was in no mood to verbally spar with a hockey player. I kept it simple and civil, “Hey, Mark.”

His grin was hopeful, “Hey, Orange. What’s up?”

“I’m tired, I didn’t sleep well. What do you want?” It was the opposite of the truth, I had slept like the dead and was feeling the effects of it still.”

“Want to grab coffee with me later,” he asked hopefully, but his smile fell slightly.

I sighed again, “I don’t want to go out with you, Mark.”

He nodded, “Okay, I hear you on that. What about a coworker taking another coworker out for coffee?”

At that moment, the offer was tempting; as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed more coffee and my Starbucks budget was severely waning for the week. “Fine. Just coffee, as coworkers.”

The grin that split his beard was almost infectious and I felt a little bit lighter as he skated off with a jaunty wave. Even more surprising, the voice in my head stayed quiet the rest of the morning.

As training camp began for the day, the environment at the rink was hypnotic and at one point I just closed my eyes and listened. The creak of the blades on the ice, the slap of a stick against the pick, the ringing that echoed through the large building as the puck hit the post or crossbar, coaches shouting, the quiet hum of players' voices as they spoke to one another. If I focused hard enough, I could put together a rhythm that sounded like the beginning of a musical number or a scene from STOMP.

When I realized the sounds were no longer happening around me, I opened my eyes. A glance at my watch told me I had basically been zoned out and meditating to the sounds of hockey long after camp had finished. I was packing up my bag when Mark came down the stairs. His hair was still dripping from the shower and his shirt was one button off making it hang crookedly.

“Hey, so coffee?” He asked breezily.

I couldn’t help but smile a little, “You didn’t have to rush Barbs, I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me with a curious expression on his face as he questioned, “Rush? Who rushed? Not me. I didn’t rush.”

I gestured toward his shirt, “You’re crooked, dude.”

He looked down, confused, and tried to smooth the front of his shirt; I don’t know why, but it was an endearing gesture. Why I stepped forward to willingly touch him and started unbuttoning his shirt, down to the button he missed, was also a mystery -- I blame it on the meditation. I was so zen it was out of my control. My head was completely empty for once and I was acting on impulse. After unfastening the buttons that were misplaced and buttoning his shirt again coffectly, I smoothed my hand down the seam, his chest was firm beneath my palm and when I looked up he was so close I could see his eyes had ring of molten lava around the iris.

As a reflex, I cleared my throat, “Uh…” I said awkwardly, “so… coffee?”

Mark nodded his head, leaned over and grabbed my bag, smiling as he informed me, “I hope you understand that after feeling me up, this is officially a date now.”

I crinkled my nose at him and fought a smile as I remarked, “So you show up to a date disheveled with dripping wet hair? Good to know that’s your standard.”

“The second date.. Yeah,” he said through his own grin.

The eyeroll was mostly involuntary on my part as I snorted incredulously, “You actually get second dates?”

His grin turned totally douchey and I hated that I was a little bit attracted to it. He stopped to look at me and cocked his head, looking too damn smug for his own good as he said quietly, “Oh no sweetheart, the second date of the night. Not a second date with the same person.

This time my eyes rolled so hard I could see my own brain. Nonchalantly, I shortened my dog’s leash and told her, “Come on, Daze, the world’s biggest lying wannabe douchebro frat boi is buying me a coffee.”

“Harsh,” Mark complained, “But still a date.”

The border collie offered a sigh as we trudged up the stairs from the lower bowl and out into the corridor, “Nope,” I repeated, “Not a date.”

He shrugged his very nicely sculpted shoulders, “I mean, unless you halfway undress lots of men, this is a date.”

I didn’t have a response to that so I just stayed silent.

As we headed toward the street, Mark slipped my hand into his and wove our fingers together. I stopped dead in my tracks, surprising both Daze and Mark. I looked at our clasped hands and then at him directly before I attempted to untangle our fingers, trying to drop his hand, and said, “No way.”

He didn’t let go and kept holding my open hand and strolling up the sidewalk, decidedly ignoring my objection as he changed the subject and asked me, “So, how did I look today?”

It was clear he was going to hold my hand whether I liked it or not so I just gave up and let it fall to my side, “Why would I know that? Shouldn’t you ask the coaches?”

He offered a shrug, “I did and I got their opinions. Now, I want yours.” His little strut was ¼ my normal walking speed; so I adjusted my stride and started dragging him along at my normal pace. “Lemon, walking faster isn’t going to make this date go by quicker.”

I offered a dry laugh, “This is my normal walk. There’s a reason I have a border collie as a service dog and not a labrador.”

“Is the reason that you’re a high strung crazy pants?”

I stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, ready to say about 20 different things including that I wasn’t high strung, that I wasn’t crazy, and that using crazy as a derogatory statement wasn’t cool in the 21st century. But then, I realized that I was, in fact, a high strung crazy pants. I had a half a dozen different diagnoses, I had a voice in my head that was constantly tearing me down, I had anxiety as such a level it could be considered a personality trait; I was on like 10 different medications and only 3 of them weren’t for my brain disorders. It wasn’t PC, but it was an accurate description. I let out the breath I had been holding and one of Mark’s dark eyebrows arched as he said quietly, “Honestly, I thought that was going to earn a good verbal sparring.”

I shrugged, “I mean you’re not wrong. I literally have a dog because I’m such a high strung crazypants and I couldn’t even get a *normal* dog, I had to get one that could match my high strung crazy pants energy, so I guess… you’re not wrong.”

He started walking again, pulling me along by his clasped hand, smiling softly at me as he said, “And yet, you still manage to function better than so many people. It’s kind of inspirational.”

I tugged at my hand and he released it this time, “I’m not here to be motivational for you, Barberio. Every day is a battle for me from the minute I wake up until the minute I go to bed.”

He nodded at me, understanding clearly written across his features, and he looked like he was choosing his words carefully, “I’m just saying, you may have problems, but you do more than the average person so you should give yourself a break. Congratulate yourself on the hard work you do. Let go of the battle for just a few minutes and enjoy life. Stop trying to work on yourself every minute of every day and just be.”

Honestly, I was shocked that such a deep thought could have come from what I assumed was a shallow puddle of a brain. Huh. Here I was lauding my own intellect, despite it causing me such misery, when Mr. One Point Five Total Brain Cells seemed to be enjoying his afternoon. His philosophy was pseudo positivity bullshit, but yet, he wasn’t wrong. Again. I was waaay harder on myself than everyone else. I felt my failings intimately and forever, while my successes were infinitesimal, like chasing a fleeting high. But maybe in chasing the big successes, I was missing a lot of small ones. Like today, when I just let go and listened to the sounds of the game I loved.

I was so lost in my thoughts for a moment that I didn’t notice Mark taking my hand again, and so caught up in my own head I didn’t realize my fingers were loosely wrapping themselves around his in return.

This idea that I needed to be more present and enjoy life was going to haunt me for days and it really wrinkled my panties that it was a dumb jock that put the idea in my head and gave me a lightbulb moment and not the psychologist or psychiatrist I paid thousands of dollars to every year.

We wandered all the way to the coffee shop on the corner, which was quiet and mostly populated by people I had seen around the Pepsi Center. Mark maneuvered me in front of the register and I stared blankly at it for a few moments, still mulling over the comments he had made. He let go of my hand and I felt his palm against the small of my back; when he spoke he was close and his voice was low and patient as he murmured, “Clementine, come back to Earth and order what you want.”

Daze nosed me and I blinked a couple of times, “Venti latte, please,” I blurted out. It felt robotic and overly cheery, but the barista didn’t even pause. I was sure he saw all kinds of wild things, and my robot/AI malfunction wasn’t even in his top 100. It was just my latest in a series of embarrassing interactions that would keep me awake for the next decade.

Mark ordered a cappuccino over my shoulder and with his hand still on the small of my back, guided me to a table, after he slipped his credit card back into a money holder and returned it to his pocket.

Once we got our drinks and sat down, Daze took her spot underneath my chair. Mark looked down at her when her tags clanked against the metal table leg and he smiled softly as he commented, “you know, it’s amazing-- half the time, I forget she’s here.”

I nodded, “I mean that’s part of her job. She’s a dog, and a cute one at that, so she’s going to get attention no matter where she goes, but she’s supposed to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

He shifted in his chair and I thought he was going to lean back, but he leaned forward instead; with his forearms on the table and his brown eyes focused on mine, instantly, he prompted; “So how do you like the new job?”

I shook my head, “It’s not really a new job, it’s temporary at best for now. It’s a trial run for a position they’re thinking of creating.”

Again, he prompted, “And what position is that?”

I felt the corner of my lips tick upward, he was trying really hard to get a natural conversation going and I was giving him nothing, “Digital Content Media.”

He offered a sigh, “let’s just assume I have an IQ of 80, which, honestly, probably isn’t that far off, so could you explain that, please?”

I smiled for real, sometimes, he was ridiculously humble, even thought he put on a show of being a sex-obsessed moron, I was positive his IQ was a lot higher than 80. It was at least 100. “Basically,” I started, “I’d be like middle management between the creative director and the actual content creators. My job would be to take the content, photos, videos, etc. and create a storyline for behind-the-scenes videos, promotions, etc.”

He thought for a moment before responding; when he did, his question was not one I expected. “But I see you with a camera in your hands most of the time.”

It was actually a very thoughtful observation. I smiled again, “Well sometimes, if I’m going for a certain aesthetic, it’s easier to create examples of the content I’m looking for. Also, I like that aspect of it, I just can’t do it all.”

It was weird having a man ask so many questions and actually seem interested in the answers. If it had been anyone but Mark, I would have been suspicious as he continued, “That makes total sense. How did you arrive at this being your calling, for a sports team no less?”

I fingered the napkin under my coffee cup, “I like sports, I guess. My dad is the coach for the basketball team at DU and I think growing up it was the only way to connect with him. I ended up liking hockey more than basketball though. I actually even convinced him to let me play for about a year in middle school, but I was horrible.”

He looked surprised but not entirely thrown off as he continued, “Ah middle school, what was that like, fifteen years ago? So you’re like what? 26?”

A bark of very unladylike laughter escaped before I could stop it and I put my hand over my mouth, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” I squawked, “I’m just surprised, you caught me off guard -- I actually turned 30 earlier this year. I’m just a late bloomer, I guess.”

His dark eyebrows raised, “Well damn, girl. You look good.”

I rolled my eyes, refusing to accept the compliment. It was like 1 step forward and 2 steps back with this neanderthal.

Mark’s eyes flashed as if he knew what I was thinking as he pressed on, looking just a tad guilty as he confessed, “I have to say, I really dig the hair.”

I fingered the dark blue ends and absently nodded, “Thanks.” His confession made me brave enough to share one of my own, “My ex-husband made me dye my hair blonde and basically, I had to be this perfect little Stepford housewife that did all of these different things that he liked. This was my rebellion afterwards. Honestly, I’ve had my hair every single color under the sun at this point, and I like this one best.”

At that, his gaze became troubled, but we were distracted as Daze sat up and put her paw on my leg: a medication indicator. I dug around in my puse for my Caboodle of pills.

Despite this not being the first time he’d witnessed Daisy in service mode, Mark shook his head in amazement as he commented, “It’s so cool how she does that.”

I popped the capsule in my mouth and washed it down with the water bottle I kept in my bag for precisely this reason. “Yep. She has a lot of time and effort put into her training.”

When she took her post under my chair again, the conversation turned to the upcoming season, then dream vacation destinations, followed by the best places to eat in town. Conversation flowed easily with Mark and it wasn’t until the sun was shining bright through the western facing windows, the baristas started closing up shop, and our cups were long empty before we realized how much time we had spent talking.

My phone beeped, and Daze whined, “Holy crap,” I said, noticing the time, “I have to get going.”

He stood and shrugged like he didn’t have any place better to be, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

His hand found its way to the small of my back again and that seemed to rouse the voice inside my head again, as before I knew it she was yelling at me, ew why is he touching you. Does he know how gross you are? Part of me though, liked his hand there and I decided I was going to let that part of me win today and tell her to fuck off for now. I tried to ground myself in the moment, noting little things like how warm the sun felt on my skin through the windows, and how shiny Mark’s hair was now that it had dried, as well as the soft sounds of traffic rushing by outside the shop. It was enough to distract me from her unwanted commentary for a bit. Once we were outside, he didn’t move his hand. I stopped short and said, awkwardly, “Well, I’m just going to go to my car.”

He looked confused and emphasized his words like he was making sure he wasn’t the crazy one, as he informed me, “Yes. I know.”

I motioned toward the employee parking lot on the other side of the block, saying, “So I’m gonna go.”

Finally, he seemed to understand, but when he spoke his words were soft, “Lemon, I’m going to walk you to your car.”

His hand rubbed a small circle on my back, and I hoped he didn’t see the confusion plain on my face as I insisted, “But why? I’m capable. Hell, I have a dog.”

He blinked like he wasn’t quite sure of himself and simply said, “Because it’s polite.”

I must have bristled a bit at the idea that I couldn’t take care of myself or even do something as simple as walk to the car, because I felt myself deflate a bit. Even though he was being polite, the voice decided to jump on that angle. See? He’s just being polite. He would never like you. It somehow sucked the joy out of the moment for me. God, I wish she would just go away.

Mark’s hand slid across the small of my back and he cupped my hip, dragging me against his body. My arm had the option of being crushed or relocating; I opted to grab the strap of my bag hanging on the opposite side, which squished my boobs together awkwardly and I really hoped I didn’t look as self-conscious as I felt.

If he risked a glance at said squished together boobs, he was sly enough that I didn’t notice. We passed the last line of cars in the parking lot, and I was pulled to a stop by the hand on my hip, “Lemon, where’s your car?”

