Chapter Twenty-Eight Hudson
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hudson
The pullout couch in the living room isn’t exactly a dream, but it’s better than the ground—or an elbow in the ribs from my little brother.
I shake out the sleep, stretching, my back cracking in protest. Sourdough stirs at my feet.
And then, for a moment, we just lie there, listening to the house breathe in the quiet before everyone else stirs.
We rolled in just before midnight, the house dark and still. Mom was already asleep, which is rare because she’s usually a night owl, thumbing through her novels or scribbling down her thoughts. But I suppose she’s getting older now and has less hustle and bustle to keep her occupied.
I set up Ella in my old bedroom, wanting her to have some peace after the long drive. Carter insisted—to no one’s surprise—that he didn’t want his routine disturbed by his older brother, so he and Levi bunked together. I don’t blame him.
I’m known for my early-morning pacing, my late-night restlessness, and I probably would’ve lectured him for keeping his phone plugged in all night.
Carter’s a senior in high school now: tired, overworked, and a little moodier these days.
But he’s still the best kid I know. He’s applied to a few in-state colleges so far, though he hasn’t committed to anything yet.
He doesn’t have a major in mind, nor does he have a list of his top three schools.
Unlike me, he’s planning to figure those things out along the way.
That’s not the only way we differ. Carter never cared much for competitive sports, either. It was always more about having fun for him. When I gave up football as a kid, he did, too, but he never went back to it. He’s always been more laid-back, taking life as it comes and finding his own path.
I swing my legs off the makeshift bed and pad into the kitchen, Sourdough sauntering around my feet.
The quiet of the morning gives me time to think, to breathe, to take my mind off everything I strive to be and do.
It’s part of why I like coming home so much.
It’s a comfort that allows me some space to finally decompress.
I set up the coffee pot. As it starts to gurgle and spit, the familiar smell—cherry-infused, from the corner store—fills the small space, a signal to the world that the day is starting.
Mom wanders in just as I’m pouring the first mug.
Her appearance always strikes me. Her light brown hair that seems to glow in the early-morning sun, a spattering of freckles on both cheeks.
She’s a beautiful woman with an even kinder soul.
It’s a shame that my father couldn’t appreciate that in the end.
But there are some things he couldn’t take away from us.
Her smile lines are more pronounced now, a testament to the years of laughter we’ve had since he left.
Her hair is messy from a good night’s sleep, framing her face in soft waves, and seeing her like this—a little vulnerable, a little more human—stirs up all the good memories from my childhood.
She pulls me into a warm hug, and I breathe her in. I hand her the steaming mug, and her hands gently wraps around it.
We both settle in at the kitchen table, the old wooden chairs creaking under our weight. She looks at me, those knowing eyes crinkling at the edges as she smiles.
“So, you brought a girl home. That’s a first,” she teases, a chuckle escaping her.
“We’re not together,” I clarify, maybe a bit too quickly. “She’s a friend. And I’m … helping her with cheer.”
Mom takes a long, slow sip of her coffee. Surprise and then unmistakable joy flickers in her eyes. “Cheer, huh?”
“Yeah, her partner was injured,” I tell her with a shrug. “They needed someone else to step in.”
“And that’s the only reason?”
I hesitate, my spoon clinking against the mug as I stir. “Are you suggesting I have feelings for her? Or do you think I’ve missed cheer, and that’s why I’m doing this?”
“Both, I presume.”
Now it’s my turn to chuckle, shaking my head as I do so. “I honestly don’t know, Mom. I’m just … letting the cards fall.”
“How unlike you,” she says, teasing me again.
“Ella’s sweet, I’ll tell you that. Fun. Temperamental. A bit of an overthinker.”
“A perfect match, then,” Mom murmurs.
I snort, standing up. “I’m gonna go check on her. I’m sure she’s awake by now.”
She gestures toward the hallway with a warm smile. “By all means. You know I’m dying to meet her.”
I head to my old room. The door’s slightly ajar, a faint light spilling out by my feet. I knock gently and Ella opens the door, all cozy in her pajamas, her hair tousled from sleep. She’s gorgeous, breathtaking, even when she’s just woken up.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“It’s your room, isn’t it?” she says with a laugh.
“Not for this weekend.”
“Well, then, come in.”
I step inside, gently brushing past her.
