Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
As I open the door, I metaphorically duck, sure she’ll be lobbing mom-bombs with her bare hands the second she sees me.
“Ford, I can’t believe you made me come down here. I’m nearly done packing up my good china,” she says with an annoyed huff.
“Why don’t you have someone pack it for you?” I ask, then instantly regret it. Of course she’s not going to let anyone touch her good china.
She gives me a dismissive wave of her hand. “Let’s pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
“Fair enough,” I say as she sweeps in and shuts the door. I scratch my head. “Also, how did I make you come down here? I didn’t see any messages from you saying you wanted to talk. Or warning me that you were coming.”
Not that she’d ask for permission, but still, this is out of the blue, even for her.
With a pfft, she whisks past me. “I didn’t bother to send one. Sometimes an ambush is what you need.”
I arch a brow. “What’s going on?”
She strides over to the couch, sits down, and arranges herself neatly with crossed legs, setting her red purse on the coffee table. “How are your ribs? Do you need anything?”
I blink, taken aback. I figured she’d come to reprimand me. “They’re okay.” I flash back to three minutes ago when I ran down the stairs—they actually didn’t hurt at all. “But you’ve been texting and calling about my injury. We’ve talked a few times. You didn’t need to come down here to check on my ribs.”
“That’s true. I didn’t. But I did come down anyway. Do you need anything? Ice? Ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “I saw the doctor two days ago. She said they’re actually healing.”
“Did you drive?”
“I took a Lyft.” I’m still thrown off by her questions and the fact that they’re so…normal. She’s not tearing me apart. But there’s time for her to launch a mom attack.
“That’s good. But it’s also sad. You could’ve asked Skylar to drive you.”
“Mom—” I start, but I haven’t even told her. I join her and slump down on the couch, the weight of all my mistakes dragging me down. The next words scrape my throat. “We split up.”
She simply nods and says, “I know, dear.”
I sit up straighter. “How do you know?”
“I had a meeting with her earlier today.”
“She mentioned it?” That doesn’t sound like Skylar. She’s good at keeping our secrets.
You don’t have any secrets with her anymore, you dumbass.
“Of course not. I was able to figure it out.”
“How?” I ask tentatively. But then again—this is my mother. She figures everything out. Her mind-reading powers are next level. I shudder at the thought.
“It was obvious,” she says. “She was trying hard to be upbeat. And she’s not someone who has to try hard. She’s naturally cheerful. I asked if everything was okay and she said it was great—just great, absolutely great, totally great. She said the same when I asked how you were doing. The three ‘greats’ made it clear. Then she had to end the meeting.”
Mom gives a sad smile, and it’s like a vise to my heart knowing I did that to Skylar. I made her…fake it. Was she faking the dancing a little while ago? Or is she just trying to fake it till she makes it through the breakup? I feel worse, knowing this. I say nothing, because I’m not really sure what to say except—I’m a selfish dick.
“So why did you break up with her?” she asks calmly. I was not expecting calm. Not after the “Did you know?” barrage of texts.
I draw a deep breath, hunting for the guts to tell her the truth, when she says, “Because you’re afraid.”
Thank fuck. She gets it. Relief floods me. I scrub a hand down the back of my neck, admitting it as I say, “Yeah. Can’t let the team down, you know? I really don’t want to do that.”
“Ford,” she says, gentle and caring, so I keep going, unspooling everything inside me.
“That’s the thing—I worked so hard to get where I am. To stay where I am. To fight for everything. I made a mistake the other night in the game, when Long Neck John was trying to strip the puck from me. I didn’t focus, and that’s how this whole stupid hit happened.” I gesture to my midsection. I debate telling her the full truth, but then—I’ve come this far. I let the rest out. “And honestly, I was kind of distracted with Skylar. She was there and she was all I could think about…”
Mom squeezes my shoulder sympathetically, then ruffles my hair. “You’ve always expected the best from yourself.”
“Exactly. You understand, right? I couldn’t let the team down. I couldn’t take a chance on continuing to be distracted this season. There were reporters who speculated I should’ve retired last season, when I was thirty-five. Thirty-six years old in the NHL…just like when I was twenty-four and people said I wouldn’t last. But I did last. I’m still here, and this is going to be my best year. I have to do it with no distractions.”