Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I’m reeling, a boxer slammed in all my soft spots, stumbling, slumping against the ropes as he hits me every place it hurts.
“That’s not what happened,” I choke out.
“Sure. Of course it’s not. You got close with him quickly, didn’t you? Moving in with him. Doing face masks with his kids,” my father continues, leveling his lowest blow yet, and I didn’t think he could hit lower.
But when the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally slams you into the wall, your knees give out. I grab the post next to the railing, my breath coming fast and hard, my heart exploding.
My father never loved me.
I’ve never been good enough for him. “Go away,” I seethe, but it fast becomes a sob, wrenched up from the depths of my trying-too-hard-for-him soul.
I spin around, grab the door handle, and yank it open in a tear-streaked haze, then slam it shut as big, gasping breaths wrack me.
I feel like I can’t get any air.
Like I’ve been crushed as I cry and crumple to the ground.
He’s an awful, cruel man.
But as I drop my face into my hands, one thought keeps shoving its way to the front of my mind—what if he’s also a little bit…right?
I am sleeping with my boss, and that’s what hurts too. That shard of truth, jagged and sharp, cuts me.
43
PRESENTATION TIME
Tyler
On the ice that afternoon, I get up in Phoenix’s business, cutting off passes, stealing the puck.
I race behind the net, fighting it out in the corners with a kind of loose and easy pace that sends adrenaline rushing through me.
It’s a natural high.
This is why I play hockey—for games like this. When everything comes together, and you feel on top of the world. Every pass, every blocked shot feels a little like magic.
The magic that comes from years of practice, performance, experience.
And…joy. In the third period, the Phoenix center charges ahead on a breakaway, chasing down the net, but I cut him off, smacking the puck far, far from him and right toward my brother’s stick.
Where Miles spins around and takes it the other way. He sends it skipping past their goalie’s leg pads, and it lodges in the twine.
The lamp lights. Yes!
We hug, because why the fuck not? We’re three goals ahead and everything on the ice is going my way. And maybe soon, everything else will too.
We hop over the boards, and I tug off my gloves to grab my water bottle and down some. “Falcon to Falcon,” Coach McBride says, clapping me on the shoulder, then Miles.
“That’s the way we like it, sir,” Miles says.
“Keep it up,” Coach says, and when he heads back down the bench, Miles turns to me. “Got your text. Let’s have lunch with Mom and Charlie tomorrow, ’kay? We’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks, man,” I say, feeling like everything is possible.
“I’m stoked for you,” he says with a genuine smile.
“Me too,” I say, then we hit the ice again, and soon, we wrap up the afternoon with a W.
Yeah, everything feels possible.
When I return home, I pull into the garage, then knock first on Sabrina’s door downstairs. Maybe she’s with the kitten. But there’s no answer, then the sounds of pots and pans drift downstairs.
Ah, they’re upstairs.
When I reach the first floor, I toe off my shoes in the foyer and head to the kitchen, but I stop short. Holy shit. Sabrina’s alone and cooking…like five things. In a whirl, like she’s an executive chef in a Michelin-star joint, she grabs a saucepan from the heat while stirring a different pot. On the counter sits a huge metal bowl with a salad.
This is…Thanksgiving-level stuff.
“Hello,” she says evenly as she lowers the ladle for the boiling pot, while dumping the sauteed veggies into a serving dish.
“Hey, Sabrina,” I say, impressed she’s moving so quickly and efficiently, but concerned, too, since there’s something almost robotic to her right now. “Are you okay?”
She lifts her face and flashes a closed-mouth smile as she spreads the veggies in the serving dish. “I’m great. Just making dinner for you and the kids. And the kids are upstairs putting on their jammies. After they came home this afternoon from their friends’ homes, I made sure they did their homework. I double-checked everything. Their math is so good now. Yay. And they both showered and cleaned up their rooms. So after dinner, you can put them to bed. They even fed the kitten and measured out her food, so that helped with fractions too,” she says, and holy shit.
Something is really wrong with Sabrina. She’s slid into Super Nanny mode for some reason.
“Are you okay, baby?” I ask softly.
She shoots me an admonishing stare, then presses her finger to her lips. “We don’t want them to hear.”
But maybe we do. “What’s going on?” I ask, stepping toward her, really looking at her.