On The Mend

Adam and I got together in the summer of 2007 right before his first full year as a Blackhawk. Our first encounter was anything but romantic: he rear ended me. His obnoxious Chevy Silverado rammed into the back of my cute, girly Ford Fusion going twenty miles an hour when I was completely stopped -- the guy at the auto shop said that if it hadn’t been for the camping supplies I’d forgotten to take out of the trunk the previous weekend that I would have either died or been seriously injured. They created a cushion against the force of the hit, I guess.

The accident should have been my first clue that Adam was a persistent little shit and that getting involved with him wouldn’t be the best of ideas but I’ve never been one to listen to clues. I tend to wait for things to be laid out in front of me -- I’m sort of oblivious to the whole idea of thinking before I follow through with things. That being said, I accepted Adam’s offer of him paying completely for the damages to my car so we wouldn’t have to go through insurance. I also accepted his proposal for a dinner date at Lou Malnati’s the next day to “go over details” about the accident but “go over the details” obviously meant get me loose on expensive beer and take me to a club where I would proceed to get completely smashed and end up in his bed because that’s precisely what happened.

I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to make a relationship out of a one night stand. Maybe I was feeling a little bit adventurous at that time in my life -- I had just finished my senior year at Millikin University and secured a teaching job at New Trier in the fall. My parents were finally leaving me alone about my choice in profession (my mother always wanted me to be a doctor and my father preferred that I have a career in law) and I wanted to celebrate my freedom from them. Try as I may, though, I could never seem to get too far without being pulled back in.

The first time I introduced Adam to my parents I think my mother almost had a heart attack. My father, on the other hand, acted like his best friend because he knew I was serious about the relationship. He didn’t like him, he actually disliked him more than my mom did, but thankfully didn’t react in the same dramatic manner. Even without a dramatic reaction from my dad, that night was probably one of the worst of my life.

I hosted dinner at my apartment, grilled chicken with asparagus, and everything was going well for the first hour or two. Adam was on his best behavior (I noticed that he tended to act immaturely when nervous or intimidated -- I knew he was both around my dad so I was more than thankful that he took my request to calm down seriously), my mom was content with her fifth glass of red wine, my dad couldn’t stop asking Adam questions about his career and I was simply sitting, amazed, at how well they were getting along. Dad never liked any of my boyfriends; he tolerated them. My first serious boyfriend broke up with me after meeting him for the first time due to my dad saying that he knew how to make deaths look like a medical accident.

The meal went smoothly. Conversation was polite, Mom ignored everything but her wine, and Adam kept his nerves under control. It was when Adam went to help me clean up that things got out of hand.

“What are you doing, son?” my dad asked him. I looked at him with a pleading look but he continued on. “That’s work for a woman, not for you. Here,” he pulled out Adam’s chair, “sit. They don’t need your help.”

Before making assumptions about my dad being a royal prick, please consider that this is the way he was raised and the way I grew up. Mom made dinner while I studied, she and I cleaned it up while he went back to his office for down time after work. He honestly doesn’t know any better and the modern way of doing things means nothing to him as he is set in his ways.

I should have warned Adam before dinner, I realized that as soon as he opened his mouth.

“Women’s work? What is this, the sixteen hundreds?” Thinking that he was joking about the entire thing, Adam laughed but when my dad didn’t reply, he shook his head disappointedly and continued picking up plates. “Ya know, it’s sad to see assholes like you still exist.”

“Excuse me?” Standing from his chair, my dad dropped the silverware still in his hand hard enough that it made a clunk sound when it hit the table. “What did you just call me?”

“I believe you heard me, Sir,” Adam retorted.

My mom -- my prude, slightly alcoholic, definitely drunk mom -- waved her hand at Adam and swirled her glass of wine so it looked like a tornado in a glass.

“Alan, hush, dear,” she said to Adam. “My husband is right. Doing dishes is work for women and I doubt my daughter is a lesbian. Though you are very womanly looking…”

While all of this was going on, I was standing in shock behind Adam, unable to do anything to stop him when he swung at my dad. Adam was too much of a man to respond to my mother -- I’m not saying his parents are better than mine but they did raise him to be respectful towards a woman and obviously my parents lacked in that department -- and instead hit my dad so hard that he fell backwards on to an end table, crashing to the floor. Within minutes he and my mother fled the apartment threatening to call the authorities, leaving Adam and I standing in the wreckage created by a petty comment.

He looked at me and I forgave him immediately. He had done nothing but stand up for what he believed in and I had to respect it even if I didn’t agree with his way of going about things. We cleaned up, I called my parents and got them to agree not to press charges (this was done by promising to break up with Adam which, obviously, I didn’t do), and then Adam left, still apologizing for his behavior. I’d be lying, though, if I said I wasn’t a little hot for him afterwards.

Adam proposed to me by placing the ring on the top of my shampoo bottle so I’d see it when I got in the shower to get ready for work. I swear he did it only because he knew I’d freak out and jump on him, naked as the day I was born, while he was still in bed. Regardless, it worked. We married the following Autumn at a small ceremony in the city. The only people who attended were his parents and siblings, a few teammates, and my best friend since childhood, Alisa. When my parents found out that I never fulfilled my end of the promise they were less than thrilled and only spoke to me between the months of November and January to keep up their “duty” as the people who raised me. Bullshit, I know.

The honeymoon was over before it even began as we constantly fought for the first few months of our marriage. Adam didn’t know how to clean up after himself, it pissed me off. Adam couldn’t remember to call me when landing in the city of his away game (I now know why), it pissed me off. Adam didn’t want kids after a year of marriage, it pissed me off. I had my faults, too: spending too much time on work at home, painting my nails in the bed, and my constant input of opinions on things that didn’t necessarily involve me were all common complaints Adam had about me.

