Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
COOPER
The drive home is under four hours. At dawn, before everyone is awake, leaving the road scarce, it’s shorter.
I pull into my childhood home, as the orange-coppery sky that reminds me of her hair fades into a cloudless blue.
Everything is the same, down to the drawn curtains on the first floor.
A soft light emanating through the window and Dad’s figure walking in to sit down with a coffee and his phone.
He’s probably playing the NYT word games him and Jordan are competitive over.
They do them first thing in the morning over a cup of coffee.
Before I cut the ignition, I call my mom. She answers right away, voice comforting and the reason I came here.
“Mom. Are you home?”
“No, but I can be. Did you need something? I’m at the shop, but you know that’s only ten minutes away. Twenty tops and I—”
“That’s okay. Have you had breakfast yet?”
She hesitantly responds, “No. Are you…are you home?”
“Be there soon, Mom.”
I arrive at the flower shop thirty minutes later.
Parked in the back, I still have a spare key on my ring.
The back room is overflowing and disorganized as it always has been.
I have to wiggle around tables stacked with buckets and layered in PVC pipe, boxes toppled over with center pieces and who knows what.
Mom went to school for event planning and hospitality, she’s an event planner.
Sutton’s mom is the florist. Together they opened a floral and events business.
They operate as your regular run of the mill florist, but also do just about every event type under the sun.
You could come to them with the strangest idea and they’d make it happen.
Mom is at one of the work benches putting together what I assume are center pieces. I set the bag of breakfast and tray of drinks I brought for us down before wrapping my arms around her.
“One of my favorite hugs in the world. Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.” I lean my head on top of hers, closing the large gap between us. “I brought breakfast burritos and coffee. Grabbed avocado toast for Mrs. Davis. I didn’t know if she’d be here.”
“She isn’t, but that’s sweet of you. They’re out of town for their anniversary.” I completely forgot that was this weekend. My mind drifts to Sutton, not like it wasn’t occupied by her the entire drive here.
Mom finishes filling the square vase, her fingers showcasing a few cuts—clipping the stems still isn’t her strong suit. Turning to face me, she sits on the table.
“Burrito me.” I toss her a foiled wrapped burrito.
Both of us sighing after the first bite.
Mom laughs after taking another bite, a piece of bacon falls to the shop floor.
“I tried to recreate these last month. There is a reason I’m a florist.” I arch one brow.
“Okay an event planner, and not a chef. They were pitiful.”
“It’s because these are magic. I swear they put something in them that makes them superior.” I take another large bite, regretting it instantly because these were the last two and I need to savor it. “Or to make them un-recreateable,” I say around a mouthful.
Mom washes down a bite with tea. “But these aren’t why you’re home.”
Shoulders slump, I sink into myself. “No, it’s not. Su—there’s this girl.” I refrain from using Sutton’s name, knowing the slippery slope it would become. Derailing today, and me, completely. “I-I’ve had a crush on her, but she likes someone else.”
“I see.” Mom hums.
“We were paired on a class project and sort of…we kissed.” Heat climbs up my spine like a ladder, landing in my cheeks.
Great. Here I am blushing in front of my mother thinking about everything else Sutton and I have also done.
“And I thought that maybe she might have started to reciprocate the feelings, but then I saw her with another guy and I…I don’t know.
Was mad at her. Disappointed in her. Assumed that she was playing me and ended up saying things I shouldn’t have. ”
This dumbed down version of Sutton and I sounds ridiculous. I sound ridiculous. But it doesn’t change that I’m mad. I’m mad at her and myself. Disappointment lodged between.
I shouldn’t of spoken to her that way. I shouldn’t have told her I was done, but I can’t keep continuing like this. Wanting her. Needing her. Loving her. It hurts too much.
Before I could handle it. I was comfortable existing around her, but now I want to exist with her.
“Does she know how you feel about her?” It’s an easy question. Then why is the answer so complicated.
“I think…” Does Sutton? How could she not? “I told her once but—”
“You show it?” Mom guesses correctly. “Come here.” She pats the table next to her.
I change positions, sliding in next to her.
Her hand takes mine lovingly. “I want to let you in on a little secret. How many times did I pile your shoes by the stairs to try and get you to take them upstairs after I asked? Tons. Weekly. You never did, but when I told you again, you did it. Sometimes you just need to say it again. Words, big or small, are powerful. Use them.”
“But what if I did and they hurt her?” I lean my head on her shoulder.
“Apologize. Even if your heart or mind isn’t there, apologize.” Rough hands rub at my cheek.
“And if she doesn’t accept it? Or rejects me?” I don’t want our history to repeat itself.
I feel Mom’s laugh against my cheek. “Well, you and your sisters were never supposed to date or marry until you were forty. However…” Mom grumbles about Jordan’s current boyfriend. “Then she does, and you have to accept it.”
The entrance door opens. Mom jumps from the table, and I follow behind her to the front of the store. She starts to greet a customer, but it’s Dad. “Cooper, this is a surprise.”
