Chapter Text

Hannah was in the living room working when she got the call. She was wearing an oversized shirt and boxers that probably belonged to her boyfriend and sprawled out on the overly expensive sofa, that Garrett insisted was vital for his video game playing experience and although she’d called it unnecessary at the time her muscles were treacherously relaxed. Hannah read the same line of music again and again, trying to understand why the cello wasn’t working with the harp, and she could feel an idea whirring in her brain when her phone rang. Loudly.

Hannah completely lost her train of thought. She stared at it in dismay, like the little metal rectangle had personally offended her, then reluctantly picked it up. It was probably Allie, and nothing would boost her mood after a long workday like her best friend talking a mile a minute with wild stories from New York.

When Hannah looked at the screen the number was unknown: not her parents, or Allie, or Garrett, or any of their mutual friends. The phone kept buzzing insistently in her hands, like a metal bee, and she hesitantly accepted the call, praying that none of Garrett’s crazy fan girls had found her number and called to personally offer her the same kind of comments they left on his Instagram.

“Hello. This is Hannah Wells.” she said, and there was a moment of silence before a slightly raspy voice responded. “Hi Hannah, this is Maya Lopez. I’m calling about… I was wondering if…” she could feel the other woman hesitating through the phone. “You’re from Ransom in Indiana, right?” asked Maya at last, and Hannah started to breathe a little faster.

“Are you a stalker or something because I promise I am not an interesting person to stalk. I literally just compose music — “

“Oh my god, no.” said Maya, like she couldn’t get the words out quick enough. “I feel like I’m starting this off the wrong way. I just didn’t want to jump scare you but clearly, I already have, so I’ll cut to the brief.”

“Okay.” said Hannah, slightly relieved and wishing phones still had cords like when she was a kid so she could swing it nervously through her hands.

“I live in Las Vegas. It’s a party city, but I promise I’m not a big drinker. I know how to hold my alcohol. I know what makes me blackout.” she started defensively, like she’d said it a million times.

“I believe you.” said Hannah, and when Maya spoke again her voice was a little calmer.

“My friends and I we went to this fancy club, the kind that lets pretty girls cut the line. When we got there, there was a team of guys celebrating some big win. They were all shirtless and yelling caveman style.” said Maya, and Hannah laughed a little.

“What were they celebrating?” she asked.

“I think they called it the Steven’s Cup? No, the Stanley Cup.” said Maya, and Hannah’s eyebrows shot up her forehead, remembering how Garrett talked about winning it one day with a longing she’d only ever heard him reserve for her.

“That’s a big deal, they must have been going all out.”

There was a moment of silence down the phone line and, when Maya started talking again, her voice had lost its breezy tone. “Yeah, they really were. And one of them came up to me and offered to buy me a drink. He was cute but something about his smile made me uneasy because it didn’t match his eyes. His eyes were just totally dead inside.”

Hannah pictured grey shark-like eyes, and amber coloured whiskey, then shook her head to clear the memory from her mind. “Go on.” she said encouragingly, and Maya took a deep breath.

“My friends were talking to his teammates, and I was planning to just take the drink and go but he made me clink glasses with him and drink. And as soon as I had a few sips I started to feel dizzy, like really dizzy.”

Hannah’s chest started to feel tight, like a giant was stepping on it, like there was no air left in the world to breathe, and she pressed mute, so the sound of her panicked pants didn’t make it to the phone. She tried to remember the breathing exercises her therapist had taught her: in through the nose and out through the mouth, but all that came out was desperate, sharp sobs as the voice on the other end continued the story that was sounding horrifyingly like her own.

“And he faked concern and offered to help me sit down but the next thing I remember is waking up back in his penthouse. I was so scared and confused and he wouldn’t even look at me. It was like I didn’t exist, or I was sub-human. He just tossed my clothes at me and told me to get out, while he whizzed up some protein shake. I stumbled away from him as fast as I could, down this hallway filled with photos of him holding medals and then a cup, and it was like twenty versions of him were staring at me from the walls with those cold, dead eyes.”

Hannah remembered waking up in a field after the party, freezing cold because it was almost winter and she wasn’t even wearing the pink dress she’d been so excited to buy at the mall, as Aaron Delaney offered her a predatory grin. “I never knew you were such a little slut Hannah.” he’d said, holding up her discarded bra, and sending her a look that peeled away everything that made her feel human.

“What did you do next?” asked Hannah numbly.

“I went to the Emergency Room and they tested my blood for roofies but said that most pass out of your system in a few hours, so nothing showed up.”

Hannah remembered the test, and how sympathetic the small-town police she’d grown up with were until they heard the name of who she was accusing. After that, everyone looked at her like they’d already decided she was lying.

Maya continued, like she was afraid the words wouldn’t come out if she stopped talking. “His name was Aaron Delaney, but you’ve probably already worked that out. I felt so stupid that I had let this happen — no, he did that. He’s a monster. And the way he did it was so practiced that I knew there was no way I was the first girl. So, I made a post asking anyone to contact me if they’d been through the same thing.”

“I didn’t see that.” said Hannah numbly.

“Not many people outside Las Vegas did.” said Maya. “His lawyers made me take it down. Then, I lost my job in a dance crew, and they basically scrubbed it from the internet and told everyone I was mentally unwell. But a girl still reached out to me, and then more and more did, so there’s ten of us now. I was sure there were more out there, so I went to his hometown and asked around and a couple of drunk guys at the bar were more than happy to tell me…”

“What a lying, drunk slut I supposedly was?” said Hannah darkly, echoing the nicest of the names she’d been called a thousand times in high school.

Maya winced. “Look, they called you some awful names and I know none of what they said was true because people in Las Vegas said the exact same thing about me. He didn’t stop after you, even though you were brave enough to try, and he didn’t stop after the girls in between us, and nothing except consequences is going to stop him from hurting more girls. The lawyers said we have a much better chance if you testify with us Hannah. Will you do it?”

“I already did,” said Hannah, remembering trembling on a stand and staring out at a sea of people she’d known since she was a baby and seeing nothing but hatred looking back, “and I can’t do that again.”

She started to cry, and not softly: a messy cry with red eyes and a scrunched-up face and a dripping nose. “Everyone keeps on asking me to open up and let the world see my deepest, darkest secrets: my boss tells me to put more of myself in my songs, my parents want me to go back to therapy, my boyfriend always tells me he’s there to listen, my best friend would drop everything if I wanted to talk about it. But I feel like no one gets that the past is a closed book for me. And every time I open it, everything goes wrong.”

There was silence on the other side of the line, and for a moment Hannah was scared that Maya would hang up. “You must think I’m such a coward.”

“No,” said Maya strongly. “I don’t think you’re a coward. I think you’re braver than anyone I’ve ever known. I found the legal side of things terrifying as an adult, and I can’t imagine doing that and going against a whole town at fifteen. But it sounds to me like you’ve already lost everything you can lose. You’re never going back to Ransom, Hannah. And it’s clear you have people in your corner, people that won’t leave you this time. People that didn’t leave you the first time.”

“Yeah,” said Hannah shakily, “my mom and dad have always stuck by me. And they’re still paying the consequences of friends who’ve snubbed them, and shops that refused their business, and every job position becoming magically filled when my dad applies. I think they’d have to move towns, or even state, if I testified again.”

“Sounds like an awful town. Maybe it wouldn’t be a loss.” Maya replied, some big-city snobbery bleeding into her voice.

“It wasn’t always.” said Hannah, wistful in a way she didn’t usually allow herself to be. “There’s this bakery that does the best cinnamon buns that melt in your mouth, and a Christmas tree farm that looks straight out of a Hallmark movie, and beautiful boutiques filled with dresses from each decade and tiny silver trinkets. The music scene is great for such a small town — “

“And when was the last time you went back?” asked Maya, and Hannah’s words froze in her mouth.

“Seven years ago.” she replied.

“Do you think your parents like living in a place where their daughter can’t visit them?” pressed Maya.

