Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

17. Sawyer

17

SAWYER

C oach let us out early today after a grueling practice, so when I get home, I’m ready to collapse on the couch. Kicking off my shoes at the front door, I hear Mrs. Pruitt’s shrill voice coming from the kitchen. Normally, I’d ignore her incessant chatter, but something in her tone makes me pause. She’s on the phone, probably gossiping with her equally crotchety friend.

“You won’t believe what that gold-digging tramp did now,” she hisses. “Left her paints all over the dining room table. Who does she think she is, Picasso?”

I freeze, my jaw clenching. She’s talking about Maggie.

“I know! And don’t get me started on the way she dresses. And her attitude…I swear, she has got more sass than sense.”

I clench my fists, anger bubbling up inside me. How dare she?

“She’s got Mr. O’Malley wrapped around her little finger,” Mrs. Pruitt continues, oblivious to my presence. “Prancing around in those skimpy outfits. It’s disgusting!”

I, for one, happen to like her skimpy outfits—although I know she favors sweatpants and hoodies when she’s home. I must admit, the shortage of skimpy outfits in this house is a travesty.

“And don’t even get me started on him,” Mrs. Pruitt spits. “All brawn, no brains. Mr. Big Shot Hockey Player!”

Wait a freaking minute. Now she’s bagging on me? I’d rather not be around for that part of her rant. I quietly make my way to my office, seething but curious to see how far she’ll go. I settle into my chair, waiting.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Mrs. Pruitt bustles in with her cleaning supplies, nearly jumping out of her skin when she sees me.

“Mr. O’Malley! I didn’t expect you home so early.”

“Clearly,” I mutter under my breath.

She launches into a litany of extra chores she’s done this week, each one more unnecessary than the last. I nod along, my patience wearing thin.

“I deep cleaned the refrigerator, reorganized your closet, and even alphabetized your spice rack!”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know her game—do a bunch of stuff I never asked for, then expect a fat bonus. Usually, I don’t mind, but after what I just overheard, I’m not feeling particularly generous.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Maggie’s artwork has gone missing. Do you know anything about it?”

Her eyes dart around the room, avoiding mine. “I…I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Let me rephrase.” I lean forward, fixing her with a hard stare. “Did you, or did you not, throw away my wife’s artwork?”

Mrs. Pruitt’s face goes through more expressions than a mime on too much caffeine. “Well, I…that is to say…”

“Yes or no, Mrs. Pruitt. It’s not a trick question.”

She deflates like a punctured balloon. “Yes, but Mr. O’Malley, you don’t understand. That woman?—”

“My wife,” I correct her, my voice sharp enough to slice through ice.

“Your…wife,” she spits the word like it’s poison. “She’s so messy! And loud!”

“What does loud have to do with anything?”

“Well…” she stutters, fumbling to find something to say that would incriminate Maggie. “Mr. O’Malley, you don’t understand. That woman is trouble! She’s always bringing strange men over when you’re not home…”

I lean back, crossing my arms. “Really? Do tell.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s eyes light up like she’s hit the gossip jackpot. “Oh yes, and that’s not all. She’s been stealing your watches, pawning your valuables. I even saw her kick that poor parrot!”

I feign a gasp. “Not the parrot!”

“She’s using you for your money,” she continues, her lies growing more outrageous by the second. “I overheard her on the phone, planning to divorce you and take everything!”

I can’t help but let out a snort of laughter. Divorce me? The absurdity of it all is almost impressive.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I appreciate your…creative storytelling, but if Maggie wanted to take me for all I’m worth, she’d have to get in line behind my agent, my publicist, and the IRS. And trust me, if she wants my money, it’s hers. My stuff is hers. This house…is hers. The money I make to pay your salary…you guessed it. Hers.

I can see the gears turning in Mrs. Pruitt’s head as she scrambles for her next tall tale. Part of me wants to see how far she’ll take this, but the other part—the part that’s royally pissed about Maggie’s artwork—is ready to shut this circus down.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, my voice dangerously calm. I lean back in my chair, fixing her with a steely gaze. “I think it’s time we had a little chat about your employment here. And by ‘chat,’ I mean the kind where I do the talking, and you do the listening. Trust me, you’ll want to pay attention to this one.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s throat bobs, like a criminal about to be taken to the gallows. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I open the payroll app I use to transfer money to the helpers I employ. I deposit a copious amount in Mrs. Pruitt’s account then turn my screen to show her the large sum.