I looked at my car, the only remaining car in front of us and we were walking straight to it, “Uh, the only one left and we’re walking right to it?”

His hand tightened on my hip, “You mean to tell me that you drive a pink convertible Corvair?”

I shrugged, my shoulder moving against his chest, “Technically, the color is called ‘Evening Orchid’ it’s a popular color for cars of this generation, but yeah I drive a 1967 Corvair.”

He clutched his pec with his free hand like he was having chest pain, “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

Other than quoting one of the best sports movies ever made, I didn’t know what was happening, “I don’t understand.”

His hand left my hip and his arm hooked around my neck and pulled my temple in for a kiss, “You wouldn’t and it’s one of the reasons why I like you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about and most of my attention was analyzing why I didn’t freak out about Mark being physically affectionate with me. My ex-husband had manhandled me all the time, but it was with malice and zero tenderness. Being touched by Mark felt more like a suggestion or an invitation and less like a painful reminder of dominance and ownership. His touch was always soft, like a caress. It never felt like an unyielding cage.

I stuck my key in the door and turned it, the mechanism clunking as it unlocked. Daze hopped in before me, taking her spot in the passenger seat and I tossed my bag into the back. When I turned around to shut the door behind me, Mark was close. I caught a whiff of his cologne; it had an undertone to it that had to be his natural scent, and it was intoxicating. I wanted to bottle that scent and spray it on a body pillow to cuddle with at night.

His hand slid under the curtain of my hair, his fingers on the nape of my neck while his thumb tilted my chin up. My jaw clenched as I tried not to flinch. His eyes met mine as he smiled at me softly and murmured, “Thanks for coffee.”

I swallowed before answering, “Well, you paid, so I should be thanking you.”

His smile evolved into a grin that looked like it might break his face, though when he spoke, his voice was still low and soft as he admitted, “You know what, you’re right, as usual.”

I resisted the urge to rub my face into his hand like a cat, “Get used to it, Barberio, I’m right a lot.”

He took a deep breath and bit his bottom lip, “Go home, Lemon.”

He leaned forward, fingers pressing into my neck as I reflexively leaned back. He stopped, sensing my hesitation, and I relaxed. After a moment, he leaned forward again, and this time, I didn’t retreat as he kissed my cheek, the corner of his lips catching mine.

We paused there, lips barely touching. I was the first to get overwhelmed and I stepped back half a step. When I spoke my voice was barely there, “Thanks for coffee.”

He held the door while I got in the car and closed it as I leaned over to buckle Daze into the passenger seat. After I buckled my own seatbelt he rapped on the window with his knuckles, “Lock the door, Lemon.”

I rolled my eyes and hit the lock down anyway, “Thanks, Dad.”

His grin was contagious and I felt myself smiling back at him, “See you tomorrow. See if I can’t convince you for a second date.”

I rolled my eyes again but this time it was for dramatic effect and I turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, the exhaust whum whum whum whumming with a throaty growl.

Grabbing a hold of the gear changer on the dash, I slid the car into drive and pulled away.

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 12

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters.

Word Count Chapter: 6570

Word Count Total: 53,604

Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine. THERE BE SMUT (kinda).

Part Twelve*

I was sucking down a latte at a speed that was going to give me a stomach ache while Daze peed on every single patch of dirt we came across. Barbs had a small Americano he was nursing with a look of amusement on his face, and the fingers of his free hand were twisted into my belt loop, keeping me tucked into his side as we meandered in the sunshine.

We wandered along the river contentedly until the temps seemed to rocket into the 80s. The elevation in Denver always made it feel at least 10 degrees hotter than it was, and by the time we made it back to Mark's apartment, I was pretty sure the smell invading my nostrils wasn’t coming from Barbs or Daze.

The bottom layer of my hair was soaked with sweat and I was sure there was a pool in my underwear, which may-- or may not have been heat-related. As further proof life is entirely unfair, Mark was barely glistening and looked handsome as ever, but, to his credit, he was a professional athlete and that walk probably didn’t even register on his exercise-o-meter.

As we made our way through the front door and back to the blissful existence that is climate control, I asked him, “Is there a place where I could shower, maybe?”

He was unclipping Daze’s leash and hung it on a hook by the door, “Yeah,” he confirmed, “there’s a guest room with an ensuite through the door at the end of the kitchen.”

I looked at my bag, torn. What started as a casual conversation about a shower (if there was such a thing), seemed to have evolved into a bigger discussion, which, it occured to me, had been entirely avoided by my ability to fall asleep on the couch. “Do you want me to stay there?” I ventured.

He arched a brow; I could sense that he and I were on the same page and again, I was both irritated and impressed by his perceptiveness. But he remained unfazed as he told me coolly, “The master is down the hall, and you’re welcome to as well.”

I looked down at the weekender bag, which was still sitting by the door, and shifted my weight on my feet in an effort to buy myself some time. Maybe the silence would drive him crazy and he’d cave first and just tell me what to do. Instead, Mark trailed his hand across my back and pulled me into him, kissing the top of my head, before he headed to the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of water. “I’m not making the decision for you, Lemon,” he informed me, “you’ve had enough of that.”

“But…”

He smirked, though his lips were wrapped around the mouth of the water bottle. With his head tilted back, he downed all 16oz in a single drink; watching his throat move as he swallowed almost gave me heatstroke. At least, that’s what I’m saying it was, if anyone were to ask. The self-loathing I felt creeping through me was, I realized, entirely unrelated to all of my usual neuroses but instead, likely triggered by the level of “thirsty fangirl” I was feeling about the handsome man standing in front of me. It was then that clairity dawned on me: I didn’t know what was going to happen if I put my bag in his bedroom, but I knew what wouldn’t happen if I went to the guest room. Thus, I snatched the bag from the floor and disappeared down the hall toward the master, making a sincere attempt to look cool, unhurried and 0% desperate, though I probably failed on all three accounts.

His bedroom, like the rest of his house, was masculine yet warm and comfortable. A huge bed with a heavy looking dark wood frame fit the large space well, and I didn’t know what size it was, but it seemed larger than a King. I’m sure there was some super special athlete sized bed only professional athletes could buy. The sheets were dark gray and crisp, and his bed was made. He didn’t seem like the type to make his bed in the morning so I assumed the cleaning service had changed the sheets and made the bed.

The bathroom was also huge; the shower and tub were enclosed in the same glass room and it honestly just looked like a bitch to clean, although I suppose one could just spray the entire thing with windex and use a squeegee. And yes, this was the first thing I thought about upon entering it, despite all of the lust and hormones swirling around in my brain. You can take the housewife out of the house, but short of a lobotomy, I was still wired to think about cleaning and cooking, it seemed. With gratitude, I gleefully realized that cleaning the bathroom was entirely not my problem and I set my bag on the bed. Daze hopped up, circling three times before curling into a ball, right in the middle of the huge monstrosity, her keen eyes studying me carefully.

True to form, Nora had packed my half my bathroom and exactly one change of clothes, I loved her optimism that I wouldn’t *need* clothes, but I did like having the option of wearing them, which was the main reason I had run home the day before and now the bag was straining at the seams.

In the bathroom, there was a set of lush towels hanging on the towel bars and an entire additional set folded and set on the counter. The ones on the bars near the shower room were obviously the ones Barbs used, and therefore, I presumed the ones on the counter were for me. Suddenly furious, I narrowed my eyes; that assuming, idiotic moron man. He obviously assumed I’d be sleeping in his bed and using his shower. Despite my rage, a little voice in the back of my head, which sounded most concerningly like Nora, immediately wondered if there was an identical pile of towels in the guestroom.

Answering that question at once preempted all other activities, sweaty hair be damned. So, I marched down the hall and into the kitchen, prepared to give Mark the what-for, and much to my surprise, I was hit with the smell of onions and garlic sauteeing in olive oil. Mark was in the kitchen, tea towel thrown over his shoulder, the spitting image of, like, all of the hottest fantasies I’d ever had of him. My eyes widened and, distracted by the vision in front of me, my stare was fixated on him instead of where I was going, meaning, I hit the back of the couch with quite a bit of momentum from my march of irritation. Unceremoniously, I flew over the back of it in the most ungraceful somersault that had ever been done by a human and smacked my head on the coffee table. The resulting “thwack,” which echoed loudly through the space, functioned as an entirely too perfect soundtrack accompaniment to reality’s literal smack in the face. I sat on the ground, waiting for the rest of the life’s laugh track to kick in. I was only 50 percent positive the tweeting cartoon birds were my imagination.

“Holy shit! Clementine!!” I heard Mark yelp.

Unlike the birds, I was sure I hallucinated Mark vaulting over the back of the love seat that sat perpendicular to the couch to get to me.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If getting to Tine just then depended on my sinking the winning puck in the Stanley Cup final, I know I could do it with one arm tied behind my back and my eyes closed. By the time I vaulted over the couch like Simone Biles, she was already sitting up, hand on her head as I knelt down.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m totally fine,” she shushed me, before I could even say anything. “The good news about being crazy is I can’t possibly get MORE fucked up due to trauma to the head, so it’s fine.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, sounding a little more exasperated than I intended, “Shut up and lay down on the couch.” As I picked her up under her armpits and deposited her there, I realized she didn’t really have a choice. I was considering plopping down on top of her to make her stay put, but that seemed a little excessive. Instead, I directed her firmly, “Stay there.”

Clumsiness and head trauma apparently didn’t fall under Daze’s duties, because it was a few minutes before she wandered in from the bedroom, mostly seeming curious as to what all the commotion was about. After retrieving a flexible ice pack from the freezer, I yanked the towel off of my shoulder over and wrapped the ice pack in it, making my way back to Clementine. I was half-surprised that she was actually laying down where I left her; leaning over the arm of the couch, I moved her hand from her head and put the ice pack on it. Curiosity got the better of me and I found myself asking, “What were you even doing out here? I thought you were taking a shower.”

She had hit her head over her right eye and sure enough, there was a big bump quickly forming there. She looked a little like a lopsided unicorn when she pulled the pack away, checking to see if there was any blood. She sighed, “It’s dumb.”

Once again, I was thankful for my taste in big furniture, because I stepped over the side table and settled onto the couch next to her, trapping her against the back, and held the ice pack to her head for her. “Try me.” I deadpanned.

She mumbled, words falling out of her mouth in one fell swoop. Were I not more well-versed in mumbling as a language (thank you to so many of my teammates for this unforeseen boon), I might not have followed her, but sure enough, when she uttered “Iwantedtoseeifthereweretowelsintheguestroom,” I knew exactly what she meant.

“I had towels set out for you, babe.”

She rolled the one eye I could see— well, I assume she rolled both, but I just saw the one not obscured by the ice pack, as she grumbled, “I KNOW. In your bathroom. I wanted to see if there were towels in the OTHER bathroom too.”

I cocked my head to the side, half-concerned I was following her inane “logic” and half-grateful I was able to as I clarified, “So you came out here all stomping mad because I laid towels out for you? And actually, let me note, that I personally didn't; I had the service do it yesterday. And you’re mad?”

“IN YOUR BATHROOM, BARBS,” she maintained shrilly.

“No,” I corrected her, “In both bathrooms. I wanted the place to be prepared for you to stay, in whichever way you felt comfortable.”

Her voice was small as she replied, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” I couldn’t fight the smile on my face if I wanted to, and frankly, I didn’t want to. “Now who’s the idiot?” I teased her.

She traced her fingers across the portion of my chest revealed by the several open buttons at the top of my shirt and innocently, played with the hair that peeked out. She always seemed to be touching the hair on my arms or, in this case, my chest and oddly, I liked it. “I mean,” she feigned consideration, “Probably still you. As a rule.”

I lifted the ice and gently kissed her new horn as I agreed, “Probably, but also you a little bit.” She smiled at me and it was so sincere and beautiful that I almost got lost in it.

We sat quietly for a few moments and she intertwined the fingers of her free hand in mine. Replaying the events of the minutes prior in my head, I realized I was missing a piece and as evenly and straight-faced as I could manage I asked her, “But how did you go from mad to tripping over the couch? It’s huge and kind of hard to miss.”

She squirmed away from me slightly, which was a feat, since there really was nowhere for her to go. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she said breezily and I grinned, there was definitely something.

“Lemon,” I insisted, my smile practically reaching my ears.

“Barbs.” her tone was the one she frequently used when she was tired of my antics.

“Clementine.” I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

“Mark,” she declared, almost petulantly.

I stuck out my bottom lip and gave her the sad eyes. It always seemed to work for Mikko. “Please?” I asked, with as much earnestness as I could muster.

A faint smile appeared on her face as she acquiesced, albeit resignedly as she griped, “Okayyyyyyyyyyy.” She looked me dead in the eyes, quirking an eyebrow at me as she added the disclaimer, “But you can’t make fun of me.”

“Ok.” I nodded, “I promise.”

She sighed again, pausing before she spoke, “I just… you’ve been bringing me food “from your mom” and I know she’s not sending a bunch of meals to you from Montreal, so I just figured you’ve actually been cooking them yourself this whole time and I have this fantasy of you with a towel tossed over your shoulder cooking dinner for me and I was, for once in my life, NOT the one cooking dinner and instead, I was drinking wine watching you cook and…..and that’s like, exactly what you were doing except it was breakfast not dinner and it’s all very hot.”

If I were a better man, I would’ve wiped the smirk off of my face. But I’m not. So I didn’t. “Do I fuck you on the counter?” I suggested. “Is that where it gets hot?��

“No,” she answered, “The whole fantasy is just you cooking.”