“No,” admitted Hannah, “but they can’t afford to move. Garrett keeps on offering to buy them a place near us, but they have too much pride.”

“How would their pride feel about settlement money?” asked Maya bluntly. “Because from what you’ve said, it sounds like your parents have suffered a hell of a lot too.”

“I don’t know.” said Hannah. “I need to think about this, I need time to process how I’m feeling.”

“You’ve been living with this longer than the rest of us and I doubt you feel any better than we do. It’s the sort of thing that creeps up on you when you least except it, like a cloud of grief covering the sun. Time’s never going to heal us fully, Hannah, but we can stop more girls from feeling like this.” said Maya, impassioned and full of fight in a way that Hannah vaguely remembered feeling before the legal system beat it out of her.

“If you’d called a few years ago the answer would just have been a ‘no’. I’m giving you a ‘maybe’. I need you to understand that I’ve been burned by this over and over and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through this process again without breaking.” said Hannah, hating how much her voice trembled and how she felt the ghost of her fifteen-year-old self, the ghost she’d spent years escaping from, starting to emerge.

Maya sounded slightly regretful. “I know I’m asking a lot from you but that’s not the only reason I’m calling. We’re doing an interview, all ten of us, with the New York Times tomorrow. Once this hits the news, it’s going to be a big deal, with a capital B and a capital D. People are going to claim it’s part of a culture problem in hockey, or that we’re just after money and Aaron’s innocent. People are going to try and dig up more dirt to swing the pendulum of public opinion either way. And I’m not exactly a private investigator and I found out what happened to you after one day in Ransom, Hannah. Other people will find out too. That’s why I’m calling, to give you a head up before the article drops, because this is going to be a media storm and I want you to be prepared.”

Hannah felt rage and hurt start to bubble up in her chest because sometimes it seemed like she never got a say in her own story. “I’m angry, I’ll be honest. I know it’s irrational to direct it at you when you’re just as much of a victim as me. I just feel like this whole thing never ends, like the scandal will be engraved on my tombstone.”

“I feel that.” said Maya. “Believe me, this wasn’t my dream as a little girl either. I just wanted to be a dancer. But life has a funny way of turning your dreams into a car crash.”

Hannah frowned at that. “Music worked out for me in the end. You don’t have to give up on dancing — “

Maya cut her off, like it was too painful to discuss. “Well, it’s one step at a time. We’ll be in New York tomorrow for the interview if you want to meet us. There are women coming from Indiana and New Jersey and Las Vegas, because Aaron kept on hurting people through high school and college and now in the NHL.”

“Did you say Indiana?” asked Maya disbelievingly. “I thought I was the only one. They let me get raked over the coals in high school, although…” she shook her brown bob ruefully. “I probably wouldn’t have spoken out after seeing the aftermath either. What made them change their minds?”

“You, Hannah.” said Maya firmly. “Your critics may have been the loudest voices in Ransom, but it sounds like you taking a stand meant a lot to them.”

There were distant sounds of voices, and an electronic, airport announcement: ‘The 9am flight to New York is now boarding at gate seven.’

“I’ve got to go.” said Maya ruefully. “We’re staying at the Callisto hotel on 77th street if you change your mind. It was good to meet you, Hannah. Take care, okay.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” said Hannah. “You too.”

She hung up the phone and stared at her discarded coffee, work laptop and blanket, positioned exactly as they were before the centre of her world shifted. Instead of crying some more or slipping back into the depths of a panic attack after that roller coaster of a phone call, Hannah just felt emotionally numb, like her heart was covered by a delicate, protective layer of ice.

Hannah's iPhone 16 A Pearl Mitski

01:40 -0:56

Chapter Text

The night and day after the phone call passed in a blur, clouded by an emotional haze that distorted time and space, a feeling that Hannah was intimately familiar with from her final two years of high school.

After Hannah explained that she wasn’t the only woman Aaron had hurt, and that her story was likely to be dragged out into the open again, Garrett tucked carefully into his chest and hugged her for a long time. A part of Hannah wished she could stay there forever and pretend that the outside world didn’t exist, and that the only real thing was Garrett’s sandalwood scent wrapping around her and the warmth of his body.

Then he stood up and anxiously paced around their bedroom, and the illusion shattered. “I’m going to kill Delaney this season.” he said, clenching his fists, and Hannah believed him.

“No.” she said. “Absolutely not. You’re not your father, Garrett, and I don’t want you to be.”

He gave her a tight nod, and then went to their home gym, probably to work off the rage that Hannah could see coiling under his skin.

After a moment’s hesitation, she saved Maya’s number as a contact and sent her a brief message:

Bob

It feels too soon to come out to New York and meet everyone

Good luck for the interview

Two blue ticks appeared as Maya read the message, but she didn’t reply and Hannah’s mind whirred overtime with a mixture of guilt, anger, and worry.

She passed the day imagining the other women: what they might look and sound like, what their stories were, if they were judging her for not coming, if they even knew she existed. Those thoughts kept her awake all night, and when bird song and weak, golden light streamed through their bedroom blinds Hannah carefully lifted Garrett’s arm off her, which he’d clamped tightly around her waist in his sleep, and tiptoed downstairs.

She made an overly strong coffee in her favourite mug, which was a gift from Allie, and said ‘Baby got Bach’, with a picture of the musician at the piano. After several sips, wrinkling her nose at the taste, she decided to start work early, and try to finish composing the opening credits of an alien abduction film that was due in by the end of the week.

Hannah was adding synth to the track to make the sound sufficiently eery when her phone ‘pinged’ with an alert. She looked down and her eyebrows creased with worry when she saw Maya’s contact, and Hannah scrambled to unlock her phone.

Bob

Hey girl

Just a heads up that the article is coming out this morning

Hannah stared at the text in disbelief, frantically dialling Maya’s number and letting out a sigh of relief when the other woman picked up. “This morning?” said Hannah, echoing the text. “Didn’t the interview only happen yesterday? I thought it would take days, or weeks even, for the New York Times to publish it.”

Maya let out a heavy sigh. “Me too. I thought we had more time to be honest but Casey, the interviewer, said that her editor decided it was breaking news, so they decided to push up the timeline.”

Hannah closed her eyes and tried to calm her frantic breathing. “Please tell me it’s at least going to be further back in the paper.”

There was suspended pause and then Maya said, “It’s going to be on the front page in print and online. This is the a new era honey, the newspapers don’t ignore us anymore, they just milk our stories for all they’re worth and wait for the guilty men to be let off by a jury.”

Hannah’s hand clenched around her phone. “If you think they’ll rule that Aaron’s not guilty, then what’s the point of all of this?”

When Maya replied her voice was a little angry. “There are better odds of Aaron ending up behind bars if our story gains traction and if we try, than if he never sees a day in court. And at least some women may read the article and think twice if he offers them a drink in the bar.”

Hannah softened her voice, “That’s true, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of how brave you’re being. I’m just worried about the reaction this is going to create. Some ice hockey fans can be…traditional. I think a lot of them will band behind Aaron and they’re going to say awful things about you all.”

Maya let out a dark laugh. “Tell me about it. You should have seen what people said about me in Las Vegas. Promise me one thing Hannah: don’t look online. Those men aren’t worth a minute of your time.”

“I promise.” said Hannah, already knowing she wouldn’t keep it because she’d never really managed to stop caring what other people thought about her. Some part of her was still that insecure girl just waiting for the court of public opinion to tear her apart.

“Get ready.” said Maya, with a note of warning, and then the phone disconnected with a staticky crackle. Hannah spent a few minutes obsessively checking the New York Times app, but the article wasn’t coming out any quicker, so she tossed her phone as far away from her as she could.

She tried to go back to her work but writing music, a process that normally felt as natural as breathing, was impossible. The notes slipped out of her mind like quicksand.