Her eyeballs double in size.

“Do you see this?”

She nods like a dashboard bobblehead.

“This is your severance pay. Take whatever belongings you brought in to do your tasks and leave my house in the next five minutes. Your services are no longer required.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s face turns red. “But Mr. O’Ma?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I’ve overlooked a lot of crap from you over the years, and I think you’ll find I’m a very patient man. But the minute you disrespect my wife is the minute we part ways. Now, I’m asking you to leave quietly without making a scene, and I’m sure you’ll agree your severance pay is more than generous. Don’t make me regret it.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s mouth hangs open like a carp, and without another word, she backs up slowly like I’m the damn King of England. I feel like the Godfather dismissing someone who wronged the ‘family’. Not gonna lie, the power trip is morbidly addictive. No wonder my dad was so attracted to organized crime.

A huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how much of Mrs. Pruitt’s toxic behavior had been affecting me until now. I feel like I want to celebrate. Maybe take Maggie out to dinner—better yet, bring dinner to her.

Her car is in the driveway, so I know that she’s home, but I’d like to surprise her with something special. I make a quick trip to the store, order curbside takeout from one of my favorite restaurants, and pick up a mixed bouquet. Something bright and colorful—something that represents what Maggie is to me.

The house is quiet when I get home even though I haven’t been gone long. The sun is low on the horizon, and the house is dark. The only sound is that parrot making his nutty parrot noises. I give him a snack and I tell him he’s a good boy. As I’m leaving the sitting room, he tells me that I’m a big fat nerd.

In the kitchen, I chill the champagne over ice and leave the takeout bags and flowers on the counter before going upstairs to find Maggie. I take the stairs two steps at a time, excited to see her.

I knock on her door, but there’s rage music playing too loudly for her to hear me, so I crack the door open—just a little bit to peek in.

And that’s when I see her on her bed behind of a stack of her paperbacks, ripping them to shreds. There’s paper everywhere—pages from the books all over her bedroom. And tears are streaming down her face.

I freeze in the doorway, my heart clenching at the sight before me. Maggie, my fierce, sassy wife, is sobbing uncontrollably on her bed, surrounded by a sea of shredded paper. Pages flutter around her like wounded butterflies as she rips her books apart like they’ve personally offended her.

Slowly, I approach her, as if she’s a wounded animal.

“Mags?” I say softly, reaching out to still her hands as she grabs another book. “Hey, hey, easy there. What did these poor books ever do to you?”

She looks up at me, her eyes red and puffy, mascara streaked down her cheeks, and snot running down her face. Her chest heaves with each breath. I carefully pry the mangled book from her grip and set it aside, then take her trembling hands in mine. “Breathe with me, okay?”

She hiccups, trying to speak through her tears, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of sounds.

Turning down the music, I sit beside her on the bed, pulling her into my side. “Hey, hey, look at me,” I say softly, cupping her face in my hands. “Take a deep breath. That’s it. Now, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Maggie’s lower lip trembles, and for a second, I think she’s going to start wailing again. But then she takes a shuddering breath and chokes out one word: “Pirates!”

I blink, confused. “Pirates? Like, ‘ahoy matey, shiver me timbers’ pirates? Or are we taking the Johnny Depp variety?”

Maggie shakes her head violently, fresh tears spilling. “No, you weirdo! Book pirates! They…they stole my book!”

“Stole your…Oh.” Realization dawns on me. “You mean they pirated Touchdown for Love ?"

She nods miserably, clutching a handful of torn pages to her chest. “It’s everywhere online. For free! All my hard work, just…just…” She sniffles, gesturing weakly at her laptop.

“Hey, hey.” I pull her into my arms, stroking her back. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”

“All my blood, sweat, and tears. It cost me a lot of money to publish that book, you know.”