But that’s not to say we had a bad marriage.

I was there for him when he needed me, he was there for me. We had fun together; after a win we’d go to a bar with some of the guys and kick their asses at pool while getting drunk off the least expensive beer on the menu. There was never a fight that we didn’t eventually get over and never once did I imagine a divorce from him. If perfect had a definition, or even a model couple, it would have been us. Or so I thought.

As previously mentioned, I was blind sighted by the cheating. It was the one thing I didn’t expect, especially from Adam’s end. His parents had such a strong relationship and he wanted to hold the same kind -- if anything, I should have been the one to cheat. My parents have always had a loving marriage and I know they love each other to the moon and back but they’ve had rough patches. From what I know thanks to Adam’s sister, their parents relationship had never faltered. Ever. Maybe the “loyalty” gene skipped a child.

At least he and I don’t have a child for him to pass his “cheating” gene to.


“Your place is a mess,” I say when I walk in. Adam is laying on the couch in the same position that he was in the morning I found out about his infidelity, that stupid Packers blanket draped over his bottom half.

“You should clean it for me,” he replies.

“Fuck you.” Old me definitely wouldn’t have been so blunt about it without laughing afterwards. This time, there is no laughter as I am completely serious. “What was so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

About an hour ago, as I was strolling up and down the streets of Dallas trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get Adam to sign the divorce papers, he called me and told me to come over. It took me a minute to figure out how he got my number but I quickly narrowed it down to two people: Sharp or Versteeg. The both of them had been competing since the split on who could get us back together first. Competitive assholes.

“I need you to do me a favor.” Swinging his legs over, he sits up on the couch and waves me over. I comply but don’t sit next to him. That would only lead to bad things.

“Why should I do anything for you?” I scoff.

“Why should I sign divorce papers for you?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I hate you so much,” I say. It’s a lie, of course, as I could never hate him. I’m just not his biggest fan at the moment (naturally). “What do you want?”

“Meet my team.”

“What?”

“Meet my team. The Stars.”

“Are you serious?” He nods. I try to wrap my head around the idea. I was introduced to the Blackhawks after less than a month of dating and I hit it off fairly well with most of the guys. I continued to grow friendships with them and I’m still friends with a handful of them; nothing Adam can do will change that and he knows it. What I don’t understand is why he wants this with his new team. “Like, seriously serious?”

“Seriously serious.”

Hesitantly, I nod my head. “Okay,” I agree. “But!” I exclaim before the grin on his face can reach his eyes. “We’re not acting like how we used to, okay?”

I know he knows what I’m talking about. Whenever the Blackhawks held an event that the wives and girlfriends (the WAG name has always pissed me off -- I am not an action done by a dog’s tail) didn’t have to do anything for, Adam and I would hold hands the entire night and laugh and steal kisses and be married without giving a shit who saw us. We were the poster couple for PDA.

“But I can introduce you as my wife?” he asks, hope brimming his eyes. He pulls the face and I can’t say no, emotionally or logically. Legally we’re still married and I know Dowell has been traded to the Stars. Since he knows me personally through the Blackhawks I feel like I have no choice, really.

“Yes.”

That was mistake number one.


I know from my first glance around the room that I don’t belong here. This is an entirely different experience from my first event with the Blackhawks organization as I was part of the group there the moment I was introduced to Patrick Sharp. But Dallas… I feel overdressed and under dressed all at the same time. The wives and girlfriends here are all wearing black and I most definitely am not, causing me to feel uncomfortable in the bright orange dress and purple heels I chose to wear. It seems that all the heads in the room turned to look at Adam and I when we walked in, the women to judge and the men to let their eyes linger in places where they didn’t belong. My bust does look pretty awesome, I’ll admit, but I know Adam has gone into protective husband mode which has my heart in my throat.

“How long do we have to be here?” I ask Adam as he hands me a beer. That’s another thing: all the women here are drinking fruity mixers. I am literally the only one drinking a beer but I don’t care -- there is no amount of money you can pay me to drink something other than beer or Jack Daniels.

Adam, sensing how uncomfortable I am, tries to console me. “A few hours, maybe.” I know he wants to kiss my forehead like he used to and I see that it’s killing him because he knows if he tries to I will knee him in the balls in front of all these people. He doesn’t get to do that anymore.

Even if I sort of want him to.

I’m in the middle of wondering why I agreed to this when I realize that Adam has no idea I’m engaged to Brody. Brody, my loving, beautiful, parental-approved fiancée back in Chicago awaiting my arrival. Will he mind that I’m being Adam’s real time wife tonight? Will this hurt him? Will this hurt us?

My train of thought is broken by Adam’s laughter.

“Sophia, this is Kari. He’s one of the goalies.”

I shake Kari’s hand and politely say, “Hello,” with a smile on my face. He responds in broken English but I catch the word Finland so I assume that’s where he’s from. Trying to not look like an idiot, I nod my head and smile until he shakes my hand again and walks away. Adam laughs at me and I punch his arm. “Why would you do that?”

“You’re so awkward,” he laughs and takes a swig of his beer. We’re standing along a wall by ourselves, apparently he’s too cool to mingle. “It’s cute.”

“Shut up,” I growl at him.

We stand in silence for a few minutes, each drinking our beers and staring at his teammates. I’m still thinking about Brody when Adam breaks my train of thought once more.

“You haven’t changed at all.” I stay silent, knowing I need to up my game. “Makes it pretty hard to try and stop loving you.”

A pang of guilt hits me for a moment until I reply, saying the only thing I can think to say without giving myself or my feelings away. I say it as I walk away and back to the table of beers since I have drank mine quicker than I probably should have.

“Shut up, Adam.”