Mom convinces me to stay for the day for an early birthday celebration.
Dad and I help her finish building center pieces and delivering them to a wedding across town.
The bride was in tears, ruining her makeup, when we showed up.
Apparently, her florist cancelled two days ago, and Mom was her last resort.
After they wanted to take me to dinner, but I requested a home-cooked meal. Mom says she’s a terrible cook, but she’s not half bad. Still, it’s Dad who makes spaghetti with his special sauce and fresh meatballs.
I’m clearing the dishes, ignoring my phone that’s blowing up.
Sutton
Jordan said you drove home. When will you be back?
Can we talk? Please, Cooper.
LOML JAXON
What happened with Sutton? She’s had two milkshakes tonight.
Did you know your sister dyed her hair blue?
She could do our bleached tips!
Sutton
At least talk to your dad…please
“I recorded the game. Wanna watch?” Dad asks, boxing up leftovers.
I check the time. It’s almost seven thirty and I should drive back tonight.
We have practice tomorrow and I have an unofficial-official pop quiz that’ll be an automatic zero if I miss.
The professor is a hard-ass that allows no make-ups or extra credit.
It’s the only class I find myself consistently studying for whilst feeling behind.
Sutton’s last text flashes in my head. “A period or two. Let me finish these and pack up.” Mom’s sending me back with boxes that Jordan requested. “Twenty minutes?”
Mom puts the vase of tulips I requested on the counter before kissing my forehead goodnight. She points in Dad’s general vicinity, then at me, and makes a talking hand. I silently sigh, her intuition can be annoying. “Night, Mom. Thank you for this morning.”
We’d talked more throughout the day. My frustration with Sutton slipping through my fingers like sand—not that I’ve ever been able to stay upset with her for long.
I’m disappointed in my reaction. The words I used were unnecessary and not true.
I grab another snack from the kitchen before joining Dad. He’s in his mom-approved accent chair, feet kicked up on the gray-striped ottoman.
“One of my buddies just texted,” he says, hitting play on the remote. “Got wind that Chicago is putting together a major trade.”
Chicago is one of my favorite teams, besides Winnipeg and Minnesota. They’re who I’ve always dreamt of playing for, and maybe someday will…if they’d ever want me. I was drafted last year by Carolina.
“Did they say who or what they were trading for?”
“He didn’t say who they were trading, but Carolina needs a goalie desperately.” Dad scrolls, pulling his reading glasses down from the top of his head. “Did mention Chicago were trying to get two defenseman I don’t recognize the names of, then a draft contract.”
I laugh, partially hesitant, partially sarcastic. “When was the last time someone traded a drafted, unsigned player.”
“Recently, I believe.” Dad puts his phone face down, turning to face me. “You can always become a free agent when your contract is up with Carolina. If it wasn’t for their low draft spot, they’d have picked you.” I know he’s talking about Chicago.
“Would they?”
“Of course. Would they?” he quotes me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I try to swallow, but every criticism, every comparison crawls its way up my throat. Again, Sutton’s text flashes in my head.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you, but that’s what people want. They don’t want Cooper Carmichael. They expect Ryn Carmichael’s son on the ice, in interviews, and on the street. Teams want—crave. Demand—another you.”
Dad’s quiet for a moment. Body moving ever so slightly as if he’s processing what I’ve said. “Is that what you want? To be me?”
It’s small, but I shake my head no.
“Good, because I’ve never wanted you to be me. Coop, all I’ve ever wanted, or expected, is for you to be yourself.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I hear you, but…” The critic’s words are like a broken stereo.
You can’t turn them down or off. I do my best to explain what it’s been like.
The exhausting pressure and daunting, unrealistic expectations.
Dad’s calm and patient, but from how his knuckles turn white around the remote, and glasses squeeze his temples, he’s an array of emotions. But I don’t hold back.
“I never realized you felt this way. I’m sorry I’ve been blinded to it for all these years,” he says when I finish.
“That’s not your fault, I didn’t want you to.”
“Still. You’re my son. I wish I would have known. About reporters, that’s their job. Analyze players. Create clickbait articles and viral clips. A third of them are probably jealous of you. They’re always going to be a part of your career, but they don’t get to define it. Only you do.”
“I’m learning that. Coach, um, signed me up to work with a sports psychology student.” He tilts his head knowingly. “It’s Sutton. She’s been helping with my burnout and overtraining.”
“Her parents mentioned her study. I’m happy to hear you have her, and that it’s helping.”
“Yeah…yeah, me too.”
“Is there anything different I can do to support you? How can I help?”
“Um—” I’m not sure, I haven’t thought about this. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Whenever. Nothing they’ve said about you has ever determined how I see or love you. You constantly make me proud, and I’m forever grateful to be your father.”
“I’m proud to be your son, too. What time does open skate end?” Our neighborhood ice rink usually stays open late on the weekends.
He checks the time. “Couple hours, probably.”
“Wanna go skate? Play a pick-up game?”
“I’d love nothing more.”