“That’s it? That’s what made you trip over the entire fucking couch?” This information was not what I was expecting and as much as I wanted to tease the shit out of her about it, it was so sweet and pure and genuine, I couldn’t find it in myself to do it. Plus, I’d promised.

She squirmed away from me again, frowning as she reminded me, “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

I pulled the ice off of her head and set it on the coffee table. Gently, I took her chin between my fingers, turning her head toward mine so I could give her a soft kiss. “Baby…” I whispered, “I’m about to blow your mind.”

I kissed her again, sloppy and fast and stood up, scooping her up too.

“Ohmigod, BARBS!!” She shrieked, “Put me down!! I am NOT telling Bednar I’m the reason you can’t start the season.”

I ignored her and instead, deposited her on a bar stool, skirting the island and making way to the fridge to grab a bottle of prosecco and a carton of orange juice. “I know you said wine,” I remarked, “but it’s not even noon yet. SO, if you take sparkling wine and mix it with orange juice and call it a Mimosa, you’re allowed to drink before noon. I learned that from Landy.”

The look on her face said she was not at all surprised that Landy drank mimosas and was the party who had clued me in to this novel fact.

I set the champagne flute in front of her, filled with the boozy mixture of sparkling wine and Vitamin C. She fingered the stem absently, looking like she was approaching, though not necessarily imminently, a panic attack.

I lit the burner and put the pan back on it, grabbing another towel and throwing it over my shoulder before I added more olive oil to the onions and garlic.

Tine took a sip from the flute and after a moment, followed it up with a much larger sip. “Lemon,” I looked at her plainly, “Just down it if you want, zero judgment from me. I will pour you another.”

She eyed me over the top of the glass before taking another sip. I took my glass and raised it toward her, then downed the whole thing in a single gulp. It was about four seconds before my face contorted into a grimace and I choked out, “Oh bubbles, that was a bad choice.” I screwed my eyes shut as the carbonation tickled my sinuses. Maybe she was onto something, sipping on her mimosa. I was gonna have to serve myself a side of humble pie along with this omelet.

My eyes watered a bit which, I’m sure, did nothing to bolster my reputation in that moment. I raised my eyebrows to stretch out my face and hopefully, make the sensation go away as well as perhaps be so adorable that she wouldn’t totally roast my ass for my terrible and frattish suggestion.

I pushed the onions and garlic around the pan to make sure they caramelized evenly and turned to pull some veggies out of the fridge. When I set them on the island, I caught Clementine’s gaze and she was looking at me like a timbits player looks at the Stanley Cup: with awe, adoration, and a lot of hope.

“What’s on your mind, Clementine?” I prodded.

She took another lazy sip of the mimosa and rolled the drink around in her mouth before swallowing. “This is a good Prosecco,” she complimented, “Did you choose it?”

I was quartering a zucchini before slicing it as I responded, “I think we both know Gabe brought that over once and it’s been in my fridge ever since. And that can’t be why you’re looking at me like a cop looks at a donut.” The words were barely out of my mouth before I realized what I said. Hurriedly, I tried to backpedal, “Fuck, shit. I’m sorry, Lemon. I didn’t mean…”

Her face didn’t change much, but nonetheless, her expression solidified just a bit and her expression became more wooden. She traced one of the veins in the quartz countertop as she said slowly, “You can make jokes, Barbs. It’s ok. Cops do love donuts.”

I sighed and put down the knife, bracing my hands on the counter and berating myself inwardly as I grumbled, “And now I’ve ruined the moment.”

She drained her glass and set it down on the bar, filling it with Prosecco and adding just a dash of orange juice before taking another swig. I arched a brow at her, intrigued.

She jutted her chin in the direction of the clock on the microwave behind me, and said, almost daringly, “What? It’s 12:01. Don’t judge me.”

I resumed chopping, and we sat quietly for a bit while she watched me, the only sound in the kitchen coming from the vegetables sizzling away in the skillet. Finally, I had to fill the silence and I asked, “So, why the cooking fantasy?”

She took another sip of her mimosa, if you could even call it that now, and shrugged, responding with an offhanded “I don’t know.”

I scoffed, not even half surprised with her answer and refusing to settle for it. “That’s such a crock of horseshit.”

She looked around, almost like she was looking for something to throw at me and took another sip of her drink instead. “Excuse your language,” she admonished me.

I scoffed again and suddenly, I realized how much time we spent rolling our eyes around each other and trying to figure out if that was a bad thing or a good thing. “Oh, please” I huffed, “You can ‘shit, fuck, damn’ with the best of us, honey. Don’t think I don’t hear you when you miss a good shot of me.”

“It’s because I have to work harder to make you look good,” she threw back easily.

A bark of laughter escaped my mouth and it sounded a little bit deranged but hopefully still manly. “I own a mirror,” I informed her, rejecting her chirp, “So that ain’t flying.” I gave it a minute, sensing that this could be a bit of a loaded issue and wanting to allow her a little bit of time and space. Maybe she wasn’t ready to talk about it, and I didn’t want to push her so hard that she was uncomfortable. I turned to look at her and my eyes met hers.

Softly, I asked again, “Seriously, Clementine.”

She sighed and took a deep breath before she explained, “I don’t think I’m comfortable going into the details, but Bill really wanted to be born in the 30’s so he could have a 1950s housewife instead of me. So, dinner was always at a certain time and I always made it, regardless of anything— even if I was sick, I made dinner. He insisted on approving any activities I might want to do at night, and if I wanted to join a book club that started before his dinner time, it was a no go. So, I …..I don’t cook anymore.”

I had a feeling my penalty minutes were going to skyrocket this year as I listened, letting everything she told me flow into a box labeled “Discuss with therapist later.”

She seemed to be waiting for a reaction from me and I started breaking some eggs into a bowl as I replied, “That sounds like it would suck any joy of cooking. So, it’s a good thing I love how you pause when you eat the first forkful of something you didn’t have to make and savor it, because, that moment right there? Because of that moment, I’ll cook for you anytime.”

The little wrinkle appeared between her brows and the sight of it made me smile. She eyed me over the top of her glass again and smiled at me in return as she chuckled, “That was a surprisingly insightful answer, and it is appreciated on many levels, Mr. Barberio.”

I continued cracking eggs, congratulating myself inwardly. “Weren’t you going to take a shower?” I wondered outloud.

She lifted her arm and took a whiff of her armpit, which made me smile again because she made a disgusted face, which was actually quite adorable. “Ugh, yes,” she sighed.

“Can you do it in 15?” I countered, “Brunch is almost ready.”

“Just for that, I can do it in 15. I don’t need to wash my hair today anyway, just get the sweat out.”

I continued chopping vegetables for the omelets while she climbed off the barstool. “I’m going to make you work out with me soon.”

She blanched and I laughed, “What? it’s good for you and it makes sex better.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I was certain she could see through the back of her skull, and wandered down the hall without a word. Daze stopped and looked at me, the giver of treats and back down the hall the way Clementine went. “You should probably follow the walking accident waiting to happen, Dog.”

Daze let out a huff in what I assumed was agreement and followed her charge down the hall.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Daze wandered in and I closed the door to the master bedroom behind her, since the bathroom didn’t HAVE a door, per se; the toilet was in its own little closet, but the rest of the bathroom had an open doorway and a half wall of glass bricks to let the light shine in.

I looked at the tub— it was wide, long, and deep, and for a brief moment, fantasized about filling it with gallons of steaming hot water and hopping in and sinking up to my chin in bubbles, but I knew that was going to take longer than 15 minutes. However, Mark’s shower looked equally luxurious and, from even a cursory inspection, seemed to have enough showerheads to ensure that no portion of your body would go untouched.

Turning on the shower, I was proven correct; Water streamed out from what seemed like an uncountable array of showerheads (Spoiler alert, it was actually 3), including a giant rain one that hung down in the middle of the space. I had died and gone to heaven and heaven was Mark Barberio’s bathroom -- who knew. I had to pause for a moment and I leaned heavily on the counter while the water warmed. I was about to take a shower in God’s bathroom, while a man--scratch that, while a stupidly hot man-- made me brunch. It was a lot to absorb, and there was a definite tingle between my legs that, honestly, had been there since our makeout session on the balcony.

I just wanted to attach my face to his and put him inside me and that was how we were now. Freaky siamese twins attached at the mouth and genitals. In the sexiest and most not insane way possible. I didn’t think that was normal, but considering Bill was my ONLY relationship, I didn’t know what normal was. So maybe it was normal, because I had certainly NEVER felt that way about Bill.

I shrugged out of the clothes I had been wearing, which I realized had been marinating on my body for over 24 hours. The crotch of my panties was totally soaked, and even though I was alone, I made a face as I shoved all my dirty clothes into a small pile in the corner of the bathroom.

By this time, the glass shower enclosure had filled with steam and I swear, the minute I stepped in, I could feel my pores open up. All of the stress just leaked out of my body and into the swirling mist, and I realized that the only thing that could possibly improve this moment would be if the shower included some sort of eucalyptus oil diffuser to imbue the steam with all of its relaxing goodness. If Mark managed to figure that one out, he could probably charge admission fees for a visit to his shower.

The spray hitting me from 400 different angles felt amazing and I seriously wondered how Barbs didn’t fucking live in this shower and become some kind of landlocked merman.

I twirled my wet hair and plopped it on top of my head and, after doing so, realized too late I had left all my shower paraphernalia on the counter; however, I was so zen at that moment that I said fuck it, whatever, (three words I was pretty sure I’d never uttered in my life). Barbs had to have something in here, I figured, and I’d just use that. I saw something sitting on a small built-in ledge and I grabbed it: it was one of those homemade soaps with the loofah molded right in, which would suit me just fine. I was familiar with that type of item, as I had one just like it, and it was actually one of my favorite instruments of torture when I was trying to cleanse myself of the voices. I lathered it between my hands and realized that whatever this soap was, it was definitely one element of the fundamental smells that combined to make Barbs’ unique sexy manly smell - as I continued to lather, I detected hints of sandalwood and pine.

I ran the bar over my body and let the suds cover me before I flipped it to the other side, letting the water-softened loofah scrape against my skin in the way I would imagine rough but gentle hands would feel. I dipped the bar across my hips and then, between my legs and the rough edge of the loofah dipped between my lips, just catching my clit.

The sensation made me gasp. I had obviously tried to masturbate over the past years-post Bill, and considering the last time I was successful was pre Bill, my therapist and I speculated it was because of the trauma I suffered. But maybe, I didn’t need to ‘get over’ my trauma or learn to work with it, I just needed to be...turned on? What an entirely insane concept. That intense need I had felt that morning with Mark, I had never felt with Bill, even before the abuse started.

I made the same motion with the loofah again, and my hips twitched. I did it again and again and I could feel the euphoria building in my body. Eventually, I traded the loofah for my fingers and I swirled circles around my clit until I had to brace my free hand against the glass wall to keep my legs from going out from under me, hips twitching as the wave crested.

Mark’s name may have been on my lips and a pleasant roaring muted the rest of the world and I thought I heard my own name but I wasn’t sure.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The omelets were done, and I debated with myself about whether or not to set the table in the dining area, or if we should eat on the bar side of the island. I set the table, but it looked too formal and maybe too reminiscent of Tine’s old life, so I took the placemats and put them on the bar. In the end, it looked like a planned but informal meal and I was wondering what was taking Tine so long.

I knocked on the door to the bedroom, but didn’t get an answer. So, I knocked again, opening the door a little as I said her name.

“Lemon?” I spoke softly, words softly echoing through the mist rolling out of the bathroom.

Her hand against the glass was the only clear thing I could see, but it didn’t take a genius to see the shadow of her other hand between her legs, body bent as she came and I heard her say my name.

I closed the door quietly and leaned my head back against it. Holy fucking shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I was aching behind the zipper of my jeans, dick bent at an awkward angle and stuck my hand down there to straighten him out. I had no idea how I was going to function for the rest of the day without bending her over the back of the couch and fucking her until my balls were empty. I don’t think I had ever been so hard or turned on in my life, and as a professional athlete I felt like that was significant.

It took more than a few moments for me to compose myself but when I did, I knocked on the door again, this time being sure to stay on the outside of it. “Lemon?” I forced out, casually, “Food is ready.”

After a moment, she opened the door and smiled at me as she padded back into the bedroom. Her hair was still wet, held on top of her head with a clip, and she was in simple leggings and an oversized Avs shirt. Its neck was so stretched that it was hanging off of one shoulder and I could see the strap of her tank top or bra or whatever. Her cheeks were flushed, skin still dewey from the shower.

“That shower is amazing,” she sighed, “I might just live there.”

I didn’t know what to say since “I want to cum on your chest” was probably inappropriate. So I settled for nothing, raising my brows and nodding slowly in acknowledgment of the shower’s awesomeness which had been raised to another level since I was never ever ever going to be able to take a shower without thinking of that moment.

Her nose crinkled and I could tell she was on to me. Fuck. As she made her way through the bedroom, she looked at me over her shoulder and asked, “Lunch ready?”

I nodded, that seemed safe, and watched as she made her way down the hall, her gait a lot more relaxed than I had ever seen it. Daze followed behind her, avoiding my gaze.

I honestly had no idea what to do; she seemed unaware I had seen something so intimate and HOT and I didn’t know how to bring it up and explain WHY my horniness went from a normal 100 to a supercharged 1000 and I was acting like a totally awkward and lovestruck teenage boy. Or, more like one than usual.

She stopped short of the kitchen and looked at the island, where our places were set and the food was waiting for her. Daze whined and shoved her nose into Tine’s hand. When Tine turned her head and looked down at the dog, it seemed like she was trying to blink back tears. I cleared my throat and she looked over her shoulder at me again, a small smile on her lips.

