Chapter 27
Kieran
ALLIE
please send me photos of my grandbaby
don’t make me hound poor Layla
KIERAN
*photo attachment*
my dumbass thought it would be easy to feed her spaghetti
never again
some spots on my wall are still red from where she threw the food
ALLIE
AWWWWW
that’s it I’m packing my bags and coming back
KIERAN
you left yesterday
ALLIE
exactly
one day too long being away from my grandbaby
Aweek later, I’m sitting in the locker room, my head hanging in shame, the air thick with it. We’re all but choking on it.
We lost.
Scratch that, we didn’t just lose, we were annihilated.
I have no fucking idea what went wrong but everything was off. Hell, even Grayson and I were out of sync tonight. The moves we always perform smoothly felt like skating over gravel—wobbly, painful, and frustrating.
The twin devils, as everyone refers to us, were nowhere to be seen.
Irving’s frustration explodes with a kick, the sound of his foot connecting with the locker as loud as thunder as it booms throughout the otherwise silent room.
The door swings open to my right and Coach walks in. With his flushed neck, protruding veins, and tight eyes, he’s living up to the nickname I gave him my rookie season—the bull.
Fuck, even Olivia Foster, the assistant coach, looks like she sucked on a lemon as she trails behind Coach. They stand beside one another, looking at us like we’ve not only disappointed them but sacrificed their firstborns with that loss.
Coach blows out a breath, rubbing his hand along his five o’clock shadow. “Well, we all know that game was rubbish.”
Irving, sitting on the bench across from me, snorts. “Rubbish is an understatement.”
“It was shocking.”
“Beyond,” Foster mumbles under her breath.
“I have no idea what the fuck that was, but whatever bad juju crawled up your asses, yank it the fuck out,” Coach thunders.
“I expect you to come to practice next week as if you are NHL players being paid millions to slap a fucking puck and not amateurs.” Coach takes a deep breath to get a handle on his emotions.
“I’m choosing to chalk this up to a momentary lapse in judgment on all your parts.
But if you all play like sloppy two-year-olds in next week’s game, I’ll hang you by your balls and make you do suicides until you bleed. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach,” we collectively murmur.
He dips his chin, spinning on his heel as he shakes his head and leaves. Olivia gives us a final look before she follows.
Irving groans. “What the fuck happened tonight?”
“Bloody beats me. It’s been a long time since I’ve played like that,” Grayson admits, grimacing as he no doubt remembers the time where he was at the bottom of a bottle.
Mitchel rises, narrowing his eyes as he assesses us all. “Who fucked up their pre-game ritual? No one can convince me we weren’t fucking hexed tonight.”
The boys hold up their hands in surrender, all shaking their heads.
Mitchel spins on Irving suddenly. “Did you piss off a bunny again?”
Irving glares back. “What has that got to do with how we played?”
“She could have hexed us,” Johnson points out.
I snort. “Let’s not go down this rabbit hole, boys.”
Grayson rises. “Kieran’s right, let’s just say it was an off night and move on.
Focus on how we skate in practice and work on it not happening again.
Now go lick your wounds in solitude. I don’t want to see any rowdy shit in the press tomorrow, otherwise another vein is gonna pop up on Coach’s forehead. ”
Murmurs of “Yes, Cap” follow suit as everyone, begrudgingly, begins to shower and gets ready to head home.
Grayson shuts his locker. “At least the girls didn’t make the trip out tonight.”
“God, that would have been a waste of time. 0-5? I’m disgusted.” A full body shiver wracks through me. “I feel dirty.”
“Are hexes real, you think?”
“Did you never watch anything spooky or witchy growing up?”
“No, it was always set to the sports channel.” He gives me a look. “Your TV taste is interesting, Ashford.”
I try to brush off the comment by bumping his shoulder and grabbing my towel to head for the showers. “And your TV palette is boring. You have to refine your taste.”
Grayson just laughs with me and the slight tension in my chest loosens.
He’s not wrong, I didn’t watch the typical shows boys my age would growing up. That was only because the girls in the foster home outnumbered the boys, and the show we’d play would always come down to a vote.
There was so much Hannah Montana, I can still sing her songs word for word.
Stepping into the showers, my ears are assaulted by Irving screeching at the top of his lungs. The guys and I all collectively groan.
“Dude!” Johnson snaps from a stall farther down from mine. “We lost, you don’t need to add to our misery with your fucking cat-like screaming.”
“I take personal offense to that! Taylor Swift makes everything better.”
“Fucking Irving,” O’Connor mutters as he moves into the stall next to mine.
No matter how much everyone yells at him, Irving never lets up and that’s why I find myself sighing as I slide into my car, relieved to hear nothing but silence.
The tiredness weighing upon me isn’t just from the game nor the defeat hanging over my head. It’s…everything.
My mind is churning, and no matter how many times I try to get off what feels like a Tilt-A-Whirl, I’m thrown into a deeper pit of endless streaming thoughts.
Everything from this past week continues to assault me, one after the other, piling up until it resembles a junkyard.
Emmy hasn’t spoken since the barbeque a week and a half ago. Not another peep. And trust me, I have tried everything.
That high I felt with Layla that night at the bar was a comedown like I’ve never experienced before, going from the highest of highs to being smashed by life until I was splattered on the ground unwilling to get up.
As happy as I was that day at the barbeque I feel like I’m back to square one with her. I read books to her every night before bed. I ask her questions instead of just telling her what to do. Fuck, she’s in therapy three times a week, and still nothing.