Garrett came back in from his work out, glistening with sweat and taking his earbuds out as they faintly blasted Bon Jovi. “Hey Wellsy.” he said, affectionately dropping a kiss on her head, and then shooting her a carefully assessing gaze, like she was a piece of glass that might break at any moment. He had been doing that a lot the last day, since she’d told him about the phone call.

Hannah tried her best to act natural and like her world wasn’t imploding, as she jokingly crinkled her nose. “Go take a shower and then you can kiss me as much as you want.”

Fifteen minutes later, Garrett came downstairs wearing only a towel tied around his waist, and Hannah took a moment to stare appreciatively at her fiancé’s abs and v-line before she said, “As much as I’m enjoying the view, you might want to put some clothes on, because you only have thirty minutes to get to practise.”

Garrett paled as he raced upstairs and, glad for the temporary distraction, Hannah whizzed up his usual protein powder and banana shake, which she found inedible, but he seemed to love.

When Garrett emerged again, tugging his shirt over his head, and then over his broad shoulders, he stared at Hannah, holding his equipment bag and protein shake, with dazed appreciation.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, Wellsy?” he asked, as he pulled her gently in and kissed her like he could never get enough.

Hannah took a moment to enjoy the warmth of his lips on hers before she pulled away. “Only every day.” she said teasingly, passing the clunky bag filled with hockey gear to him, relieved to let go off the impossibly heavy carryall.

Garrett lifted it onto his shoulder with ease, took a swig of his protein shake and then wrapped his free arm around her in a half-hug. “Call me if you need anything, okay.” he said, his tone suddenly serious again. “I’ll invent an excuse to tell Coach and come straight home.”

Hannah shook her head, her bob swishing. “That won’t be necessary, I promise. I’m okay.”

Garrett’s eyes stared at her with so much concern that Hannah felt guilty. Guilty for telling him, and dragging him into her mess —

“No.” said Garrett softly, taking her hand and rubbing small circles on it. “You have your spiralling face on. Whatever you’re thinking about me, or you, let it go because all you need to know is that I love you Wellsy. You’re my family. And I promise everything’s going to be okay, I’ll make sure of it.”

Somehow, when Garrett spoke to her like that with so much assurance, magically plucking the words she needed to hear out of space, Hannah believed him.

“I love you.” she said. “Now go, before you really are late.”

Garrett raced out the door in a blur of brown curls and Hannah took a deep breath, trying to repeat what he’d said to her. “Everything’s going to be okay.” she murmured.

Opening the article on her laptop, an hour later, Hannah decided everything was not actually okay.

There were already 200 comments on the article itself, and Hannah could imagine the internet reactions writing themselves as she closed her laptop. It was only a matter of weeks, maybe even days, before a journalist hungry to cash in on the media storm of the month would go to Indiana and discover what had happened to Hannah.

For the first time, she felt a tiny kernel of regret about accepting Garrett’s proposal, because his fame in the ice hockey world would undoubtedly turn her own, buried story into an even bigger headline by association.

Her hands moving almost against her will, Hannah opened her laptop again and she didn’t even have to search Aaron’s name on Twitter. She only used it to get updates on her favourite singers or see how the Boston Bruins were doing, and every hockey account that she followed had already tweeted about the article, and the responses were plastered across her home page.

Jules, who had turned the Fifth Line into the most followed account on ice hockey, had reacted with a link to the article and a scathing response:

Jules seemed to be the exception. Most hockey accounts were carefully neutral in their tweets, making sure to add a tone of doubt and to use words like ‘alleged’ and ‘supposedly’.

The hockey fans themselves seemed split, with various trending hashtags of support for the ten women or for Aaron, as disgruntled Las Vegas Tigers fans on a power trip wrote tweets critiquing everything from the women’s appearance to their character and credibility.

There were a few tweets expressing belief and support that filled Hannah with relief, and she could feel some of the shattered pieces of her faith in humanity starting to glue themselves back together.

The most popular tweet, though, was awful:

Hannah looked at a few of the replies, saw the word ‘females’ scattered across them, and wrinkled her nose and closed the tab.

Hannah heard a car pulling into the drive and stared at the time on her laptop in confusion. She’d been spiralling down an internet rabbit hole for a few hours, but it was only the early afternoon, and far too early for Garrett to be home from practice. Hesitantly, Hannah grabbed a hockey stick from Garrett’s spare equipment bag, her fingers tensing around the handle as the front door opened, and she dropped the stick when she saw her fiancé walk through the door.

“Hey Wellsy.” he said softly, wrapping her in a hug. She’d always loved his hugs: he was a foot taller than her and broad, so when his arms wrapped around her, and she melted into him, it felt like the whole outside world had disappeared, like she was totally safe.

Hannah emerged from her haze to stare up at Garrett in disbelief, half-convinced that she was delirious from exhaustion and imagining him there. “What are you doing home?” she asked. “Did they end practise early?”

“Something like that.” said Garrett, ruffling his hair sheepishly. “The guys were talking about Delaney,” he spat out the name, “in the changing room. Some of them saw the talk online after the article was published today. I left and tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up, so I told coach it was a family emergency and came home.”

Hannah looked guiltily at her phone, which was still discarded somewhere across the living room. “Sorry, I was distracted but I promise I'm coping.” she said.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” said Garrett, and then after a slight pause he added, “I think you should speak to our lawyer.”

“About the article?” asked Hannah hesitantly and Garrett shook his head.

“No, about your options if a reporter finds out what happened to you in Ransom. You were a minor at the time, and the court records were sealed, right?” asked Garrett, and Hannah nodded hesitantly. “Well,” he continued, “I’m not a lawyer but I’d guess that any journalist who reports the story could be in major legal trouble.”

“When did you get so smart?” asked Hannah teasingly, and Garrett smiled in a way she’d always loved because it lit up his whole face like sunshine.

“I had a good philosophy tutor at college.” he teased, and Hannah collapsed with laughter into his chest, as his broad arms held her up.

“No one gets to tell your story if you don’t want them to Wellsy.” Garrett promised her, and Hannah wanted desperately to believe him.

Chapter Text

Hannah woke up before Garrett and for a second she enjoyed the peace of his body spooning hers, and the warm sunlight warming their linen sheets, and then she reached over for her phone to see if she’d gotten any urgent emails overnight.

Her work inbox was clear, but there was another text from Maya, and Hannah felt guilty that she was starting to dread the other woman’s updates on the case against Aaron.

Maya

The girls from Indiana want to meet you in person

They'll be at a coffee shop in Brooklyn if you’re free today?

Hannah stared hesitantly at the message and then shot off an agreement before she could change her mind.

Hannah

2pm would work for me

She wasn’t committing to anything serious, Hannah reminded herself. It was just a coffee with three girls from her hometown, who had probably watched the failed trial, and her public humiliation, from the back benches seven years ago. Maybe they wanted advice.

The invitation was surprisingly good timing given the Boston Bruins were facing the New York Rangers that evening. Hannah tried not to wonder if the other women knew that. She told herself she was being paranoid.

Garrett woke up soon after her, and Hannah joined him in the home gym mainly so she could appreciate the view of his muscles rippling as he pulled his body up and down the metal bar, and partly so that the burn of her own muscles pounding down into the treadmill stopped her from stewing in her thoughts.

“Like what you see Wellsy?” asked Garrett, finally lowering himself down from the bar and ambling over to her, and Hannah hit the ‘stop’ button on the machine.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” she said jokingly, but as Garrett yawned and his shirt lifted, she took a deep breath.

“I need to go shower.” she said at last, jerking herself back to reality, and Garrett grinned, baring his sharp white teeth.

“How about I join you?” he offered, and Hannah tilted her head consideringly, inwardly relieved that he had finally stopped treating her like a porcelain doll.

“The team plane takes off in two hours,” she reminded him, and at his disappointed look she laughed, “but a quick shower together wouldn’t hurt.”