“What are we eating, Chef Barberio?” She took the seat she’d occupied earlier, setting the napkin in her lap and leaning forward toward her plate, wafting the smell of the omelet toward her face with her hand.

“It’s just an omelet, Lemon.” I said modestly.

She snorted. “It’s about to be the best omelet I’ve ever eaten.”

I slid into the chair next to her and she lifted her glass, which I had refilled while she was in the shower. “To hockey players slash chefs slash playboys who turn out to be actually decent guys,” she toasted.

She took a sip from her glass and I followed suit; then, she dug into the omelet and let out a moan that made the situation in my pants a lot more dire than it had been and I didn’t think that was possible.

I shifted uncomfortably, she noticed but seemed to mistake why as she said quickly, “I’m sorry, it’s just really good, Barbs. I’m not exaggerating.”

I sighed, about to reinforce the playboy image and not the actual decent guy part. With my arm settled around the back of her chair, I confessed, “Lemon, it’s not that. Your moan gave me a hard on.”

She tried not to smile, holding her hand in front of her full mouth. She chewed several times before swallowing and apologizing, “Sorry. I’ll do my best to keep my pornagraphic food noises to myself.”

“God, no, don’t do that,” I objected. It was my turn to take a bite of my creation and I let out an exaggerated moan of my own; two can play at that game. As I chewed and swallowed, I smiled at her as I agreed, “But you’re right, I’m good.”

She smacked my arm lightly and admonished, “Stop making fun of me, it’s not nice.”

I stood up and cupped her head in my hands, pressing a kiss to her temple, and went to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “Eat up, Lemon,” I encouraged. “Trying to make sure you eat enough is a full time job.”

She frowned, pushing a mushroom around on her plate absently. “But what if I get fat,” she retorted.

Oh my god, that fucking ex-husband of hers. I leaned down on my forearms and stared at her over the island, resisting the urge to verbally rip him to shreds and ruin our brunch. “Babe,” I chose my words carefully, “You’re not thin now, and I like you a lot. I care more about your health than your size. You wanna be fat, get fat. But healthy, so you gotta be like one of those chubby instagram workout girls.”

She glowered. “Your sentiment is nice,” she acknowledged sarcastically, “But your execution leaves much to be desired.”

I didn’t choose carefully enough, it seemed. But even so, I grinned. “There’s my girl,” I teased.

We finished our meal in comfortable silence, with maybe some juvenile knee shoving under the countertop. Which was maybe started by me.

When she finished, she sat back in her chair, looking like she was contemplating licking the plate. I stood, grabbing her head and pressing a kiss to her temple again, which was starting to become a habit and I found that I couldn’t care less. I started clearing the plates.

She grabbed my forearm and rose from her own chair, saying “No, Mark, stop. I’ll clean up.”

I pried her fingers off of my arm with my free hand, and gently pushed her hand away. “No, Lemon,” I insisted, “Just go watch TV or something. I got it. I made you a meal and I intend to finish making that meal by cleaning up.”

“Mark, please.”

I gave her a pointed look, “Lemon, no.”

She practically pouted, “Fine, but I’m going to sit here and keep you company.”

I scraped crumbs off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, having cleaned up the rest of the dishes while she was in the shower. The petulant silenced stretch uncomfortably, “Lemon,” I asked, “Can you see if there’s anything good on the Food Network?”

It was a small manipulation, just a small one. But it got her on the couch, trying to bring up the TV while I finished cleaning.

By the time I was done, her head was back against the cushions and she was snoring softly. She was almost too predictable, and it pissed me off to no end that some asshole managed to use that against her for who knows how long. Daze accompanied her sleeping human on the couch and was keeping a weather eye on her, like she knew something about Clementine I didn’t know. Which, to be fair, she probably did.

I took the mean looking torture device out of her hair, laid her down on a pillow, picked her feet up and sett them on the couch before I pulled the blanket off the back of it and covered her with it.

I’d probably get so much shit if the guys knew most of my second stay over date was Tine catching up on a decade of sleep, but if I was honest, I didn’t mind. Partly because I felt some pride in the fact that part of her subconscious had decided I was safe and honestly, partly because of how intense it was being with her. I never knew when she would casually drop a small bomb of information on me, because her experiences were normal for her though they were absolutely not normal for me. I tried to be conscious of the language I used and the words I chose, but it occurred to me that maybe that was one thing I shouldn’t worry about doing. Like Stephanie said, maybe that was my burden and I didn’t need to watch myself that carefully, because that was work she needed to do and not work I needed to take on for her. It was a bonus that while she was here she was out of reach of her awful awful parents.

I kissed her forehead and decided to work off the sexual frustration in the building gym instead of utilizing Rosie Palm and her five sisters.. I left a post-it on her phone, knowing she would check it immediately when she woke, mostly, I assumed, to appease Nora, who had been texting Tine every hour on the hour, it seemed.

After changing clothes, I headed for the door, going to utilize the basement gym in my building.

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 9

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters. Word Count Chapter: 4411 Word Count Total: 37,302 Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can’t seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn’t have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. All of you can see Mark in action during the upcoming Olympics! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine. There be SMUT (kinda) Part Nine *~*~*~*~*~ A beam of sunshine was glancing off a gazing ball in the garden and the concentrated stream of light was shining right in my eyes. Blinking a few times, I realized my brain was remarkably quiet. Without moving, I did a mental assessment of my body. Everything seemed to be in order, so I graduated to slowly wiggling my fingers and toes. I didn’t feel like I was in my pajamas and I peeked under the covers. I was still in my dress from last night. It wouldn’t be the first time I was too tired to get into pajamas after taking my evening pills, but I realized I didn’t actually remember getting home.

I flopped a hand to my nightstand and my hand hit a packet of makeup remover wipes and not my phone. This morning was turning out to be entirely too surreal and without my internal naysayer screaming in my ears, I could actually hear normal morning sounds like sprinklers and birds, and the army of landscapers mowing yards in the neighborhood.

Sitting up with a sigh I tried to unravel the mystery of the night before: all memory seemed to stop when Barbs put me in the car to drive me home. Sleep had long been a problem for me, considering I hadn’t slept well since the day before my wedding, and despite the divorce, I still remained a notoriously light sleeper. Half-heartedly, I wondered if I had been drugged, but Bill had done that to me a few times and this did not feel like that at all. Also, context and what I did remember seemed to rule that out as a possibility.

Daze was in her corner of the bed, head on her paws and she was assessing me. “I don’t suppose you’re going to reveal what happened?” She just licked her paw. If I wanted answers, there was only one way to get them and strangely, I didn’t feel like I could roll over and fall back to sleep.

10 minutes later, I was padding barefoot through the house in leggings and an Avs shirt that was starting to get seriously baggy, hair in a messy bun on top of my head. My keys were mysteriously hanging on the hook where they belonged. The Corvair was parked in the driveway where it belonged. My phone was still in the cradle on the air vent, almost dead, and my wristlet from the previous evening was discarded on the floorboard. It honestly left me with more questions than I started with. I distinctly remembered Mark putting me in the car, but all my stuff was still in it? How did he get home? How did he know where I lived? Dear lord, did he interact with my parents?

There were about 100 text messages from Nora on my phone.

Nora: How’s the party?

Nora: Is it fabulous? Who is there? What does Mark look like? I bet he looks like sex on a stick.

Nora: Ok. I can only assume you are ignoring me because you are actually having fun and I support this. But text me when you get home.

Nora: It’s 10:15 and you haven’t texted. Uh…

Nora: Ok I can only hope you are being WORSHIPED by some gorgeous Italian STUD, but like I’m gonna need details.

Nora: Hi, it’s morning. Are you dead from orgasms?

Nora: Seriously, Clementine, I was joking before, but are you dead for real?

Nora: I’m calling the FBI.

Nora: CLEMENTINE.

The last one came in as I was reading the text string and I hurried to respond before Nora had a mini breakdown.

I’M FINE. Kind of. Mostly. I think. Don’t call the FBI. I just woke up.

Nora: I’m coming over.

No. I just woke up. I need coffee. I’m fine.

Nora: Too late. Alex was up until like 3am playing with his little video game friends and I can’t focus on anything until you tell me what happened last night.

I sighed and just gave up. I needed my morning Go juice and I didn’t have the brain cells for higher function until that happened and I certainly didn’t have the energy to argue with Nora. It was generally best just to let her do her Nora thing when she got an idea in her head.

When I made my way back into the kitchen, my mom was starting the coffee pot that had already brewed one pot of coffee today and was then scrubbed until it shone brand new because god forbid we have appliances that looked used, that wouldn’t do in the home of Coach and Doris Jones.

I sat on the barstool on the other side of the breakfast bar with a sigh and plugged in my phone. Her entire aura said “I’m irritated but pretending I’m not.” Finally, she poured a mug of coffee and pulled out the creamer and milk, pouring a hefty dollop of each into the liquid before she slid it across the stone.

I took a sip before waving a hand at her, whether in greeting or resignation I wasn’t sure. “Mom,” I started, “You obviously have something to say.”

She balled up a dish towel in her hands, apoplectic. “I just thought you were doing so much better!” she snapped, “I don’t understand how you could let this happen? Your father and I are so disappointed. I don’t know if I can go through this again.”

I mean, naturally whatever happened was my fault. It always was, and she was always the victim. I figured I would go with the practiced response to this, as I wasn’t yet caffeinated enough to think my way through the rest of this conversation, much less mount the compelling defense I knew it would take to try to win this argument. And who was I kidding? I’d never win. As soon as I’d learn the rules of the game, she would change them. “I know, Mom,” I said placatingly, “I’m so sorry. It will never happen again, but out of curiosity, what did I do?”

My mother hung the dish towel back on the hook by the sink, incensed, trying to maintain the appropriate decorum for a woman of her status while, at the same time, managing to express only her most essential feelings regarding this situation so I could appreciate the evident severity of its nature. “Clementine,” she admonished, “You don’t even remember! That makes it worse. You took a sedative before you came home! That poor hockey player had to drive you home and carry you to bed!”

Well, she was being hyperbolic, there was no way Barbs carried me. I certainly didn’t remember taking any pills at Gabe’s party, and looked at her, confused. “Mom, I didn’t take a sedative,” I clarified, “I had a few anti-anxiety meds in my clutch for an emergency, but none of them would have knocked me out and I didn’t even take them!”

“Oh please, Clementine,” she responded, almost before I’d even finished my sentence. “You were sleeping like the dead.” She crossed herself like mentioning the word “dead” was a sin. “Your father had to have a talk with that young man to make sure he didn’t turn this into another scandal.”

A scandal. That’s what my marriage of 7 years boiled down to. A scandal. Like I had a child out of wedlock in 1950 or wrote some emails that got hacked and released to the public. My horribly emotional, physical, and sexually abusive marriage was a scandal that I could have somehow avoided. Snapping back in, her words filtered through my brain and started to make sense. “Wait, Coach did what?” I asked her.

She started stress cleaning, an affliction with which I used to be possessed before the one-two punch of psycho and pharmacotherapy, as she informed me, “He had a talk with that boy.”

“Mom,” I said, with as much calm as I was able to muster, “‘that boy’ is a 30 year old man. A multimillionaire man. Who is a professional athlete. And a gentleman, who I am dating, can we give him a little credit?”

She shook her head, tutting back at me as she scrubbed, “You know you aren’t the best at picking men, dear.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose since she was the one who practically pushed me at Bill the minute I turned 18, “You know what,” I said, standing up off of my stool and grabbing my phone, “I don’t actually have the spoons to process this. I’m going to take Daze for a walk.”

I was halfway down the block, meandering as Daze smelled every single dandelion flower next to the sidewalk. Sighing, I looked at my phone and tapped out a text.

Sorry about my family. Thank you for getting me home safely last night.

Daze and I kept wandering until Nora pulled up next to us.

“Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”

I just stared at her, which I was pretty sure drove her nuts. At least, I hope it did. When I didn’t dignify her with a response, she continued, unfazed, “Look bitch, I realize you are going through some shit this AM but I said I was coming over. Where do you think you are going?”

Nora’s Yorkie, Captain, was standing on her lap, front paws on the door as he tried to get his head over the window and make his well-intentioned albeit ill-fated escape to freedom. Rounding the hood of her car, I stuck Daze in the backseat and climbed into the passenger side, informing Nora, “We are going to breakfast.”

She shrugged, “Not a bad plan. So, what drove you out of the house this morning?” Had she known me less well, the events of the morning would have been surprising. But she didn’t. And they weren’t.

“Apparently, I took a sedative and passed out and Mark had to drive me home. But I *KNOW* I didn’t take anything last night and I wasn’t drugged because this doesn’t feel like that. But I was so out of it, Mark had to carry me into the house and put me into bed.”

Nora’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline as she pulled away from the curb and Captain came to investigate my lap with happy yippy barks. “Well,” she said, “That’s a lot of information to process and all I am getting is Mark Barberio was in your bedroom and you didn’t have an orgasm. I really feel like that’s false advertising. Zero out of five stars. I’d like my money back.”

“Please,” I rolled my eyes. “OH,” I remembered suddenly, “and Stephanie was at the party, with Burky.”

Nora gasped, with the appropriate solidarity a best friend should have in these situations, “THAT Stephanie?”

I nodded. “The very same.”

Nora didn’t respond, so I continued, “Apparently, she helped Barbs do some “emotional labor.”’ I used air quotes for emphasis.

“Wait, are you using air quotes because you think it was a euphemism for sex, or because he actually used the phrase emotional labor?”

“The latter, though the first is valid. But apparently, Little Barbs couldn’t uh… perform.”