Every day that goes by and I don’t hear my baby girl speak is another day a splinter cracks my heart.
I’ve never wanted answers to something outside of my control so desperately. No words are uttered in therapy and despite being told that it takes time for trust to build, I’m getting antsy.
I want to know what her mother did to her.
I need to know.
Not only so the what-ifs that run through my mind on a loop like a horror movie can stop, but so I can help her heal. I more than understand the ramifications a horrendous parent can have on your mind.
Fuck, I still can’t sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat after having nightmares of the matron and everything she did to me. Every time I’m reminded my little girl was in her care for two weeks, bile rushes up my throat.
I sent off a message to the private investigator, have already paid the deposit, and despite knowing he said he needed two weeks, I keep checking my phone like a girl waiting for a text from a guy after a first date.
What if Emmy never speaks?
The therapist says the chances of that are low, but it’s been nearly two months since she was handed to me, and if she’s still not talking, does that mean she doesn’t feel safe with me?
Her carefree smiles and big round eyes give the impression that she does, but then there’s times like tonight where I fall into a hole so deep, I fear I’ll never be able to crawl out.
And it makes me wonder, am I doing this right?
Sometimes I feel like the best dad in the world and then sometimes I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing and using Google far too much.
Every night I sit in her room for an hour or two flicking between listening to one of Layla’s books and a parenting one and trust me the vast difference in them is jarring.
Who the fuck was going to tell me that you need to start applying for schools when they’re three because the acceptance rate of any decent school is slim to none?
Someone commented in the review section of one of my parenting books wishing they had listened to it sooner to help with their son’s tantrums because he had one during a school interview and was denied… denied!
He’s four for fuck’s sake and already doomed.
As my chest starts to get that uncomfortable tightness, and the flashes of the foster home berate my mind, I let out a scream of frustration before quickly pulling my car over on the side of the road.
“I can’t fucking do this!” I cry as I unbuckle my seat belt and throw myself out of the car.
The crisp night air assaults my body.
Taking a deep breath, I look up and down the road, realizing I’m not that far from my house. Fucking hell, now I’m praying Grayson left before me so he doesn’t find me on the side of the road trying not to have a panic attack.
Squatting, I put my head between my knees and breath in for four and out for six. Remembering the age old breathing technique Allie taught me when a panic attack would sneak up on me.
It’s been a really long fucking time since I’ve had one.
And yet here I am on the side of the road after a game, my vision spotting, my hands shaking, my chest turning unbearably tight as my imagination conjures up reasons for Emmy’s mutism.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to stop the images but all that does is make the silver that was lining my eyes roll down my cheeks. My chest tightens further until I’m wincing in pain, clutching my shirt like I can pull my lungs apart and give myself enough room to breathe.
Am I doing this right?
Will Emmy ever be okay?
What if she never speaks to me again?
How do I heal something that’s a permanent scar?
I don’t know what to do anymore.
I always wanted more for my future children and before I even had a chance to give Emmy the childhood she so rightfully deserves, hers was tainted.
I can try and make it up to her, I can love her and care for her and provide a safe home for as long as I live, but I’ll never be able to get those first three years back.
I’ll never be able to fix it.
I will never be able to erase the scars.
The buzz of my phone in the car draws me up. Lifting my head to the sky, I take another set of deep breaths before getting back in. The panic attack has settled, but the buzzing of anxiety in my chest lingers.
People sometimes get confused between the two, but you could be sitting and holding a polite conversation with someone while feeling as if you’re having a heart attack. A panic attack, however? There’s no functioning when it comes knocking on your door. You are utterly at its mercy.
Picking up my phone, I see the time and realize I’ve probably worried Layla.
MY FUTURE WIFE
Hey, are you on your way back?
Seems I was stopped longer than I thought.
Choosing not to respond, I put my car in drive and two minutes later, I pull into the driveway, taking one last deep breath before forcing a smile on my face so neither Layla or Emmy know that I was breaking down just a few minutes before.
With my duffel bag hanging off my shoulder, I slide my key into the lock and walk in. Even to my own ears my steps are heavier than when I left—until the sound of a soft giggle followed by the pitter-patter of small feet stops me.
What is she doing up so late?
Rounding the corner, I come to a standstill.
My heart that hasn’t been able to stop beating a mile a minute comes to a screeching stop. I feel the abrupt halt like I’m on a rollercoaster.
My jaw drops, practically unhinges as shock thunders through me.
Emmy and Layla stand in my living room wearing matching Oodies. The former claps her hands wildly, bouncing around on her feet like she’s eaten a bucket of sugar, while the latter bites her lip in…
Is Layla nervous?
She looks from my gobsmacked form to the coffee table in front of her.
Rocking back on her heels, she shrugs. “I thought you could do with some cheering up.”
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding rushes from me. The coffee table is covered with bowls of cereal, not a single square inch free. Then my gaze strays to the TV, the telltale Gilmore Girls logo illuminating the room.
Relief, swift and fast, rushes through my blood as the claws that were clutching my heart release their hold at the sight of my girls.
The awe is evident in my voice as I sigh, “You have no idea how much I needed this.”
And at that, my darling girl is running for me, her little arms outstretched waiting for me to catch her.
And as I always will, I do.
Because maybe I’m not doing as poor of a job as I thought if she’s running for me with a carefree smile.