It wasn’t a quick shower. Garrett barely made the plane, giving Hannah a reluctant hug goodbye before he boarded, climbing the steps to the Boston Bruins' jet while still shaking out his curly, wet hair to dry it. Wives and girlfriends weren’t allowed on, a policy almost as old as the team itself, so Hannah drove to catch an Amtrak train from South Station to New York.

---

Hannah liked train journeys: their soft, rattling motion, and pressing her cheek against the cold windowpane as she gazed out at the rushing scenery. As soon as she sat down, she put her metallic headphones on, pressing shuffle on her Spotify playlist and grinning at the song it selected.

Hannah's iPhone 16 All Too Well (10 Minute Version) Taylor Swift — Red

08:25 -1:48

Four albums later, Hannah arrived in New York, and got the subway to Brooklyn, emerging to a sea of rainbow fabrics, matcha and wired earphones. She walked down the pavement that had absorbed the heat of the day, leaving the city sweltering and with a faint scent of hot garbage that made her nose crinkle. The background music of blaring taxi horns, a thousand conversations and bodega bells chiming merged, and Hannah tapped her leg in time with the city's pulsing beat, regretting that she hadn’t brought her song writing book with because she’d just been inspired to write the perfect jangle for a TV advertisement that she’d been hired to compose. At last, she approached the address that Maya had sent her, a small coffee shop carved out of an old brownstone, and swung open the door, breathing a sigh of relief as the ice-cold air-conditioning washed over her flushed skin like a bucket of water. The relief didn’t last for long. Hannah was expecting a lot of things when she walked into the coffee shop. She’d guessed that she’d probably recognise the girls because Ransom had put the small in ‘small town’: everyone knew everyone, and there was only one high school. But she’d expected them to have been in a different year, or to have sat on opposite sides of algebra, had thought they’d be about as familiar as a half-remembered dream. Instead, Hannah found herself standing face to face with a short, smiley girl with a wild blonde pixie cut, whose features she knew better than her own, a statuesque girl with boho braids and a freckled red head who was frantically tapping the table. She knew them all too well: her ex-best friend Olivia, and her former friends Ava and Emily: the girls that had testified against Hannah in the trial seven years ago. Her heart dropped. She wanted to run out of the coffee shop, hail a yellow taxi and drive until they were specks in the distance. She wanted to reach over and throw Olivia’s iced Frappuccino all over the other woman’s cashmere pink cardigan. She wanted to hysterically scream and make a scene. She did none of those things, as she politely folded herself into the empty chair. “Why did you do it?” she asked brokenly. “Why did you lie on the stand, and hammer the final nail in my coffin?” The three of them shared a look, as synchronised as her and Olivia used to be, and Hannah realised with a sinking feeling that they were a friendship trio. That they’d found comfort from their pain in each other, or maybe solidarity in their betrayal. Emily spoke first on behalf of the hive mind, now anxiously stirring her coffee: “Aaron roofied us, as well, but we were too ashamed to admit it to you, or each other, to our parents, to anyone. I remember convincing myself that I couldn’t hold my liquor, as though one shot of whiskey could make someone collapse. What we didn’t realise was that he took photos of us and kept them after. We never knew until you went to the police, and then Aaron threatened us and said,” her breath caught in her throat, “that he would send the photographs of us to the whole school unless we testified against you and said you were lying.” “You’ve got to understand,” Ava chimed in, calm and still as the moon compared to Emily, “how terrifying that was for a fifteen-year-old girl. It’s not like there was another school we could’ve moved to. Our lives would’ve been over.” Hannah’s eyes watered, and she steeled herself so the tears wouldn’t fall. She refused to be vulnerable in front of this nest of vipers. “So, it was fine to just ruin my life. You were happy to sacrifice me to protect yourselves.” Olivia shrugged helplessly. “At least you had supportive parents. You know what my dad’s like; he probably would’ve kicked me out in disgrace.” Hannah remembered their town’s pastor and winced in agreement, feeling a tendril of sympathy grow. “So, what made you change your minds?” she asked, and they all shared a look again, brown, and blue and hazel eyes meeting in sync. “You.” said Olivia. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted to give you a second chance. To give us all a second chance at ruining Aaron Delaney’s life like he ruined ours.” “And how exactly do you plan to ruin Aaron’s life?” asked Hannah. “Believe me, I’m the leader of his hate club, but speaking from experience trials don’t tend to go well for the victims when ‘boys with great potential’ are accused of crimes and it’s going to be even harder now he’s an NHL superstar, and not just a small-town hockey player.” The three girls shared another, loaded look that implied a thousand things were going unsaid and Hannah groaned, “Stop with the triplet telepathy and just cut to the chase.” Ava reached down into her tote bag and pulled out a laptop decorated with various animal stickers, placed it carefully on the table, opened it and turned it so Hannah could see the screen. “What is this?” she asked, baffled. “It’s the revenge bucket list.” said Ava softly, taking a sip of her chai latte. “We wrote this on the day of the trial, seven years ago.” Emily nodded fervently, shaking her iced tea. “We hated Aaron for forcing us to lie on the stand. It made me feel,” her voice quavered, “totally sick inside and I’ve been waiting to get pay back for a long time.” “A really long time.” echoed Olivia, in a voice that reminded Hannah of summers running through tall grass, a friendship necklace that separated into two halves, baking sticky cupcakes, and laughing deep into the night. Hannah broke off her train of thought before it entered dangerously nostalgic territory, pulled the laptop closer to her and scrolled through the list. “Some of these are more realistic than others.” she said, biting her lip, and trying not to laugh as she read the last item. date: [11/18/2016 19:03] title: [The Revenge on Aaron Delaney Bucket List] tags: By Olivia, Ava and Emily mood: For Hannah and us 1. No more hockey: not in the NHL, or AHL, or any ice rink in America 2. Prison for as long as he could possibly be sentenced 3. Broke: no cash, or credit, not a dollar to his name 4. Social pariah: he should be the one that can’t go back to Indiana in his lifetime 5. No girlfriend standing by him and excusing his behaviour 6. A total loss of dignity 7. The glow down of the century

“What’s the plan to achieve all of this?” Hannah asked, looking across the table at the women she’d once thought of as sisters.

“Well, aside from the last one they’re possible.” said Olivia, with a small grin, that tugged her cherry cola glossed lips up at one corner. “Most of it hinges on winning the trial, and a lot rests on public opinion. Part of the reason we haven’t stated our names openly is that we’d be seen as…” she hesitated.

“Unreliable witnesses.” Emily filled in the blank, her pale skin flushing scarlet. “Given we’ve already testified about Aaron’s supposed good character.”

“Under blackmail, of course, but that’s going to be hard to prove.” chimed in Ava, for the first time in the meeting seeming slightly unsteady.

“And if you got me to testify and explain that we were friends and you barely knew Aaron, that it was totally out of character, it would make your story seem more believable.” said Hannah, puzzling the pieces together, as Emily nodded her wavy, red head of hair rapidly in agreement.

“I don’t get it, though.” she said, still hurt. “Why now? Why not ten years ago?”

Ava and Emily looked at each other hesitantly but it was Olivia who spoke, her glassy, watery eyes meeting Hannah’s.

“Because I wasn’t brave enough then. Because I want to be brave for you now. And because, when I saw Maya’s post through the dance world, I realised that Aaron never stopped hurting people. That he’ll never stop unless we make him. I’m sorry, Hannah.” she said.

Hannah’s fists clenched beneath the table, remembering a younger Olivia, looking drained as a ghost, and staring at her from the witness box with vacant eyes as she said, “Hannah’s always had an overactive imagination.”

“I’ll think about it.” she gritted out at last, standing up and grabbing her backpack. “I’ve got to go, Garrett’s game starts soon.” she said, and they all knew it was a weak excuse given it was still three hours until puck drop, but they let her walk out the door anyway.

“Don’t be a stranger, Hannah.” Olivia called after her, and she said nothing in response, pounding her feet furiously into the concrete as she put as much distance between herself and the coffee shop as she possibly could.