Nora slammed on the brakes as she swerved to the shoulder of the road. I was half surprised Captain didn’t fly off of my lap and hit the windshield as she screeched, “SHUT THE FRONT DOOR. Are you telling me. That that amazing Adonis of a man. Has erectile dysfunction?!”

I cleared my throat, slightly afraid that the next thing I would say would make Nora’s voice hit notes only dogs could hear and with two of them in the car, I didn’t like my odds. “Uh… he does not.” I chose my words carefully as I continued, “Apparently, Stephanie wasn’t what he wanted the other night.”

I could literally see every word hit her brain and she swallowed before speaking, her voice strong but restrained as she said, “Before I freak out, I need to know how you know he doesn’t have erectile dysfunction.”

It was my turn to swallow, and pick imaginary lint off my leggings, “I…. um… felt it… with my butt? I honestly don’t even know how to make that sound better. We had clothes on, in public. It was not as erotic as it sounds but like also it was.”

Captain huddled in my lap, like he needed to seek shelter immediately and it might be safer there than the car at large when whatever was about to happen did indeed happen. Nora turned in the driver’s seat. Her words were surprisingly quiet but every word was punctuated by a pause. “That’s. So. Hot. No wonder you passed out and you can’t remember anything. I’m like 99.1% sure I would just pass out if I was within like 5 feet of him.”

I clucked and straightened Captain’s little jeweled collar, “You know, your saying things like that does not inspire me to bring you to team functions where you would be within 5 feet of an entire team. And yes, before you ask me for the 100th time, Cale really is that sweet.”

My phone vibrated in my hand and my expression must have given away the identity of the sender, because Nora leaned over, “What did he say? Did he meet Doris and Coach? Poor thing.”

(303) 123-4567: Good morning Sleeping Beauty.

Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I must have taken a sedative, but I swear I don’t remember. And I’m sorry for my parents. Again.

(303) 123-4567: You didn’t take anything last night though. I swear. And you don’t need to be sorry.

Well, I must have, I don’t normally sleep like that.

(303) 123-4567: It must have been my calming presence.

Anyway, again sorry about the whole thing and thank you for getting me, Daze, and my car home safely.

I put my phone face down on my thigh and met Nora’s gaze. It was impatient, “Well, what did he say?”

She pulled away from the curb again as we headed toward our breakfast destination, “I had texted him this morning basically apologizing for last night, but he seconds my gut feeling that I didn’t actually take anything last night. And he’s a moronic hockey player but also strangely observant? So I don’t fucking know, but if I did, I’m glad he was there.”

Nora didn’t say anything except her little “hmm” that told me she had her own opinions and wasn’t going to share them.

My phone kept vibrating on my thigh and Captain stared at it, offended. Like mother, like son. I didn’t move to check it and Nora glanced over at me, “Are you going to check that or...?”

“Is it bothering you?” I deadpanned, quite aware of the degree to which her FOMO was being activated.

“YES.” Her stare rivaled Captain’s at this point and I wondered if, between the two of them, it might just spontaneously combust from the level of evil eye being emitted against it. “I know it’s Mark,” she insisted, “and *I* want to know what he has to say, even if you don’t.”

I also wanted to know what it said, but part of me was a little afraid it was something like, “So last night was fun let’s never do it again.” Since I was just coming around to him not being the worst I didn’t really feel like being rejected right this moment.

Nora reached over and tapped my phone impatiently. “Hello, trying to live vicariously through you.”

I sighed and picked up the phone reading the text before tapping out a reply.

(303) 123-4567: So whatcha doin?

Going to breakfast with Nora. My love for waffles is only second to Leslie Knope.

(303) 123-4567: What about after?

“What is he saying?” Nora pestered me some more.

As she pulled into a parking spot, I just handed the phone to Nora and she made interesting noises as she read and then started tapping out a text. My terror must have been written clearly across my face as I made grabby hands at her and made a halfhearted attempt to get my phone out of her iron grip.

She snorted and continued typing, entirely unapologetic. “What did you think would happen when you handed me your phone with an ongoing text string with the professional hockey player that OBVIOUSLY likes you and apparently doesn’t have ED?”

Realizing the true futility of any resistance, I resigned myself to petting Captain while she tapped away on my phone, telling him, “I may have been the one institutionalized, but your mom is probably crazier than me. Yes, she is.” Captain yipped and jumped up to lick my chin.

Finally, Nora opened her door and dropped my phone in her purse.

“Um!” I offered, in protest.

“He declined joining us for breakfast, but I said you would text him later.”

I sounded like a broken record, “Um.”

She opened my door and deposited Captain in her purse before opening the door for Daze. “Let’s go, ‘Tine. It’s waffle time.”

And for the second time in two days, I had breakfast with Nora.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The episode with Clementine’s parents the night before was more than a little off-putting and I struggled trying to get to sleep. Around 4am, I discovered you could actually do therapy over the internet and by text message. By 6am, I had been matched with a therapist and we were conversing via text message. It was enlightening, to say the least, and I realized immediately why Stephanie had recommended it.

By 8am, it was clear I was never going to sleep so I donned a pair of headphones and headed out into the neighborhood, trying my darndest to process everything swirling around in my head and when that didn’t work, I tried to focus on my footfalls and on the pavement and my breathing.

The Denver sun was relentless and my shirt was sticking to my skin when I got back and I peeled it off, throwing it onto the couch while I grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. My phone vibrated on the counter.

Lemon: Sorry about my family. Thank you for getting me home safely last night.

It pissed me off she felt like she needed to apologize for her family. If anything, her parents owed her a hefty apology. I took a few swallows of the drink before I tapped out a reply and hit send.

Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.

Her response was immediate and she apologized, again.

Lemon: Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I must have taken a sedative, but I swear I don’t remember. And I’m sorry for my parents. Again.

I frowned, upset they were still convinced and now had apparently convinced Clementine she did something wrong when she 100% didn’t. You didn’t take anything last night though. I swear. And you don’t need to be sorry.

Lemon: Well I must have, I don’t normally sleep like that.

The empty plastic bottle crumpled in my grip and I threw it with more force than necessary into the sink, where it ricocheted against the stone. I tried to think of something lighthearted to get her mind off of it. It must have been my calming presence.

Lemon: Anyway, again sorry about the whole thing and thank you for getting me, Daze, and my car home safely.

I had honestly never spent so much time thinking about my responses to women before, but then again… I hadn’t really ever cared about the outcome of my words, either. It was a new feeling. Finally, I tapped up something completely lame and grimaced as I hit send. So whatcha doin?

Her response took a moment this time and I downed a glass of water while I waited. Lemon: Going to breakfast with Nora. My love for waffles is only second to Leslie Knope.

I had never been one to crave someone’s attention before and before I could stop myself I sent, What about after?

There wasn’t a reply and I had about given up when my phone buzzed again.

Lemon: Nora here, I hear you got to meet the ‘rents and anyone who has to endure that deserves a Screwdriver for breakfast.

It was a little weird that her friend had taken her phone, but I had a feeling that that happened more often than one would think. Z was known for stealing unattended phones in the locker room and sending raunchy texts. I think I’m going to have to pass for now, have to start the season diet, but thanks.

Lemon: She will text you when we are done, promise.

I tossed the phone on the counter and headed down the hall for a shower, needing some sort of distraction or I was going to be checking my phone every 2 seconds until she texted.

My shower was basically like an 8x8 glass room with the tub along one side. It was completely possible for someone to be in the generous bathtub while I showered right next to them. If someone wanted to be.

I stepped under the spray before it had warmed and grimaced as the water felt like tiny ice daggers hitting my skin.

It didn’t stop me from thinking about Clementine being in the tub next to me while I showered, her beautiful hair piled on top of her head and held up there with a single chopstick. How women did that was a mystery to me, but it was attractive as hell. I remembered what she looked like asleep. Totally relaxed and I pictured her looking like that, head resting on the back of the tub, bubbles barely covering her chest while she relaxed, letting the heat ease the stress from her bones.

The water started to warm and I rubbed a bar of soap with a loofah molded right into it across my skin. It was supposed to exfoliate or some shit. It was a present from my sister. It did feel good as hell, though. I rubbed it between my hands gathering lather and the image of Clementine relaxed in the tub jumped back to the front of my brain as I slid a soapy hand around my junk. I probably got hard in record time, thinking about her trailing her fingers across her collarbone, and down between her breasts before she circled one and rolled the nipple between her fingers. The idea took my breath away and I suddenly had a desperate desire to know what her moan sounded like.

My dick was just as hard as it had been the night before, maybe even harder as I imagined her other hand disappearing between her legs, fingertips sliding around her opening. I squeezed the head of my cock, precum leaving a clear trail in the lather. I used my thumb to gather it up and I spread it across the wide tip. I could feel the orgasm building in my balls and the sensation only kept climbing as imaginary Clementine fucked herself with two fingers and I wanted to know what her cunt felt like wrapped around my cock instead of my soapy hand.

Fantasy Clementine and I came at the same time, my orgasm taking me by surprise as I imagined her beautiful face twisted in absolute pleasure. My cum spurted against the wall of the shower, and my hips involuntarily shot forward fucking my hand. When I was done, I had to lean against the wall and I desperately wished for a bench because my legs felt weak. I hadn’t had an orgasm that good in years.

Hours later I was scrolling through instagram, trying not to let it get to me that Clementine’s friend said she would text and that felt like 100 years ago. I spent an embarrassingly long time googling her name, reading articles that made me want to slam everyone involved into a concrete wall and looking for any social media she might have before a notification popped across my screen.

Lemon: What are you doing, Barbs?

Attempting to stalk you on social media. Why I decided to be honest about this, I have no idea. Probably not a good idea to joke about stalking a woman who’d been in a toxic relationship with a totally violent fuckhead. But that didn’t occur to me until after I sent it. I hoped she wouldn’t read into it too much.

Lemon: Ah, all my accounts are private, sorry.

I made a face and thought about how to phrase my next text. Does it have anything to do with your ex being a police officer and the lack of charges brought against him?

The text bubble as she typed a response appeared and disappeared several times. Lemon: So I guess you know my darkest secret now.

I had to think again as I composed a response and I figured it had been decades since I put so much thought into a conversation. I believe you, you know, and I’m a little worried you seem to have gotten out of one controlling relationship just to end up with your parents who seem to gaslight you and make you doubt yourself.

My heart was pounding in my ears by the time I hit send. Again I waited with bated breath as she typed a response.

Lemon: “gaslight,” Mark Barberio, have you been reading books?!

Actually, I started therapy this morning. Did you know you can text therapists now?! Technology!

Lemon: LOL. I have to admit I’m a little surprised at you Mr. Barberio.

A second text came through before I could respond, and I smiled, despite myself.

Ok. A lot surprised.

You can’t tell anyone. It would ruin my street cred.

Lemon: Your secret is safe with me. I will see you at work.

I wanted to keep talking but she had drawn a line in the sand and managed to dodge my concerns. I spent the rest of the day trying to find something to watch on TV and after an hour, I gave up and utilized the gym in my condo building. I usually trained at the Avs facilities, but I felt like that would just invite questions I didn’t want or didn’t know how to answer. I worked out until I felt like I couldn’t lift my limbs. That night, I tossed and turned into a fitful sleep.

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons--Part 11

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters. Word Count Chapter: 4317 Word Count Total: 47,034 Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can’t seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn’t have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine.

Part Eleven

Mark’s loft was honestly gorgeous and so *him.* The floor-to-ceiling windows were amazing and my inner child just wanted to walk right up to them and press my hands and face against the glass and peer down at the world and pretend I was some kind of benevolent dictator.

Instead, I settled back down on the black and masculine yet deceptively comfy couch, Caboodle of pills in hand and dumped my 5pm pills into my palm

Mark set a glass of water next to me on the side table, and even used a coaster. His place was organized and even clean. I’d never tell him, but I don’t think I’d been giving him enough credit. I was fully expecting a messy bachelor pad with a mountain of dishes in the sink.

Curious about this, I asked, “Do you have a housekeeper, Mr. Barberio?”

He shrugged as he filled a mixing bowl full of water and set it on a towel on the floor for Daze, “I have a service that comes in once a week. They clean and wash the sheets and towels and stuff.”

The Border Collie took a compulsory lap or two of the apartment, then came and laid down on the rug by my feet. I took several pills and washed them down with the water he gave me, being sure to set the glass back on the coaster.

From across the kitchen island, Mark asked, “Do you need to eat a little something with that?”

I shook my head, “No, I’ll be fine.”

Mark gave me a questioning look which I knew meant to ask, “‘I’ll be fine, don’t go out of your way, I don’t want to be a bother’ or ‘I’ll be fine and I really should but also the first thing?’”

I sighed as he continued to rattle around in the kitchen, and before I knew it, I was being handed a piece of toast with some almond butter on it. He sat on the couch next to me while I nibbled on the bread, his arm lying along the back of the cushion behind me.

I didn’t know what to say, I was in his space, he was sitting next to me and it felt so stiff and awkward so I found myself blurting out, between bites, “It’s weird eating something and you’re not eating.”

He reached over and snagged the toast off the plate, and took a huge bite- which was about half of the entire thing. “There, that better?” he mumbled around the bread and almond butter.

I just shook my head, but I did take a bigger bite that I washed down with a sip of water. Mark relaxed against the cushions, the television remote appearing in his hands as he suggested, “Chopped?”

I nodded, finishing my toast. At that point, the plate was empty and I stood up to put it in the sink, but he took it from my hands and set it on the side table, before pulling me into his body, saying, “Relax, Lemon.”