“I know, babe. People suck.”

“I feel so…violated.”

“Listen,” I say, wiping a wet strand of hair that stuck to her face and tucking it behind her ear. “This doesn’t take away from what you’ve accomplished. We’ll figure this out, okay? I promise.”

She suddenly sits upright, back ramrod straight.

“What gives them the right?” she says with renewed anger.

“I could get my whole account shut down for this, you know.”

“Really? You mean your publishing account?”

“Yes! Even when it’s not my fault. It happened to aome people I know.”

“Wow.” I find a box of tissues on her nightstand and hand it to her. She takes a whole wad of tissues and blows her nose.

“And another thing,” she goes on after a minute of stewing. “Just because someone thinks they’re entitled to something doesn’t mean they can just come take it,”

“That’s true,” I say.

“I mean, there are libraries.”

I watch Maggie’s face contort with rage, her cheeks flushed and eyes blazing. It’s kinda hot, not gonna lie.

“I’m just over here trying to make an honest living,” she fumes. “Just because I want a…a lipstick or a painting, doesn’t mean I can just take it. It’s theft!”

My mind drifts to my dad, stealing a lot more than ebooks. That doesn’t make her feelings any less valid, though.”

She whirls on me, jabbing a finger in my direction. “How would you feel if someone walked into your house, made themself a sandwich, and went to sleep in your bed?”

I wink at her. “Well, if it was you, I’d be pretty okay with that.”

She continues on, totally on a rant. “Like, if someone doesn’t have access to books, there are other ways…honest ways to get them. I don’t even remember how many free books I gave away just to get the word out. And there are legit free book promos all the time. You just need to sign up for newsletters to find out.”

“How can these websites get away with this?” I ask. “Can you send them a cease and desist?”

She sighs. “Trying to get them to take it down is like a never-ending game of Whack-A-Mole.”

“I’ll personally go over there and make them take it down,” I declare, puffing out my chest.

Maggie rolls her eyes. “A lot of them are overseas. One of them is in Iceland, and they don’t even give a flying puck who they steal from. Oh, and they have the AUDACITY to ask for donations! Donations for stealing someone’s intellectual property! It’s so trashy, I can’t even!”

“Give me names. Tell me who they are and I’m there,” I insist, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “I’ll get on a plane.”

For some twisted reason, the idea of avenging Maggie’s injustice is helping me cope with my dad issues—even though I know there’s really nothing I can do.

“I don’t remember,” she says. There are so many…maybe it was called PDF Oceans, Sea of Stolen Books…Pirates R Us…something like that.”

I’ve never wanted to call on my dad’s enforcers before, but now all I want to do is burn the whole world for her.

Fresh tears start anew, and she slumps into a sad heap. “I’m just soooo tired,” she says, sobbing pitifully. “I feel cheated and angry and I just want to quit.”

I’m struck by how beautiful she is, even when she’s a mess.

Gawwd, I’m in trouble.

I pull her into my arms, letting her cry against my chest, stroking her hair.

I hold Maggie close, letting her tears soak my shirt. After a while, her sobs subside into sniffles. I gently tilt her chin up, kissing her forehead, her tear-stained cheeks, the tip of her adorable nose.

“So,” I say softly, wiping away a stray tear with my thumb. “Was demolishing these poor, defenseless paperbacks making you feel better?”

Maggie sniffs, her eyes rimmed red. “Maybe…I don’t know. It might be cathartic?”

“Well then.” I reach over and grab two pristine copies of her book from the pile, handing one to Maggie. “Why stop now? What do you say we finish the job?”

Maggie’s watery eyes meet mine with a look of surprise. “You…you want to help me destroy my own books?”

I shrug, already thumbing through the pages. “Hey, if it helps you feel better, I’m all for it.”

“I’m feeling a little guilty about it now. What would the bookstagrammers think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She sighs and cracks a weak smile. “Oh, okay. But then you’re taking me out for ice cream after.”

“Deal,” I say, holding up my copy of Touchdown for Love . “On three?”

Maggie nods, gripping her book tightly.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “Last one to shred their book has to kiss the winner.”