---

Two subway changes later, Madison Square Gardens loomed in the distance and Hannah breezed past security. She shivered slightly because it felt like the seasons were changing the closer she got to the ice rink, and remembered in relief that she’d packed one of Garrett’s black and yellow hockey jerseys to wear, taking it out of her backpack and tugging it over her thin, blue shirt.

Hannah felt her body relax as she got closer to both Garrett and the rink. She’d spent hours in the stands over the years watching him practise and play, seeing him dart across the ice at lightning speed and hearing the ‘thud’ of puck after puck hitting the net. She loved bundling up in a coat, hat, and scarf, and sipping sweet hot chocolate or bitter coffee while breathing in the ice-cold air.

Ever since Garrett joined the NHL, Hannah had been able to stay in the family suite with the other wives and girlfriends and she was getting used to the luxury of the plush leather seats and expensive drinks. Normally she sat with Logan’s wife Grace, but she’d stayed home to keep an eye on their sick daughter, so today Hannah sat on her own.

Hannah held her breath as Garrett lined up at centre-ice for the face-off. He was too far away for her to see his face, but she could imagine it creasing in concentration, his normally warm eyes sharpened with focus.

Hannah prayed that Garrett’s dad hadn’t decided to make a surprise appearance in the crowd, which Phil did a handful of times each season, partly to swell his own ego by getting featured on the jumbotron, and partly to try and harass his son into mending long-burnt bridges.

All it seemed to accomplish was throwing Garrett off his game, disrupting the meticulous hockey he usually played – the mechanical product of thousands of hours of practice infused with his passion for the game – and instead leaving Garrett missing easy passes as his gaze followed his father’s disapproving face rather than the match.

Hannah’s attention darted back to the rink as the referee blew his whistle, the puck dropped, and Garrett’s stick hit it first. Hannah released a sigh of relief, her breath puffing into a small cloud in the freezing ice rink air. Garrett sent the puck in a swooping arch to Logan, who was still leaning a little heavily on his right leg after his ACL injury last season but managed to speed the puck into the offensive zone.

One of the rookies took a wild shot that was easily batted away by the goalie, and Hannah winced, remembering from Garrett’s own rookie season the telling off the kid would likely get in the locker room for such a rash shot later.

The players were subbed on and off in wildly quick rotation, and Hannah tracked Garrett from the bench to the ice and back, scared she would blink and miss him scoring. But the first period passed without a goal from either side, and the crowd was visibly disappointed, like a hungry beast that hadn’t been fed.

At the next face off, the centre for the New York Rangers whispered something to Garrett that made him snarl, and grabbed the puck while Garrett was distracted. Fresh from the interval, the blue and red clad players traded the puck in dizzying succession, and scored into the corner of Boston’s goal, as the home arena erupted in cheers so loud it made the ground beneath Hannah’s feet shake.

Hannah wasn’t worried. Garrett always skated well when he was mad with anger, almost as well as he skated when he was happy. He shouldered the opposing centre into the boards, with a dull thud that made the crowd wince, and practically sprinted down the ice, passing to Logan who passed it back to him. Garrett slotted the puck into the top left-corner of the goal, the goalie’s glove missing it by an inch, as the smaller Boston crowd whooped in celebration.

The third period was aggressive, the rivalry between the two teams building to a crescendo, as they checked, shoved, and tripped each other, with some of the players spending more time in the penalty box than they did on the ice. Garrett whispered something into the slumped rookie’s ear, and the kid straightened up with fresh determination.

With the clock ticking down, Garrett feigned a shot to Logan then sent it to the rookie, who aimed for the goal with a shot (controlled, this time) that travelled past the goalie’s blind spot, and the Boston Bruins won the game with fifteen seconds to spare.

The family suite erupted in cheers, someone popping a bottle of overly expensive champagne, and Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. Garrett never took his losses out on her, but he always seemed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders after a defeat, holding himself responsible as the team’s centre. Wins on the other hand…

Later that evening, Hannah panted in the hotel room, her hands wildly twisting the silk sheets as Garrett stared up at her with a satisfied grin from his position kneeling on the floor. Wins were always her favourite.

Chapter Text

Ice hockey was full of away games and days spent on the road. Given she worked from home and so that she didn’t feel like she was married to a ghost, Hannah accompanied Garrett for a lot of them.

That meant she’d become intimately acquainted with hotel rooms: large ones and small ones, king-sized canopy beds or twin-sized beds pushed together, bathtubs so large you could swim in them or box-like showers that only released jets of freezing cold water.

This time, at least, the New York hotel room had a large bed with silk sheets so soft they felt like sleeping on a cloud. Garrett was already gone when Hannah woke up, but he’d left a scrawled note saying: ‘In the gym working out. Love you!’ so Hannah decided to use the hotel swimming pool.

No one else was there when she reached the pool, and Hannah luxuriated in the peace and quiet, breathing in the scent of chlorine as she walked down the steps into the turquoise water and floated on her back, her dark hair streaming out behind her, and every muscle in her body relaxing until she felt weightless. Then, Hannah stared up at the ceiling as her legs kicked and her arms whirred through the water, while her mind moved even faster.

She didn’t want Aaron to walk free after the trial. She wanted to see his smug face blanch with fear as he realised he was going to face justice. She wanted him behind prison bars feeling totally powerless.

But, according to Maya, the large law firm that had agreed to take on the women’s case pro bono didn’t seem optimistic that Aaron would be convicted and their lawyer wanted to meet with Hannah while she was in New York. In a rare moment of spontaneity, Hannah had agreed because right now, her hatred of Aaron was outweighing her fear, and she wanted to hear how the case was going from the source.

Once her muscles started to ache, Hannah swam to the stairs and clambered out the pool, showered off the chlorine and joined Garrett at breakfast. He’d already loaded his plate with a six-egg omelette, avocado and four slices of toast (even years after she'd first witnessed the heaving tables at his frat house, hockey player’s appetites never failed to amaze Hannah) and she grabbed some pancakes and fruit from the breakfast bar, which was her go-to when they stayed at hotels.

“What time’s your flight?” she asked Garrett, pushing the pancakes around her plate because the smell of maple syrup, which she usually loved, was making her feel strangely nauseous.

“Twelve,” he said, “so I’ve got plenty of time. You’re staying another day to see Allie, right?” he confirmed.

Hannah nodded, “It's been too long, I can’t wait.” she said, pushing down a wave of guilt because she hadn’t told Garrett about her meeting with the lawyer. She didn’t want to worry him even more, given how unlikely she was to join the lawsuit.

Two cups of coffee, a kiss goodbye, and a subway ride later Hannah found herself staring at a towering glass skyscraper that said ‘Macmillan’ on the front in shining, silver cursive. She went up the escalator to the twenty first floor, where Larry Tricot was waiting for her.

“Hannah Wells, nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, and he shook it with a slightly sweaty grip then ushered her into his office. Everything about Larry was a bit crumpled: from his shirt to his jacket to his posture but, despite appearances, he was apparently one of the best lawyers on the East Coast.

“I’ll cut to the chase.” said Larry, sitting down and grabbing a black coffee from his desk that he slurped loudly in between sentences. “The case against Delaney just isn’t very strong. At the moment, the jury will hear ‘he said, she said’ and juries don’t do well with uncertainty. They prefer clear-cut facts and black-and-white narratives of good and evil.”

“If Aaron’s one thing, it’s evil.” said Hannah, with a slight bite to her tone.

The lawyer nodded in agreement, dabbing at his sweaty forehead. “I hear you, that’s one of the reasons I took on this case. But you must understand that the Las Vegas Tigers’ and their lawyers are going to throw everything they have at this because they don’t want to lose the chance of more Stanley Cups, or decrease ticket sales, or to bin all the expensive merch that says ‘Aaron Delaney’ on it. Financially, it’s far more convenient for the team to back him even if they suspect he’s a monster. So, their lawyers will present him as an upstanding citizen and a faithful boyfriend and argue that each woman is either hysterical or lying.”