Without distractions, without Gabe, without a party, without anything besides us, it was just the murmur of the TV and the rise and fall of Mark’s chest. This was intimacy at its most basic level. There was no biting wit, no banter, just two people existing in the same place at the same time and I suddenly felt that boa constrictor starting to squeeze my chest again; I forced myself to breathe. Daze sat up and whined.

Mark pulled me tighter into his body until he felt me resist and then he stopped, but didn’t let me retreat. His hand found its way to my back and he rubbed in slow circles. Daze had her paws on my knees, now ready to climb up and lay on top of me. This was such a stupid thing to have a panic attack over. Oh no a man is being nice to me, better stop breathing.

From his perch behind me, I felt Mark smile against my shoulder, the smirk evident in his voice as he informed me, “Huh, I can see down your shirt? What are you, like, a 38D?”

It was so inappropriate, so Barbs, and so unexpected that my chest released enough to allow a wheezing laugh to escape. The boa constrictor slithered away, unsure how to navigate around a 7th grade sense of humor and Daze put her paws back on the floor.

Finally, I was able to take a deep breath or two and I let myself relax against Mark, his arm around me. He hit the volume on the TV, lowering a few notches as he asked, “Do you want to talk about what just happened? And also, about whether or not I was right?”

I just shook my head, informing him, “I’m honestly fascinated that somehow you are deeply introspective and intuitive and so damn dumb at the same time. It’s one of life’s mysteries and apparently an instant cure for panic attacks.”

I took another much needed deep breath. Panic attacks, even short ones, were draining and I gave in to the urge to lay my head on Mark’s chest. He made a noise of appreciation before he pushed me up and held me with a hand while he swept my hair over my shoulder to get it out from underneath me, and it was such a stupid, ridiculously sweet gesture. All of a sudden, I felt very unexpected and unwelcome tears prickling the backs of my eyes and my nose started to run. I tried to sniff quietly.

The arm around my shoulders lifted briefly and then it swam in front of my face, tissue pinched between his fingers. My body shook with a small laugh and I blew my nose--which, there was no way to do with any sense of cuteness or grace, but I had a feeling Barbs might sit on me if I tried to escape to the bathroom. I balled the tissue in my fist and he brushed my hair back with his hand, rubbing my back again as he asked, “better?”

I nodded. I rested my head against his chest again and we sat there for a few minutes before I felt his voice rumble in his chest from behind me. “Do you want to tell me what was going on in your head?” he murmured.

I took another deep breath, trying to compartmentalize my emotions before I answered his question. “It’s not really what is going on,” I started, “it’s more like this overwhelming tidal wave of emotions. I was in a panicked state of survival for so long I don’t really know how to process regular emotions anymore? Everything is either no big deal or A Very Super Big Deal and there’s no in between.”

He trailed his fingers along my arm, “So what was A Very Super Big Deal, just now?”

I lifted my shoulders, shrugging, trying to pinpoint the source of the Deal, both for myself and for him. “I don’t know,” I began. After another moment of thought, I offered, “We’ve never really spent time together where I wasn’t doing something, socializing, working, whatever. Just existing in the moment with you was just A Lot for me. I don’t know how to do that. And then that thing with my hair was just… really sweet and unnecessary and there was something just really selfless about it and that’s new and uncomfortable for me and again it was A Lot and I didn’t know how to process it.”

Mark hummed in acknowledgement, kissing my shoulder lightly. “Aren’t you processing now?” he pressed, “Isn’t this processing?”

Wise Barbs was becoming a frequent contributer to our conversations, and I knew I was going to be a fucking goner for this dumbass.

Daze was still looking at me, concerned; acknowledging her dismay, Mark patted the sofa next to me, saying “Don’t worry, Daisy girl, I’ve got this one.” She jumped up and turned several times and settled into a ball next to me. All of this Thoughtfulness and Caring was a lot, and I still wasn’t entirely comfortable going there, so I steered the conversation back to the mundane and logistic, asking Mark, “Aren’t you worried about the couch?”

True to form, he reassured me, “It’s just a couch, Lemon, just like my truck is just a truck. Now, do you need to process some more? Or can we watch the next episode of Chopped?”

I sighed and settled against him, prying the remote out of his hand to turn the volume up. I finally managed to relax during the appetizer round of the next episode, and that was the last thing I remembered.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Much like she did on the night of Gabe’s first party, Tine went from being awake one minute to absolutely fast asleep the next. Not being able to resist, I snapped a selfie of us — her blue-haired head resting softly on my chest— and texted it to Landy to tell him we would not be attending his game night.

Sorry, Landy. My lady needs some sleep.

Landy: Uh, wake her up and let’s goooooooo. Rematch at CAH. I’m working on upping my depravity game. Prepare to be totally corrupted.

Out of nowhere, it occurred to me that Gabe’s joke about Clementine’s sense of humor, while meant to be lighthearted, was reflective of the fact that he was relatively ignorant of who she really was, or, at least, who she used to be. I realized then that I was probably the only person in the organization that knew Tine’s story, and even so, I only knew a small sliver of her trauma and why she had Daze to begin with.

That felt like too much to explain over text message, and furthermore, was information that was totally not my place to share with Gabe -- notwithstanding the fact he was such a blabbermouth and probably couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. So, I went with the typical toxically masculine response: an insult.

Sorry not sorry, even asleep she’s better company than you will ever be.

I made it through a few more episodes of Chopped by myself before I needed to get up. I laid Tine down on the couch, her knees around Daze, and I half-covered her with a blanket. After grabbing a snack, I returned to the couch and lifted her head, letting her use my thigh as a pillow. I worried I might disturb her, but she remained sound asleep, her features resting in an expression of tranquility and ease. I took a surprising amount of joy in combing my fingers through her long blue hair, which was splayed across my lap. This wasn’t exactly how I planned the evening going, but that was ok, as I realized that this was almost better, at least for her. Not that I’m not wonderful company, but she deserved a respite from the chaos in her brain; a little bit of peace after what she’d survived. She had a lot of walls that would just take time to come down, but sleeping… there weren’t any walls. She existed just as she was. It was almost a compliment she slept so deeply around me, and I knew for a fact she didn’t take a sedative this time as I was sure that the pills she had taken earlier were the exact same pills she normally took around 5pm, the very same ones I had seen her take them several times this week.

I was thankful I had such a deep couch, because its depth allowed me to squish my legs between Daze and its back and still drape an arm around Tine. I didn’t want to watch any more episodes of Chopped without her, so I changed gears and cued up some Game of Thrones, which I had no shame in binge watching. True to form, Clementine didn’t stir, despite the fact that some of the scenes were incredibly loud and I really had no idea how she slept through them. Daze remained awake and watched with me, and she seemed to enjoy the dragons quite a lot. She never made a noise, but perked her ears up when they came on screen and tracked them as they moved around Westeros on my big screen TV.

Eventually, our body heat became too much for the border collie and she jumped down, flopping on the plush rug next to the couch. One fewer body on the couch, albeit a smallish one, did give us a little bit more room so I pulled up the fuzzy blanket covering Tine, curling up next to her, quite happy to be the big spoon. As new as this whole thing was and as unsure as I was regarding almost everything about it, holding her in my arms felt incredibly natural. I turned off the TV, and fell asleep soon after, the steady rise and fall of her chest lulling me into unconsciousness.

When I awoke, it was because I felt a stirring in the vicinity of my chest. Light was streaming through the floor to ceiling windows and Tine had turned in the night, and she was now curling her front into me with our legs intertwined. While my couch was comfortable, my body was protesting at my sleeping the better part of the night on it instead of my premium mattress. I didn’t know how Chara played this game in his 40s— I was barely in my 30s and I felt 100 years old and feeling every hockey game I’d ever played in that moment.

I hugged Clementine to my chest a little tighter, content to stay like that, despite my physical discomfort, for a little while longer or maybe forever, who knows. “Fifteen more minutes,” I grumbled into her hair, refusing to relinquish my grip around her.

She sighed, “This is nice, but aren’t we going to miss Gabe’s party?”

I blinked slowly and the wheels in my head turned. I almost didn’t want to tell her, but I knew I would have to...eventually. “Lemon, babe…” I started, “Gabe’s party was last night. We fell asleep. It’s morning.”

Shocked, she tried to sit up, but she was facing the wrong way and when she rolled away from me, she landed on the floor between the coffee table and the couch. “What?” She yelped. She was clearly starting to panic, murmuring frantically, “I don’t remember…”

“Shhh, Clementine, it’s ok,” I assured her, “You’re ok. You’re safe. You just fell asleep on the couch last night while we were watching TV and I let you sleep. It’s ok.”

She panted trying to control her breathing, and she looked between me and Daze, who was looking very concerned that her charge was now at eye level.

“But…” she spluttered, “I didn’t take a sedative. I swear, Mark.” As clarity continued to dawn on her, she continued, “Oh my gosh, our date!I ’m so sorry!! I slept through our date.”

“Lemon… babe, it’s ok.” I didn’t really want to explain to her at that point just how much I enjoyed snuggling with her and watching her sleep, lest that come across as extremely creepy. But, I didn’t want her to be so upset, or think that she, in some way, let me down. “I probably could have woken you up if I really wanted to go to Gabe’s dumb game night,” I added, “but last night was perfect, ok?”

I could tell the wheels in her head were spinning and I decided to put a stop to that shit. I hauled her off the floor and tucked her back to my front, hugging her against my chest. With a dreamy sigh her breathing returned to a normal rhythm, “You are ridiculously strong and you have no idea how much of a turn on that is.”

There was a pause when she realized what she said, and in that moment, I took the opportunity to lever over her, turning her on her back. I settled my hips on top of hers, forearms framing her head and dipped my head, nosing her ear, “Oh? I’m strong and that turns you on? What else turns you on, Lemon?”

Her hands fisted in my tshirt and she seemed indecisive as to whether to pull me closer or push me away.

With just enough chagrin for it to be perceptible, she murmured, “I hate how much I like it when you call me Lemon.”

I pressed my lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear and chuckled. She responded with a full body shiver, her fingers releasing my shirt and tucking them under the hem, fingers hesitantly touching my skin.

My dick twitched against the crease of her hip and she arched into it. “Kiss me, Mark,” she whispered.

Instead of leaning forward and giving in, I pulled away, sliding out from between her and the couch, though my legs were still resting over hers. With every ounce of determination I possessed, I informed her, “Our first kiss isn’t going to be with morning breath as we dry hump on the couch. Sorry, Princess.”

She wrinkled her nose in the way that drove me wild and I groaned internally. She pouted and when I smiled at her, she announced, “I think I prefer Lemon to Princess.”

I levered over her once again and kissed the tip of her nose before standing up. “Duly noted,” I said simply, and moved toward the kitchen because if I didn’t there was going to be a weapon of mass destruction in my pants.

The first step to this morning was going to be coffee, because I had seen Tine without it once or twice this week and it was entertaining but entirely unfair. Or maybe it was to give the rest of us mere mortals a chance against her wits, but I wasn’t letting my girl into the world unarmed. She was still laying on the couch, finger combing her hair over her shoulder and I clattered around the kitchen, trying to remember if I had anything to mix with her coffee, because I knew she liked it on the lighter side. I just figured whatever cream she used also helped soothe her stomach from the pills and the black coffee was too much acid for her digestive tract in the morning.

Eventually, she sat up, stretched and looked around before picking her phone up from the coffee table. She seemed to scroll for a long time, tapping out a short response before looking up again. “It’s 9am?” she asked, with some surprise.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

Her eyes still creased with sleep and her hair a finger combed tangle she looked positively delicious, “What time did I fall asleep?”

“Between the appetizers and main course of our second Chopped episode.” I tossed old coffee grounds into the garbage under the sink.

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers and I chuckled when she realized just how quickly she fell asleep. “Around 6:00,” I supplied.

“So I slept for like 15 hours?”

“Yes,” I answered, pouring our steaming coffee into two mugs. I filled mine to the brim and, for Tine, pulled out various milks: almond, coconut, soy, and some regular cow, as well as some sugar.

She looked almost apoplectic and before I could reassure her of anything else she spat out, “I’m sorry I slept through our date, you must think I am the worst, laziest, most irresponsible…”

I cut her off, not wanting to entertain her insanity for a moment longer, no matter how endearing I found it. Resisting the impulse to actually shush her, I told her, “What I think is that you’re a woman who was stuck in a crisis fight-or-flight response for the better part of ten years and for whatever reason, you feel safe with me. I had the TV on LOUD last night and there were dragons AND explosions, so if that didn’t wake you up, you needed the rest and I was more than happy to let you sleep peacefully for the first time in I don’t know when.”

She sat, hands folded in her lap for a moment, unsure what to say before she looked around the apartment again.

“There’s a powder room just down the hall,” I told her, an answer to the unspoken question I saw forming in her mind.

She disappeared towards it, her giant purse and Daze in tow. I sipped my coffee and leaned a hip against the counter. I didn’t want to think about how much I liked having her in my space.

When she re-emerged, her hair was brushed and falling loose down her back and she had obviously washed her face or taken some makeup remover to it.

“C’mere and doctor your coffee,” I encouraged her, gesturing toward the island.

Her bare feet barely made a sound on the concrete floor; she stepped up next to me and I didn’t move out of the way, but instead just slid an arm around her back and tugged her hips into mine. I watched as she poured heaps of milk into her coffee and added a packet of stevia. The moan she gave as she took the first sip shot straight to my balls and I swallowed hard. “Come on,” I said, giving a tug to her belt loop and moving us toward the glass door.

Outside on the patio, I had a grill, a fire pit, and some comfortable furniture that included a hinged swing. I also had a concrete planter which housed a plant that looked a little worse for the wear, which I hoped she didn’t notice. It was already almost 70 degrees and I could tell it was going to be another beautiful August day in Denver.