She closes the door behind me, and I slowly scan the room.
It’s exactly how I left it—football trophies line the shelves, plaques from high school games crowd the walls.
My gaze lands on an old picture of me on our backyard trampoline, edges frayed and colors fading—a lone survivor from the fire.
“I like your room, by the way,” Ella says, studying me. “It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Seems you’ve scrubbed cheer from your past, though,” she says. “Not a single photo. No trophies. I snooped as well as I could.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” I sit on the edge of my crumpled bed, the mattress still familiar under my weight. “They actually … burned. All the photos we used to have. Me and Carter growing up, baby and family photos with our parents. Cheer. Everything.”
She sits beside me, eyes wide at my admission. “Burned?”
“Yeah, our old house burned down when I was twelve. Just a few years after my dad walked out. It was … my fault, actually.”
Her eyes soften, and her hand brushes the top of mine. “I’m so sorry, Hudson. Can I ask … what happened?”
I take a breath, not used to talking about the darkest moment of my life with anyone.
“My mom took Carter to a conference after school. She’d never let me stay home alone before, and I begged her to.
I wanted to feel grown up. A real man of the house.
She had saved up that year, got me a model plane kit for my birthday that I’d been asking for.
And well … it came with this electric wiring system. ”
I look down, shaking my head. Ella squeezes my hand, waiting patiently for me to continue.
“I wanted to surprise her … finish the plane while they were gone. I’d been tinkering with the wiring … set it on the rug while I went to grab a soda in the kitchen. Next thing I knew, there was smoke billowing out …”
I swallow hard, forcing the old memories back down. But for the first time in years, it feels like some of the weight is lifting, like saying it aloud to Ella is helping me breathe a little easier.
“It was an accident,” she says softly, her voice full of empathy. “You were just a kid.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, my gaze focused on our interlocked fingers resting on the green bedsheet. “But we lost nearly everything. All our memories. The house my mom won in the divorce, her only concession.”
“Did she blame you?”
“No, never did. She was just glad that I made it out safe.” I pause for a moment, looking into her hazel eyes. There’s something warm there, something that makes me feel comfortable enough to push on. “But I blamed myself. And I still think about it—all the damn time.”
“You are quite the stickler for turning the lights off,” she says with a soft smile.
“It’s not just that, but it’s a big part of it. I can’t bear the thought of risking another accident. Can’t bear the thought of putting anyone in danger.” I shrug, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “I guess it’s why I keep everything in order. Control where I can.”
It’s normally difficult for me to open up. But being here with her, at home like this, definitely helps. To share my burdens instead of keeping them locked away. She has a knack for pushing my boundaries, and I’m oddly okay with that.
She wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a gentle side hug. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. But it does sound exhausting.”
“It can be. You know, for a while, I thought I had done something seriously screwed up to deserve it all—losing my dad, resenting football, costing us our house. I remember when I joined my high school’s team, I thought, ‘I’m gonna make an even bigger name for myself than Dad ever did.
Rack in the money, the fame. Give it all to my mom to repay her for what happened.
Really stick it to Anthony fucking Shaw. ’”
“That’s your dad?”
“Yeah, the best tight end in Rattler’s history. Or at least, that’s what he liked to tell us.”
She nods, her eyes thoughtful. “And now?”
“And now, I don’t give a shit about proving anything to that man.” I chuckle dryly, rubbing the back of my neck. “But the other stuff, I think that’ll always stick with me. The compulsions, the rituals, it’s an everyday thing. The reason I don’t usually let myself get too close to people.”
“You’re doing your best.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, mustering a half-smile. “Maybe I am.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For telling me. For trusting me with this side of you.”
I shrug. “You make it pretty easy.”
“I’m glad you think so.” It seems she understands how rare it is for me to open up about my past, and I appreciate that she doesn’t make a huge deal out of it. I’m relieved I confided in her. I’m grateful for her compassion. That’s enough for now.
We sit there for a few moments longer before she stands, making her way to my trophy shelf. She runs her fingers along the edge, then turns back to me with a sly smile. “Isn’t there a saying?” she asks. “The more trophies you earn, the more trauma you have to unpack?”
I scrub a hand down my face, bursting into laughter. “I can confidently claim I’ve never heard that,” I say. “What about you? You have any trauma you’d like to unpack? Some baggage to unload?”