“Let me guess,” said Hannah, leaning back in the plush leather chair, “this is the part where you explain how me joining the lawsuit would help you win the case. And then I’ll tell you what I told Maya, which is that Aaron’s ruined my life once already. I don’t want it to happen a second time.”

“No, actually,” said Larry, pulling out a small, embossed business card, “this is the part where I give you my number and tell you to call me if you change your mind. No one can make you do this, Hannah. I’d be crazy to try and force an unwilling witness onto the stand. Speak to your fiancé or your therapist or your spirit healer — whatever whacky thing works for you, then let me know what you decide.”

“Spirit healers are more of my best friend’s thing.” said Hannah, with a wry grin. “I prefer facts I can prove.”

“Well, let me know if you want to help us prove this case.” said Larry, returning to his enormous stack of paperwork as Hannah walked out of the airless, glass tower into the humid heat, her spine straightening and smile growing as she headed towards Allie, like a flower growing towards the sun.

When she arrived at the penthouse, Allie opened the door with a loud squeal of excitement. “Oh my god, I missed you.” she said, jumping up and down and ushering Hannah inside.

Allie was wearing a seventies coat from an East Village thrift store (Hannah still remembered her gasp when she saw it on a mannequin), a layered boho skirt, and cowboy boots which anyone else would have struggled to pull off but, on Allie, seemed like she’d stepped out of the pages of a glossy editorial.

She looked at Hannah’s cardigan and blue jeans up and down and shook her head. “No honey,” she said, “I love this for you, but this does not work for a night out in New York. I’ll grab some options for you from my closet.”

‘Closet’ was a bit of an understatement, given Allie had turned an entire room in her and Dean’s apartment into clothes storage. Hannah stepped through racks of turquoise, magenta and cerulean dresses; coughed on the feathers of a misplaced boa, and almost knocked over an entire shelf of vintage boots and Manolo Blahnik heels.

Allie started selecting and tossing various options for skirts and dresses at Hannah, as she leapt forward to catch them, until her arms were struggling to contain the rainbow bundle of fabric that she dumped on a nearby chair. Rifling through them, Hannah pulled out an asymmetrical red dress with embossed golden flowers that cinched at the waist.

“This is beautiful.” she said admiringly.

Allie grinned cheekily, “Of course it's beautiful if I bought it. I have the perfect belt and ballet flats to go with it,” she said, diving back into the sea of clothes.

Once they’d done their makeup or, more accurately, Allie had done both their makeup while they gossiped about everyone and everything, they headed for a bar in Williamsburg that Allie claimed was, “to die for.”

Looking at the faded sign outside and the slightly grimy looking glass plastered with so many posters they were beginning to peel off in layers, Hannah felt dubious.

Allie saw her expression and laughed, “Don’t judge it until we step inside. All the Broadway greats came here for a reason.”

Opening the door, Hannah took in the art deco decor and the photos of various, vintage stars in gilt frames on the wall. “Okay, this is kind of cool.” she admitted.

“Go grab a table,” Allie commanded. “I’ll get us drinks.”. Hannah complied, grabbing the perfect spot, and sitting down right before a hipster with a beanie, who shot her a dirty look before skulking off.

Allie came back to the table with a sunset-coloured Aperol spritz for her and a pina colada with a tiny umbrella cocktail stick and glistening red cherry for Hannah.

Only once they were both two drinks in, and at the point where they weren’t drunk, but laughter came a little more easily, and the slightly sketchy dive bar seemed enmeshed in a rosy glow that smoothed over the cracks in the paint and the sticky floor, did Allie bring up the article.

“So,” said Allie, rolling the ice around her otherwise empty glass a little nervously. “I saw the news about Aaron,” her glossed lips curled when she said his name, “and I wanted to check how you’re doing. And please don’t give me the kind of ‘okay’ you say to strangers or aunts or people who take you at face value. I want to know if you’re really okay.”

Hannah took a deep breath, her gaze roaming around the room and focusing on Allie’s assorted gold and turquoise rings, the elderly barkeeper with faded, blue tattoos and the walls of yellowed sepia photographs, trying to delay speaking. “Garrett asked me that a lot, as well,” said Hannah eventually, “and I’m honestly coping. I’m not that scared fifteen-year-old girl anymore. Aaron doesn’t have power over me.”

“That’s great Hannah,” said Allie, and then her expression darkened. “I can’t believe what his girlfriend tweeted.” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What did she say?” asked Hannah, who hadn’t been online over the chaos of the weekend.

Allie’s face dropped. “You’re haven’t seen it? It doesn’t matter, then.”

“It can’t be worse than what a hundred, sad people have already vented online.” said Hannah, holding her hand out like a silent question, and Allie slightly reluctantly pulled up the Tweet and passed her phone, in its sparkling case, across the table. .

Hannah read it and grimaced. “I wish I was surprised that his girlfriend’s sticking by him.”

“Do you think she actually believes whatever lie Aaron’s told her?” asked Allie dubiously.

Hannah nodded. “Aaron has this way of spinning a web of silver lies that sounds more convenient, and palatable, than the truth. If our entire town believed him, I think he could manage to convince a woman who’s already in love with him.”

“Do you think he could convince a jury?” Allie asked tensely.

Hannah nervously stirred her drink. “He did it once before. The last few days I’ve been terrified that a journalist may uncover that story but right now I’m wondering if I should ignore my fear and go through it all again because I spoke with the lawyer today and…”

“And?” prompted Allie, gently.

“Without me the case doesn’t really have a chance. There’s not enough evidence and three of the claimants, the women from Indiana, could be seen as unreliable because,” Hannah took a deep breath, “they were my friends and Aaron blackmailed them into testifying against me when I was fifteen.”

Allie’s eyes widened, a thousand emotions cycling across her face from shock to sadness to outrage. “That bastard.” she seethed. “And I know they were kids too, but they sound like awful friends.”

Hannah let out a broken sob. “The worst but,” she wiped her eyes. “it turned out okay because I got lucky when I went to Briar University and was assigned the most amazing roommate, who ended up being a friend, no, a sister for life.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to be roommates with anyone else.” said Allie, drawing Hannah into a hug so big she almost knocked over their drinks.

“Besides,” said Hannah, finally drawing back from the hug and rustling through the black leather bag Allie had lent her for tonight. “that’s not the reason I wanted to meet up.”

“Well, I already knew that. You came because you missed me, right?” teased Allie. Hannah shook her head and laughed. “I did miss you but that’s still not the reason. I wanted to give you this in person.” She handed an envelope to Allie, whose eyes widened with confusion until she opened the letter and squealed.

“You finally set a date for the wedding!” Allie exclaimed, her warm brown eyes sparkling. “Thank God, that gives me time to start planning my outfit. You’re going to be the most beautiful bride.” she said, the words coming out rapidly in a jumble of excitement.

“That’s not all.” Hannah said softly. “Read the other page.”

Allie pulled out the second page she had missed, read it, and then re-read it. “Hannah, of course I’ll be your maid-of-honour.” she said, her eyes welling up, as she slightly theatrically said, “I can’t believe that my baby’s getting married.”

“I’m only younger than you by two months.” Hannah groaned.

“Those two months were vital life experience.” teased Allie and then she got serious. “What do you need my help with? I have planning skills developed by two proms, three musicals and two plays and I’m not afraid to use them.”

“Everything.” said Hannah, dropping her head down onto the table in despair. “I’ve booked the venue, but I can’t decide what dress I want, I have no idea what to do about the caterers, and the worst thing is…” Hannah’s voice dropped into a hushed tone. “The guest list.”

Allie’s nose wrinkled. “Let me guess, Garrett’s dad is causing trouble again.”

“I still don’t know how he even heard that we were engaged, Garrett definitely didn’t tell him, but he’s been angling for an invite ever since. Phil keeps on sending these half-wilted bouquets to the house with notes along the lines of, ‘What are you doing next year? We should meet up!’