Clementine made her way to the edge of the balcony and took a sip of her coffee, staring out into the cityscape and all the people milling about their day below us. She turned to me and told me through a smile, “You really have a spectacular view.”

The sun was highlighting the blue tones of her hair and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I murmured an agreement and in retrospect, I hoped I hadn’t agreed to something outrageous. I stalked over and framed her with my arms, fitting my front to her back. I swept her hair to the side and kissed her neck, unable to resist any longer. “You look stunning out here,” I whispered into her skin, hoping she could feel the smile on my face.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His beard tickled my neck and I felt myself shiver in spite of the warm sunshine. Setting my mug next to his, I turned in the frame of his arms and slid mine around his neck. It seemed 100% natural and rock up on my toes and press my lips to his.

His arms were rigid and I felt the moment he melted into the kiss. His lips went soft and his arms came around me as he took control. The kiss went from chaste to wet and out of control in about half a second. When he licked across my bottom lip, I touched his tongue with the tip of mine and he jerked me against his body like he wanted to consume me. He tasted like the high end coffee beans he fresh ground and it was intoxicating. When the moment became too intense, I broke the kiss and tucked my head under his chin, resisting the urge to pant like a dog to catch my breath.

His voice was so low I felt the vibrations through his chest more than I heard the words he spoke when he said, “You know, I’m never going to stop doing that now.”

I rolled my eyes and chastised, “That’s a terrible threat, Barbs.”

I felt his fingers under my chin and he lifted it, lips fitting against mine again. When his tongue gently slid along the length of mine, I definitely moaned and the kiss again went from lazy and wet to intense. Mark’s hand slid down my back and he palmed my ass, grabbing a cheek and pulling me firmly into him. I felt him along my hip, hard behind his zipper. In that moment, I was instantly sure that I had never felt physical attraction for Bill, or maybe, any other person ever. In fact, I was fairly sure that I’d never actually been turned on in my life. A switch flicked on in my brain, and suddenly, I couldn’t get enough of Barbs. I wanted to fully consume him and he must have felt the change because he pulled his lips from mine and pressed our foreheads together as he said, “Breathe, Lemon.”

I did as he instructed; one breath turned into two, two into three, and suddenly, everything seemed a lot less urgent.

“Better?”

I nodded and I was only a smidge embarrassed, meaning I only needed to spend, like, 50 years or so in my parents’ basement mulling over the incident and its attendant mortification, instead of the usual one or two hundred such a moment would prescribe.

Mark gave me a quick chaste kiss before he stepped away, impressively grabbing both coffee mugs by the handles in one hand. “Let’s take Daze out,” he suggested, “the poor thing has to be at least 25% pee right now.”

Oh my god, I thought, I was the actual worst. “She probably refused to go out last night.”

Barbs looked uncomfortable as he admitted, “Uh…..I kind of didn’t try and actually, fell asleep on the couch with you….”

Dear lord, the poor dog. I grabbed his hand and dragged him off the beautiful balcony and into the apartment.

[horsesandhockeyplayers]

When Life Gives You Lemons-- Part 10

Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters. Word Count Chapter: 5415 Word Count Total: 42,717 Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Thank you SO much to @hockeylvr59, @newlibrary, @itisawitchesworld, and Nora, who I can’t seem to tag. The rewrite of this fic wouldn’t have happened without all of you. Thank you for indulging my impulsivity. Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine.

Part Ten

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The following week had a new routine and I’m fairly certain that I was suffering from an affliction referred to in medical journals as “happiness.” I’m not one hundred percent positive, though, as the feeling was quite unfamiliar and with my usual cynical nature, I’d be just as apt to assume that I’d finally taken a turn around the wrong corner and was now looking at Official Certifiable Insanity in the rear view mirror. As much as it pained me to admit it, these feelings were likely due to the fact that Mark had leveled up his game, with the goal of getting a second date.

Every morning, he greeted me cheerfully with a latte, a muffin, and a tupperware dish full of some Italian meal he said his mom sent. After the second day of this, I was beginning to think Barbs was definitely full of shit and actually knew how to cook. I internally swooned when I came to that realization, since, after 7 years of having a meal on the table precisely at 7pm regardless of my wellness, the idea of watching Mark cook, with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder while he tasted simmering sauces and I drank a glass of wine, was practically orgasmic. He frequently caught me staring at him while the fantasy played in my head on a loop. He’d always just offer me a wink and go back to what he was doing.

It wasn’t until mid-week that I realized that the voice of my inner Bitch had been getting significantly more muffled. Her hatred and vitriol were still there, just muted. She spent hours pouting every morning when I got my coffee and muffin. In the evening, it was easy to shut her away with a quick text conversation with Mark.

True to our conversation in the parking lot before Stephaniegate, if Barbs knew where I was during practices and scrimmages, he played better and I got all his good angles (as if he had bad ones). If he couldn’t see me right away, he would spend half the scrimmage looking for me and Gabe would make his “angry face” for half an hour, which, while well-intentioned, was really not actually that intimidating but I played along so as not to rock the boat.

After most of a week in this new routine,I was in my office, a single image open in photoshop; it was blown up to 500% and taking up four monitors, and I was painstakingly color correcting pixel by infuriating pixel. It was something I could do for hours, hyperfixating on a single image until it was perfect.

Mark wandered in through the open door and hit the “on” button on the electric kettle, snagged a clean mug from my stash and dropped an herbal tea bag in it, and then plopped into the burgundy velvet wingback chair I had found at a flea market and put in my small office for some character.

I peered at him over the top of my glasses, informing him, “Some people knock.”

A grin split his dark beard, and he breezed right by my comment, answering instead with his own. “You know,” he said, unfazed, “not every woman can rock the granny glasses, but you just look like a hot librarian.”

My eyes rolled of their own volition, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted, though I was leaning toward the former. He could always ruin a perfect moment by being a horn dog. Before I let the girly girl inside of me win, I demanded, “What do you want, Barbs?”

He hummed in pretend thought and his eyes got dark and predatory. The reaction was so fast I thought I had imagined it because it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, “Making sure my favorite digital content creator is taking her meds with liquid, drinking enough water, and most importantly, eating enough.”

I sighed as the electric kettle clicked off, water bubbling inside and Mark stood to pour the water into the mug, “I already have an overbearing mother, but thanks.”

He gasped, hand flung over his heart, and he looked like he actually managed to tear up before he half-wailed, “I’ve met your mother and that was unnecessarily mean. In fact, I might actually be insulted.

Gabe chose this moment to arrive in the doorway, knuckles rapping against the frame and assessing whatever he saw.

I gave Mark a pointed look as I noted, “See? Even Gabe knocks and he’s like… a big deal.”

The Swede took one look at the Italian and rolled his eyes, pronouncing “you cry like a Finn.”

I balled up a scrap piece of paper and threw it in the general vicinity of them rather indignantly as I said, “Excuse you. Mikko is in touch with his feelings.” The good natured rivalry between the Swedish and Finnish in the league was well known.

Gabe caught the paper, rolling his eyes. His look was somewhere between amused and pitying, apparently entertained that Mikko had me fooled so easily as he informed me, “He practices his sad face in the mirror and he never leaves the bar alone. Apparently, Barbs has been taking lessons.”

I pitched the bridge of my nose, fucking hockey players. This day couldn’t end soon enough. For the second time in as many minutes, I cut to the chase with the hockey player standing in front of me; keep it simple, I figured. “What do you want, Gabe?”

He rapped the door frame again, “Couples Game night, tomorrow. It’s mandatory. People want a rematch.”

FUCKING HOCKEY PLAYERS. I refused to cave so easily. On principle. Or something. “Maybe I’m busy.” Before my office was rudely invaded by way too much testosterone, I had, in fact, been busy.

Gabe did his best to look shocked, and failed as he asked, bemused, “Oh? Do you have a social life that we don’t know about?”

I wrinkled my nose in distaste, I didn’t and he caught me. But I certainly couldn’t let him know that I only had one friend and she took clients late on Fridays. Before I knew what I was saying, I found myself blurting out, “I have a date!”

The captain grinned like a cat that ate the canary and Mark suddenly looked like he was eating sour rotting grapes. I can only assume he thought I was talking about someone else. I gave him a droll glare. After looking rapidly back and forth between the two of us and figuring out exactly what was going on, Gabe all but sang, ‘A date!? Our darling Clementine has a DATE?”

It was my turn to eat sour grapes and I blanched.I hated that fucking song. I needed Gabe to shut up, and like, now. So, I said the one thing I could think of that would maybe catch him so off guard it would render him speechless. For what I assume would be the first time in his life, of course. Before I could think better of it, I spit out, “Yeah, with Barbs. It’s our second date, so kind of a big deal.”

“Oh great,” Gabe said nonchalantly, much to my great dismay, “So then I’m going to save our boy some money and you’re both coming to game night. The dress code is casual.” Dangit. My ultimate trump card backfired on me. And I gave in to Barbs’ second date.

With that, Gabe seemed to disappear in a shower of glitter, pink smoke, and tweeting birds. I couldn’t keep the shocked look off my face even if I tried as I looked at Mark and uttered, “He IS the Fairy Godmother no one wants.”

Mark put the steeping mug of herbal tea in front of me, on a coaster, and settled back into the chair, nodding. “He’s been practicing magic for Linnea’s first birthday.”

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised, “Of course he has.”

He didn’t say anything and finally, I had to look up from my computer to see if he was still there or if the entire exchange had been a figment of my imagination. He was still in the chair, leg thrown casually over the arm, shit-eating grin on his face. He looked like a dog with a bone, the victory about something so clearly written across his face he couldn’t have hidden it if he’d tried. I put the pieces together as soon as he supplied, “So, second date?”

I picked up my tea and blew on it, my answer petulant and just the teensiest bit defiant. Egging him on was fun. “No. I was just trying to get out of Gabe’s game night.”

“No take backsies,” he informed me. He stood and rounded my desk. He had taken to rubbing my shoulders and neck during his afternoon visits to my office. Every time his hands settled on my shoulders, I would tense, and every time, he waited until I relaxed before he started pushing his thumbs along the muscles. Since Gabe’s party, Barbs had been slowly testing my boundaries with touch and it was an alien form of affection to me. My parents were really not affectionate in any way, much less overly so, and from the night I’d married him, I had quickly learned not to trust any affection from Bill. I wasn’t sure if this was instinctual for him or something he spoke to his therapist about but he went out of his way to give me opportunities to process what he was doing.

When the sensations became too overwhelming, I would cover one of his hands with my own and Mark would stop and kiss the top of my head. By the end of the week, he would spend the entire afternoon in my office-- doing god knows what on his phone or computer --and would walk me to my car at the end of the day, Daze in tow. She was solidly on “Team Barbs,” likely because he had taken to bringing her bits of roasted chicken. It wasn’t exactly the right thing to do with a service dog, but the man seemed to want to date me, a traumatized hot mess, and was doing his best to become friends with my service animal.

Underneath all the dumb jokes and one night stands, there was actually a decent human being and I found myself stupidly attracted to him. I was beginning to think his idiot jock frat boy personality was just a façade.

Friday morning, when Daze and I walked out to the driveway to head to work, Mark was sitting in his truck waiting for us. If I hadn’t been in the beginning stages of a full blown anxiety meltdown, I might have found this weird. He got out as I closed the door to the laundry room, struggling with Daze’s leash, my tumbler of coffee, and my giant leather tote I called a purse. As we walked away, Daze’s leash got caught on the handle of the door, jerked us both backwards and my tumbler of coffee crashed to the pavement. “Fuck!” I shouted, exasperated.

Before I could do more than curse at the situation, Mark had picked up the spilled coffee cup and unhooked Daze’s leash. It was one of those days where I was going to have a full on panic attack meltdown if my pencil lead broke in a meeting. I made a note to only use pens today and bring extra, just in case one didn’t work.

When I floated back to reality from my pen plans, I realized I was enveloped in a hug, my nose pressed against Barbs’ chest. I didn’t know what cologne he wore, but he had applied just enough of it to be perceptible and not overpowering. Mixed with his own inherent manliness, it made me want to roll around in it like Daze liked to roll in bird poop. I wanted to wear him like a huge blanket just wrap myself in his comforting smell and presence.

I don’t know how long we stood there but Mark murmured into my hair when he sensed me returning to the reality in front of me, asking “Did you spill anything on yourself?”

I shook my head “no,” but a lump in my throat prevented me from answering.

He took my hand, and with his other, grabbed my bag and Daze’s leash. As he led me to the car, he informed me, “I’m gonna drive you to work today, ok?”

The tally in the column of “things that have gone wrong” was much greater than that in the columns labeled “things that have gone right” and “current level of caffeination,” combined, so at this point, my current mantra was “don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.” In that spirit, I found myself pretty amenable to anything Mark suggested, and as much as it pained me to admit it, a part of my brain had put Barbs in the small mental box labeled “People Clementine trusts.” It was a small box because the only person currently in there was Nora. Everyone else had an agenda. Bill’s was obvious; my parents just didn’t want a scandal, and all my so-called “friends” had disappeared the minute I tried to tell them about the nightmare that was my marriage. But Mark was slowly worming his way in, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Nora was going to have to make some room in there for him.

Mark settled me in the front seat and handed me my tote as he asked, “Do you need to take anything? Or do you want to wait it out?” I shook my head for the first one and nodded with the second. Daze may not have spent her life chasing sheep across the green countryside of Scotland, but she was still agile, proving this as she jumped into the backseat of the pickup. My freakout was relatively small and I was trying to breathe through it. Daze was familiar with this and she wouldn’t intervene unless I was losing the battle.

