Chapter 26
CAYDEN
My skull is still throbbing in time with last night's Scottish whiskey.
The flight back from New York was a lesson in self-awareness.
I fled from a woman who told me the truth to my face.
My buddies at the bar had put their fingers precisely on the wound.
I pull the emergency brake the moment I lose control.
The school's double doors swing open, and a stream of students pours onto the sidewalk. I cut the engine, get out, and lean against the car.
I spot Parker after a few minutes. He’s got his backpack over one shoulder, gesturing wildly to two boys his age walking beside him. One of the friends suddenly jabs Parker in the side. His eyes go wide, and he jerks his chin toward my sports car.
Parker turns his head. His jaw drops, and he freezes right in the middle of the sidewalk.
I raise a hand.
"Mr. Miller?" he calls out. He leaves his friends standing and runs across the grass. The other two boys stare at me stunned, then whisper excitedly. Every ten-year-old in this city knows my face from TV.
Parker skids to a halt in front of me, catching his breath. His gaze travels over the car and then to me. "What are you doing here?"
"Henry had an appointment this afternoon," I invent an excuse on the fly, crossing my arms. "And I figured long division could wait. Get in."
His face lights up. He rounds the car and drops into the leather seat. I get in and hit the start button. The six-cylinder howls. Parker presses into the upholstery and grins.
We merge into the afternoon traffic.
"Where are we going?" Parker asks, reverently stroking the dashboard.
"The training center," I reply, shifting up a gear. "The Royals are on the ice. We’re going to watch the power play."
Parker pumps his fists, cheering loudly.
"How was school?" I ask, changing lanes and accelerating onto the highway ramp.
"Okay. Math sucks. Who needs fractions in real life anyway?"
"Everyone," I reply drily. "Hockey stats are nothing but fractions. Pass percentages, save percentages, power-play efficiency. If you want to understand the game, you have to get the numbers."
He pouts. "That’s what Mom said."
The mention of his mother gives me an undeniable sting. I haven't heard from her since my departure last night. My calls this morning went straight to voicemail.
We park in front of the training facility, and security waves us through immediately. I lead Parker through the player tunnel, where the smell of coolant hits our noses. Then we step up to the boards.
The players' blades scrape across the ice. Pucks slam against the Plexiglas. Coach Carter blows his whistle, his voice echoing through the arena.
Parker clings to the railing, watching every move. His gaze jumps between the defensemen and the attackers.
"See the formation?" I ask, standing beside him. "We’re practicing the man-advantage. Watch the wingers."
Parker nods, narrowing his eyes. He analyzes the bodies on the ice. "The left winger is out of position. He’s drawing the defense right into the passing lane. He needs to be a yard further out."
I look at him from the side. The kid spotted the problem in ten seconds. The coach bellows exactly that same critique across the ice at that very moment.
Pride spreads in my chest. An absurd feeling. My friends' words from New York echo in my head. When you have kids of your own someday, you’ll get it. I rest my hand on Parker’s shoulder. He doesn't pull away. He even leans slightly against my arm, eyes never leaving the ice.
We spend an hour at the boards. I explain the coach's tactics, and Parker soaks up every bit of information. He asks questions some pros on my roster couldn't even formulate.
As practice ends, a few players wave to us on their way out. Parker is beaming.
We leave the arena.
"Hungry?" I ask.
He nods eagerly.
I pilot the Porsche toward downtown, and we stop at an ice cream parlor. The owner recognizes me instantly, nods, and hands Parker a giant sundae. I order an espresso.
We sit on a bench outside. The afternoon sun hits our faces while Parker scoops his ice cream. He has chocolate spots on his chin and swings his legs.
"Mr. Miller?" he asks suddenly.
"Cayden. Call me Cayden."
He smiles. "Okay. Cayden. Is my mom mad that we just drove off?"
"I sent her a message," I reply, taking a sip of coffee. "Don't worry. I’ll settle it with her. We’re just stealing a little time from her."
Parker scrapes the last bit from his cup. His expression turns serious. "She’s been stressed lately. Because of her boss. And because of my grandpa."
I frown. Jade hasn't mentioned her father once. She’s kept her family situation completely under wraps. "Your grandpa?"
"He’s sick," Parker mutters, looking at his shoes. He scuffs his toe on the ground. "He doesn't always remember us. Mom has to work a lot to pay for the home. She cries secretly in the kitchen sometimes when she thinks I’m already asleep."
I don't know what to say.
Jade is carrying far more responsibility than she’s willing to admit. She’s fighting on countless fronts at once. The pressure from her editor. The care costs for her father. The fear for her son. And I accused her of cowardice, when in truth she’s just trying to hold her life together.
I set the empty espresso cup on the window ledge of the shop.
"Your mom is a fighter," I say quietly. I take the empty paper cup from Parker and toss it into the trash can on the corner. "Let’s go home. You still have homework to do."
Parker groans, but he doesn't protest.
The drive back to Westmount is quieter because Parker is tired. His head leans against the headrest, and he’s almost asleep when I guide the car through the wrought-iron gates of my villa. Henry is already on the steps to meet us.
"Miss Sterling left this morning and hasn't returned yet," he informs me as I let Parker out of the car.
"Thanks, Henry," I nod.
Parker looks at me with tired eyes. "That was a great day, Cayden."
"I thought so too, Parker."