“You’d think he would catch the hint after seven years.” said Allie drily.

“Tell me about.” Hannah groaned. “Phil just doesn’t understand that Garrett can make choices outside of him, and now his son’s doing well in the NHL he’s desperate to claim credit.”

“Anyway, we have months to sort out the details. How are things with Dean?” Hannah asked, as she took another long sip of pina colada, and the taste of rum and coconut was so good it nearly made her eyes roll back.

Allie smiled, her eyes lighting up. “They’re great. I’ve convinced him to take salsa classes and I thought he’d be stumbling about like Bambi off ice, but it turns out his hockey athleticism translated surprisingly well into dancing.”

Allie showed Hannah a few videos on her phone, of Dean spinning and dipping her at a dizzying, fast speed and Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re good as well, like really good.” she said.

Allie laughed. “You’d hope so, after all the dance and stage combat classes I put myself through.”

“What does stage combat have to do with salsa?” asked Hannah bemused.

Allie looked at her with the utmost seriousness as she said, “Everything. Dancers are the most competitive people you’ll ever meet.”

Hannah laughed, “I’ll take your word for it. I’m surprised you had time while the show’s running.”

Allie had been the understudy for a Broadway production of Romeo and Juliet the last six months, and Hannah remembered how excited she was when she’d been cast, but now whenever it came up Allie’s face dropped.

“Don’t get me started,” she groaned. “I’m convinced Evelyn isn’t human. How can one person perform six nights in a row without breaking a sweat?” Evelyn Westwood was, according to Allie, a Broadway icon with the work ethic of a war horse, which was great if you weren’t the understudy desperate for her to take a sick day so you could go on stage.

“I haven’t gotten to sing at all yet, which means I need to let out all my unspent energy tonight. I’m thinking — “

“Absolutely no karaoke.” said Hannah, but then Allie looked up at her pleadingly and she bemoaned the fact that her best friend had the amazing ability to make her eyes look as wide and innocent as a puppy.

“Okay, fine,” said Hannah, crumbling, “but I’ll only sing one song.”

Three Abba songs, one Lady Gaga song and two dramatic renditions of Heathers later they stumbled out the doors of the karaoke bar with sore throats.

“I love you, Allie.” Hannah said softly, and the other girl held her hand and gripped it gently. “You’re the best friend I could ask for.”

Allie looked at her with surprising seriousness for a woman who’d drunk six iced margaritas, as she said, “I promise whatever you choose to do, and however the trial may go, I’ve got your back. You’re stuck with me for life.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” said Hannah.

Allie shot her a speculative look as she asked, “And if I asked you to sing one more song?”

“Now you’re pushing it,” teased Hannah as she hailed a cab, and Allie affectionately squeezed her hand.

Chapter Text

Hannah woke up when a wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She rushed towards the bathroom and dropped down onto her knees on the ceramic floor, feeling the cold tiles press into the bare skin that poked out from beneath Garrett’s oversized shirt, as she dry-heaved into the toilet bowl.

“Are you good, babe?” he called blearily, still half asleep, and then as he fully woke up, Hannah could hear him frantically rolling out of bed and he appeared looking unfairly gorgeous for six in the morning. She took a moment to lift her head and admire the bronzed expanse of his skin on display, dotted with a constellation of freckles, before another wave of nausea overcame her.

“Hannah!” Garrett yelled startled, kneeling beside her, and holding her hair back with one hand, as another large hand gently cupped her forehead. “You’re not burning up, but I think you should see a doctor just in case.” he said, his eyebrows bunched together with worry.

“It’s nothing, honestly. I must’ve gotten food poisoning in New York.” said Hannah, trying to keep her tone as level and breezy as possible, because Garrett had terrible health anxiety: not for himself, but for other people. Every time one of the players in the frat house had a cold, he would bundle them up and serve the chicken soup that John had taught him how to make. Every time a player on his team went down from a hit, Garrett was the first player at their side. And, especially, whenever Hannah was unwell Garrett visibly spiralled through time back into a terrified ten-year-old boy, hoping his sick mother wouldn’t leave him.

“I’m calling the doctor’s surgery.” insisted Garrett, scooping her up as soon as the nausea had faded, depositing her gently in their bed, and then frantically punching their doctor’s number (which he’d placed with a magnet on their fridge the day they’d moved in, and soon memorised) into his phone.

Garrett pressed an ice-cold glass of water into Hannah’s hand and began to pace around in circles as the hold music played, Für Elise tumbling out of the phone’s speakers as his feet carried him into the hallway, and then Hannah could hear his voice echoing through the walls as he explained the situation to the doctor on the other end of the line and walked back into their bedroom.

“The doctor agreed it’s probably just food poisoning,” Hannah relaxed back into their still-warm duvet, almost half-asleep, “but I thought you should see someone just to be safe.”

“Fine,” Hannah groaned into the pillow, burrowing out of bed as Garrett tossed her his oversized black hoodie, and some jeans. She slowly pulled them up her uncooperative limbs, barely awake, and put the jeans on backwards before realising and switching them the other way around. The hoodie hung comfortably off her frame, extending past the tips of her fingers, and the fabric was sinfully soft.

“I’ll drive you.” said Garrett, who'd already gotten ready, as he grabbed his car keys off the oak dresser.

Hannah stared at him, bemused. “Don’t you have practice?” she asked, and Garrett’s face dropped. “It’s okay, honestly,” she reassured him. “I’ll let you know how the appointment goes; it will probably be nothing.”

Garrett nodded reluctantly, tapping his hand anxiously against his thigh as Hannah brushed her teeth, to replace the sour taste in her mouth with minty freshness, and grabbed her handbag, as Garrett grabbed his own equipment bag.

One car ride at frankly ridiculous speeds later, their gated community turned into offices and then tall, red brick houses surrounded by lush green foliage and soon they were outside the doctor’s office in Beacon Hill. Even once he turned the car off Garrett gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Sorry Wellsy,” he said, “I know I’m being dramatic and that this is probably the last place you want to be at six in the morning.”

“Garrett, you don’t need to be sorry.” Hannah said softly, reaching over and holding his hands, which clasped over her own like a protective shell. “But you do need to remember that this isn’t like what happened with your mum. I haven’t been unwell for a long time, and I don’t have any awful symptoms. I was just nauseous. And chances are the doctor will humour us, diagnose me with food poisoning and prescribe me some electrolytes, okay.”

Garrett nodded tightly, and when Hannah drew him in for a hug, she could feel the heartbeat in his broad chest pulsing rapidly against her own.

Dr Mira Ramirez was sat in a rolling chair when Hannah entered, and the other woman stood up to greet her, everything from her calm smile, to her grey-streaked brown hair and firm handshake exuding confidence.

She nodded as Hannah, slightly embarrassed to even be there, explained the situation in her own words, and said that she’d been feeling nauseous for the last week.

“Are you on any medication?” Dr Ramirez asked, sitting back down, her fingers poised to take notes on her computer.

Hannah shook her head. “Nothing outside of birth control.” she replied.

“Well, then there’s probably nothing to worry about but given your symptoms I’m going to ask you to take a pregnancy test just in case.” the other woman said, and Hannah’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I thought there was no chance of me getting pregnant on birth control.” she said, feeling slightly betrayed.

“Well, there’s a 99% chance when it’s taken correctly each day,” said Dr Ramirez, “but that still leaves a 1% chance. Did you miss any days?”

Taking Hannah’s panicked breathing as an answer, she shot her a reassuring smile. “There’s no point getting alarmed until you know for sure. Can you hop up onto the examination table for me and roll up your shirt?”

Hannah swung herself onto the blue leather surface, lay down and let the doctor apply a sticky gel on her stomach, wincing slightly at the ice-cold sensation.

Then, the doctor placed a small scanner on her stomach, and the ultrasound screen it was attached to came to life. Hannah gaped at the pulsing black and white image, that looked like something from a neo-noir film. “Is that…?”