I looked back to make sure she was ok, but, to my surprise, Mark had one of those dog beds with the high walls buckled into the seat belt mechanism. Daze turned around in it three times and lay down, making herself right at home. I did notice that there was a familiar bag on the floorboard behind Barbs’ seat, but I wasn’t in the mental space to process it.

He was backing down the driveway and I was clutching my tote when my mother came out of the house, hands on her hips and the image made me smile. Halfway down the block he squeezed my thigh, which made me jump a little, but then he laid his hand palm up on the center console as an invitation. Releasing one half of my death clutch on my tote, I took his hand, weaving my fingers through his. Holding his hand was grounding and I took several deep breaths with my eyes closed.

When the noise in my brain receded, my heart rate returned to normal and my personal pet boa constrictor relaxed his death grip from around my chest, I opened my eyes. There was a latte by our still clasped hands that had definitely not been there when I got in the truck and I decided no matter what persona this guy tried to serve to the world, he was actually good. I gave his hand a squeeze and let it go to pick up the cup of coffee and bring it to my lips. “Thank you,” I whispered, smiling at him.

He grinned back at me before flicking his eyes back to the road. Through a smile of his own, he declared, “Anyone who has seen you uncaffeinated would agree that it's really not your best look, so I was doing the public a service, really. And plus, we didn’t have to deviate from the commute to swing through a Starbucks and Daze got a Puppuccino.”

I shook my head, all of a sudden overwhelmed by my feelings and all of the things I wanted to say that I couldn’t or probably shouldn’t, desperately wanting him to understand but also terrified of giving a voice to those thoughts. I tried my best not to run from them, telling him simply, “That’s not what I’m thanking you for, Barbs.”

“I know, babe,” he confirmed quietly, grabbing my hand again. I squeezed it as he laced our fingers together and rested them on the center console, trying to convey all of my thoughts, my feelings, my affection towards him and my gratitude for his patience and self-possession.

A thought wormed its way to the front of my mind and was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Hey, Barbs?” I asked.

“Yeah?” He asked as he flicked his eyes to me.

“Why is the waxed canvas weekender bag that I gave to Nora for her birthday last year in your backseat?”

He squirmed in his seat, “So, ah, normally… I mean...Well, see…”

“Mark Barberio,” I said warily, “What are you up to?? Oh, and why were you even at my house this morning?” I was most skeptical, especially if Nora was involved.

He squirmed some more before he answered delicately, with the tone of voice one might use when trying to defuse a bomb. “Well, see…” he began slowly, “I wanted you to have a good time tonight and I didn’t want to drive your car back later then get back to Gabe’s for my truck and have to deal with your parents, who, by the way, I do not like. And I thought maybe if you had stuff, you could spend the weekend with me and not have to deal with your parents and if you don’t want to, I will drop you off at Nora’s instead.” He glanced at me quickly, trying to assess how upset I was about this rush of information.

I was suspicious, but intrigued. “What if I want to go home?” I countered.

He sighed, “Then I will take you home.”

I took a sip of coffee before answering, “So, what you’re telling me is that you and my best friend conspired to get me out of the house for the weekend?”

He nodded uncomfortably.

I had been manipulated and controlled most of my life, always put in a position to please others and never given the opportunity to choose an outcome for myself, and honestly, this felt similar. In a way, I had indeed been manipulated. But, even though he had gone through a lot of effort and I knew it was without an ulterior motive, I felt like if I wanted to go home at the end of the night, even if it did totally ruin all the effort he went through, Mark would take me and that… that hit different. There was a difference, it occurred to me, between a manipulation and a surprise. And I think this was the latter.

*~*~*~*~*

She was quiet for a long time and I worried I had done the wrong thing. She was looking out the window as we drove and the silence felt deafening. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I ventured, “Clementine?”

She turned in her seat, looking at me evenly before she blurted out, “Would you drive me to Vegas if I wanted to go right now?”

I grinned, “Yeah, Lemon, we’d play hookey and I’d take you to Vegas.”

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she sipped her latte, though it faded as she disappeared into her brain again. In the last week, I’d discovered that, whenever she retreated to whatever dark place in her brain where she stored all the horrors of her life, I could put a hand on her in some way and the Clementine I knew would come back. I rested my hand across her shoulder and trailed my fingertips along the small hairs at the nape of her neck, the ones not quite long enough to be captured in her ponytail.

Unprompted, she said quietly. “Bill always controlled where we went and what we did. Usually, when I got in the car and there was a bag packed, I was about to spend 72 hours on an involuntary hold and I don’t mean to compare you to him, but if I knew anything else I wouldn’t.”

I felt the stitches of the steering wheel dig into my hand and I really, really hoped this guy had transferred to an interdimensional precinct, because if I ever saw him, I was going to put some concrete through his face. I left my hand on the back of her neck as I pulled into a parking spot, tracing invisible patterns into her soft skin. Everytime she revealed a small nugget about her past I had to fight the urge to howl and rip apart Denver with my bare hands.

After I threw the truck in park and looked over, her expression was not something I was prepared for. She studied me for a moment, appraisingly; then, she informed me, “I think I may have misjudged you, Mr. Barberio, and I think I would genuinely like a second date with you.”

This amazing, smart, beautiful woman wanted to spend some of her free time with me. I didn’t have a response to that, so I responded with the first word I could think of which, embarrassingly, was “neat.”

Her nose wrinkled, “Neat? Did you just call me agreeing to a second date ‘NEAT?’”

She unbuckled her seatbelt and I tried to cover my smile with my hand as she turned to snag her latte out of the cupholder. I hopped out and let Daze jump down, and as I rounded the tailgate, I snagged Clementine around the neck with the crook of my elbow and dragged her into my body. “Yeah ‘Neat.’ It’s Nineties slang for ‘cool.’ You should know, you were there.” That little crinkle between her eyes appeared and if there was a way I could ever tattoo the essence of the crinkle onto my body, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Despite every bomb she dropped, every horror I found out she'd endured, every unpleasant person or situation she’d been surrounded by that had tried to burn the life out of her, I knew that, at the end of the day if I got that crinkle back on her face, we would be ok. She would be ok.

As we made our way to the door, she stopped short and made a weird squishing motion with her fingers, “Wait! Barbs, beep the truck. I forgot the bag.”

I hit the unlock and she did an adorable walk/jog like she was hurrying but didn’t actually want to run. When she caught up to us, she had the handle over her forearm and I was holding her tote and Daze’s leash. “What did you need the bag for?” I asked, as she met our stride.

“I need to make sure I have everything… just in case. And if I don’t, I’ll have to run… Oh, shoot, I don’t have my car.”

I dropped the truck keys into her tote, “Uh, just take the truck?” I suggested, stating the obvious.

She looked slightly horrified, “You’d let me drive your truck? Just like that?”

I shrugged, “Why not?”

“Um, what if I crash it?” She seemed quite perturbed by this.

I had no idea where she was going with this, “Do you survive this hypothetical crash?”

“I don’t know. Probably,” she answered shrugging.

“Then I thank god you were driving my truck instead of your death trap classic, and I get a new one.”

“That’s it?” She stared at me, eyes wide.

“I mean… yeah? It’s just a truck, but you are precious.” It was both confusing and endearing and I wasn’t sure why it was such a big deal, but it seemed to be to her, so it was to me as well. And I was just fine with her driving my truck and was happy to tell her as much.

She started to recede into her head again and slung my arm across her shoulders and dragged her into my body and kissed her temple.

In the end, she did take the truck and run home for a few more things; she didn’t crash it, but she did come back spitting mad, after a run in with her mother. “The AUDACITY,” she shrieked, “The woman is an alcoholic because of my dad’s philandering even though they are DEVOUT CATHOLICS. And she has THE AUDACITY to question the fact that I might spend the weekend with a guy? WELL, GUESS WHAT, I AM.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” I backpedaled, “Ok. While I am loving the overdue teenage rebellion against the Fake Cleavers, I only want you to spend the weekend with me if you want to. Not because you’re trying to make your mom angry.”

Daze put a paw on Clementine’s thigh, who was leaning both palms against her desk. She took a breath before continuing, “You’re right. That’s not fair, but the only reason I was even CONSIDERING Nora’s was because of propriety, but the creators of propriety are FARCES and propriety is a made up social construct so FUCK IT. I’m going to do what I want.” I couldn’t help but grin and she rolled her eyes, “What, Barbs?”

My grin got wider, “You just basically told the entire organization within shouting distance that you want to do me.”

Her sigh this time was completely different, and I knew she had a moment where she panicked about embarrassing herself, but then I saw the exact moment where she decided, “fuck it,” and she grinned back at me. Of course that’s what you got out of that rant. Your ego knows no bounds, Barberio,” she informed me.

“That’s so weird, because neither does my dick,” I quipped.

“Unless it’s a woman named Stephanie.” Her sing-song tone told me she was more than pleased with that information.

I grabbed my chest, “Ouch, Lemon, you wound me.”

Her smile was teasing, “That’s ok, Barbs, I’ll keep the fact that it still works a secret.” She grabbed both of her bags and Daze’s leash and I swear she sashayed out of the office.

I jumped out of my favorite chair, closing her office door behind me, ‘Hey, no.” I corrected her, “It’s the opposite. You tell everyone it works. In fact, they shouldn’t even know about the one time it didn’t. You’re the only one I told.”

She honest-to-god GIGGLED and it was the most beautiful sound. She looked at me deviously, and bit her lip before she quirked an eyebrow at me and whispered, “Does this mean I have LEVERAGE over you, Barbs?”

I grabbed one of the bags from her shoulder and held up my fingers, spacing them about an inch apart and telling her, “Just this much. Only a little leverage.”

Her face scrunched, “God, I hope it is bigger than that.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes, “You are incorrigible today.”

“INCORRIGIBLE. Did Gabe get you Word of the Day toilet paper?!”

I put both bags in one hand then and hooked her around the neck and dragged her into my body. “I need you to stop being so damn spicy,” I told her, “or we are never going to make it to Gabe’s game night and Lemon, you aren’t ready for the Barberio Express.”

“Express?!” she exclaimed, “I know my bar for good sex is basically on the ground, but you have to sell yourself better than that.”

I just shook my head, amused and endeared by her, but also mildly exasperated. “Are you taking chirping lessons from the guys?”

Her fingers wound through my belt loop and I took a lot of satisfaction in that small gesture. She shook her head at me, saying simply, “You keep setting up the jokes and I keep knocking them down.”

This giggly effervescent Clementine was just another side of her I don’t think anyone saw, maybe not even Nora. When we got to the truck I beeped the locks and she suddenly pulled away and withdrew from my side. “Lemon?” I questioned.

When things were easy, it was easy to forget that she hadn’t had a healthy normal relationship with a human being for most of her life. I lowered my voice a little more and asked again, “Clementine?”

Suddenly, she seemed to find her backbone and her words came out in a rush, “Can I drive?”

“That’s it? You just want to drive?”

She nodded and I dropped the keys in her hand, saying “Ok.”

She hopped up in the driver’s seat, which was still set from her run home at lunch, and loaded Daze and the bags in the back.

Clementine hooked her phone to the BlueTooth and Lynard Skynard started blaring out of the Bose speakers. I arched a brow and settled into the passenger seat. “I didn’t take you for a Southern Rock type of girl, Lemon.”

She shrugged as she backed out of the parking spot with ease. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Barbs.”

It was a gorgeous Indian Summer evening; the concrete held the heat of the day but it was rapidly cooling, leaving the hint of autumn in the air to be pushed around by a warm summer breeze. I offered directions to my loft style apartment in LoDo. Clementine was a competent driver, but she did have to hit the turn signal lever 3 times before turning right.

“Hey, Lemon… what’s the story on the blinker?” I asked, as she hit it three times turning into the underground garage below my building.

She smiled, responding, “I drove this totally ancient Toyota Corolla in high school and you had to hit the blinker three times before it started. It became just… habit. Eventually, it got fixed and the very first time I didn’t hit it three times before turning right, I hit a squirrel and killed it. So… now I do it because what if I don’t and I hit a person?”

I pointed to the two spaces that had my apartment number spray painted in them. “I have both,” I told her, “so you can just park this beastie in the middle.”

She did as I suggested and put the truck in park. Her eyes met mine, and she looked mildly embarrassed. “You probably think that’s silly.”

“Lemon, I’m a hockey player. I don’t find superstition or good luck charms silly. If hitting the turn signal 3 times prevents armageddon, I’m not gonna argue with your logic. Seems like a smart play to me.”

I grabbed her bags and snagged Daze’s leash as she jumped out of the back seat and we made our way up to my place.

The building was industrial, with exposed air vents and sprinkler systems, electrical tubes snaking along the walls. My loft was the same: there was a gas fireplace in the corner, but the living room and kitchen were mostly walls of windows.

Her intake of breath was soft, but I heard it anyway and I got a perverse sense of joy whenever I gave her an experience that took her breath away. I hung the giant suitcase she called a purse on the coat rack by the door and set the small duffle on the floor. “Holy shit, Barbs,” she said breathlessly, “this is so… you?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, not entirely sure what to make of that assessment. But, it seemed like a good thing, so I went with, “Thank you? I think?”

“Did you decorate or your Mom? Sister?”

“Uh, no. I did for the most part.” There was a hot pink pillow that said “World’s Best Uncle” sitting on the dark couch, and I pointed to it, rather unnecessarily, informing her, “that was obviously a gift.”

A small smile spread on her lips; she sat on the couch and put the pillow in her lap. Daze wandered over and put her paw on Clementine’s leg.

“Meds? Do you want some water?” I offered.

Clementine gave the dog a pat, “Careful, Daisy girl, Mark is already getting trained.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*