“It is. I’d say you’re six weeks along. Do you want to talk about your options?” asked Dr Ramirez neutrally.

“It’s a surprise but not an unwelcome one.” Hannah said softly. “We were planning to wait until after the wedding, but Garrett and I have always talked about starting our own family.”

She’d imagined having children with Garrett before: little boys with her blue eyes and his dark curls, little girls with his warm brown eyes, and her own sleek hair, but only as a fantasy. It had never felt like a reality until this moment.

Then, Hannah remembered the last few weeks and she frantically sat upright.

“Woah,” said Dr Ramirez, “everything okay?”

Hannah stared at her guiltily. “I drank three pina coladas last week.” she said, like she was talking to a priest at confession.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now, and one episode of drinking is unlikely to have caused harm to the baby. However now that you’re aware of the pregnancy, you definitely shouldn’t drink alcohol. I can give you a leaflet with everything else you should avoid, as well.”

“Thank you.” said Hannah, a little numbly, accepting the folded pamphlet titled 'What to do when you're expecting', with a beaming pregnant woman on the front. Hannah, slumped in her hoodie, did not feel very represented by the photo.

“When will I know the gender of the baby?” she asked.

“I can tell you for certain at around four months.” said Dr Ramirez.

Hannah’s mind raced through the possibilities and looked back at the last decade she’d spent suffering at the hands of a man, long after those hands had left her. A tiny part of her hoped she wouldn’t have a daughter, because even though she'd always wanted a little girl Hannah had no idea how she would protect her from the world around them.

“I’ll see you again in another six weeks. At that point, once the first trimester ends, the risk of a miscarriage significantly drops, so that’s when I’d recommend sharing the news with friends and family.” said Dr Ramirez.

Hannah paused, fidgeting nervously with the leaflet. “My fiancé gets very worried about my health. I think he’d freak out if he knew about the baby.” she said.

“Normally, patients tell their partners right away, but it’s up to you what you decide to do.” said Dr Ramirez, who prescribed her with a bottle of folic acid and prenatal vitamins as Hannah’s head spun.

She sent a quick text to reassure Garret, who would be at practice until late with the conference finals approaching that weekend, that it was nothing and then went back home, with the sensation that the earth had shifted beneath her feet.

Recently, Hannah’s work had fallen by the wayside. Half the time, when she opened her laptop to write sheet music, she’d ended up refreshing hockey Twitter threads, unable to stop herself from seeing how the public were reacting to women who’d been through the same experience she had.

The other half of the time, she managed to work but the music came out distorted: happy jingles emerged in a minor key, or upbeat melodies would have fragmented, jagged guitar accompaniments that made them unusable.

Maybe, Hannah thought, if she vented her emotions into a song just for her, then they wouldn’t make their unwelcome presence known in every line of music she tried to write for work.

Hannah no longer had a total mental block on pop music: ever since her college showcase, she’d scribbled lyrics in notebooks or recorded choruses in her phone. But somehow, ever since music became her full-time career, she’d stopped sharing what she created for herself with other people.

Hannah chose D major for the song’s key because she wanted something upbeat to offset the sadness in the lyrics, something to represent the joy alongside the pain of the last few years.

Then, for the chords she tried A sharp, C sharp and F sharp for the introduction, her fingers pressing gently into the piano and kneading out sound.

For the chorus she alternated between D sharp, C sharp, F sharp and G sharp, recording the piano live and then using her computer to layer over the deep beat of drums, the electric zing of a guitar and synthesizers, and the reverberating thrum of a string orchestra.

Finally, she pulled out her songwriting book, and flipping through the pages felt like looking through a time capsule until she at last reached a blank page and grabbed her pen to jot down lyrics:

You’re like a poison living in
my bloodstream waiting for the time
when I let my guard down, let the love in
and I pay penance for that crime.

And he’s got so much care to spend on me
he makes loving seem like art
but his gentle hands can’t glue every crack in my
porcelain heart.

She recorded herself singing the vocals, starting with a breathy tone that transitioned to a raspy, confessional verse, and layered the recording over the background music. Then, she attached the file and emailed it to Justin to get his opinion, pressing send before she could change her mind.

Justin’s band After Hours had been blowing up in the last few years, and by the end of college the tense, frosty relationship between her and Justin had transitioned into a collaborative one. He’d asked for her help co-writing three songs on their last album and was always encouraging Hannah to send her own music over.

Her work finished for the day, Hannah ended up scrolling through music videos and clips of the Boston Bruins and then, almost reflexively, she headed onto Reddit. The top two ice hockey threads were full of heated fans predicting the outcome of the Eastern and Western conference finals that would be taking place soon.

The third thread, though, was still about Aaron:

Hannah rested her head in her hands, taking deep breaths, and reminded herself that this would all be over in three months, one way or another. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest, and the worry that the justice system would let yet another monster walk free, emboldening all the other ones in the shadows.

The day of the Eastern Conference finals, the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins streamed out onto the ice, skating dizzyingly fast as the crowd roared like a hungry beast.

Hannah was sat in the family suite, which was quieter than the rest of the TD Garden arena, a shared anxiety vibrating between player’s loved ones until the first puck dropped on the ice.

Grace offered Hannah a lemonade and she grinned at the blonde, freckled woman.

“Thank you.” Hannah said, her voice slightly hoarse because Garrett always asked Hannah to sing to him on match days to calm him down, so she’d spent that morning singing seventies and eighties classics until he’d left to warm up.

The two teams were well-matched: every attempt to send the puck soaring through the neutral zone was blocked and it made for a frustratingly static first period, the clock ticking almost painfully slowly as time passed without a goal.

The second period, though, was brutal as the players released their pent-up frustration on one another, and most of the players joined in on a brawl in a blur of red, blue, black and yellow fabric, and flying fists. Even the two goalies skated down the ice and dropped their mitts to lunge at each other, and the crowd roared so loudly that it felt like the ground beneath Hannah’s feet was shaking.

After his five minutes in the penalty box, Garrett vaulted over the side of the rink onto the ice again, skating slowly to start and then exploding into a burst of speed when he saw a gap in the opposition. He darted through and grabbed the puck, practically dancing across the ice, and swung his stick from behind with one arm, sending the puck soaring into the goal.

Hannah cheered loudly, joining most of the stadium in celebrating, as her heart pounded with adrenaline.

The third period opened with a score by Montreal’s centre, who barely had a moment to celebrate before Logan swept up the ice with the puck, passing it to Garrett and then to their left-winger, who sent it back to Logan just in time for him to shoot it straight into the goal.

Grace whooped next to Hannah, hugging her tightly, and Grace’s cheeks flushed as her mouth stretched into a giant smile.

The rest of the game passed with Boston displaying an almost brutal, single-minded focus on keeping Montreal away from the net, and when the game ended the Boston players dropped their sticks and leapt together to embrace one another in a huddle, with Garrett at the centre.

The huddle dispersed and Garrett accepted the Prince of Wales trophy when the Commissioner handed it to him, holding the silver trophy high over his head as it glinted in the rink’s flood lights and grinned triumphantly for the cameras and crowd before passing it to Logan.

The jumbotron showed Garrett skating off the ice, and the crowd murmured in confusion as he headed for the third row, where a boy was sat wearing child-sized number 44 jumper, though he was still drowning in the smallest size. His eyes became wide as saucers when Garrett walked closer. Garrett said something to the boy and ruffled his head, then passed him his hockey stick. For a second, Hannah worried it would be too heavy and the kid would drop it, but he gripped it so tightly with his small fingers it looked like he would never let go, his eyes shining and magnified on the screen.

Hannah pressed her hands gently against her stomach and figured maybe they’d be all right after all.

She made her way down the steps onto the ice, with the rest of the players’ families, and Garrett returned to the ice and skated straight towards her, picking her up and spinning her around in a hug.

“I love you Wellsy.” he said like a prayer, and she kissed him softly in response.