Chapter 9 Jacob
Jacob
I hear about the fight before Hughie even walks through the training room doors. By the time he shows up in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and those sagging old grey sweatpants he refuses to throw away, I’ve already seen three texts and a Chatter video that’s blurry but definitely shows fists flying.
He looks like hell, his jaw is already swelling up like a grapefruit and there’s a nasty-looking bruise forming on the bridge of his nose. It’s not broken but it sure as hell isn’t going to feel good tomorrow.
I don’t say anything at first because honestly, I don’t trust myself to open my mouth without turning into a lecture-happy mother hen. And I know my best friend well enough to know he wouldn’t appreciate it.
Instead, I grab an ice pack from the freezer, doing my best not to slam the door too hard, because if I start slamming shit then we’re both going to spiral.
When I walk it over to him and hold it out, he takes it without a word, pressing it to his face with a wince that makes me clench my jaw.
I level him with a look that I hope communicates just how done I am with this whole situation.
“Dude, you need to just tell Griffin,” I say, attempting to keep my tone flat and calm.
“I can’t,” he mutters, and his voice is low and tired.
I shake my head slowly, the disbelief thick in my chest because I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that my best friend, the guy who never half-asses anything, who plays by the goddamn rules like his life depends on it, is letting this shit fester like a wound he refuses to treat.
“It’s already affecting the team, Hugh. That fight wasn’t nothing. People are talking.”
He doesn’t look at me. He just stares off at the wall like maybe if he zones out hard enough, I’ll stop being here and stop asking him to do the one thing he doesn’t want to do. He clenches his jaw so I know he fucking heard me but the stubborn bastard isn’t going to talk.
I want to let it go, I really do, because I know him, and I know pushing him too hard only makes him shut down more. But how the fuck am I supposed to sit here and pretend this isn’t slowly unraveling every part of him?
“You seriously can’t keep going like this,” I say, my voice softer this time. “You’re literally throwing punches now. That’s not you, Hughie.”
He shoots me a glare that is sharp and defensive. “Connelly said he’d handle it.”
And I laugh, because there’s no universe where that doesn’t sound like a fucking joke. The same guy who’s sleeping with his roommate’s girlfriend, acting like that’s sustainable, and now picking fights in the middle of practice? Yeah, I’m sure he’s got it handled.
“Right. Sure. I totally believe he will do the right fucking thing here,’” I mutter as I start restocking the medical cabinet, needing something to do with my hands before I start throwing things.
“He said he would,” Hughie repeats, his tone slightly defensive.
I don’t answer. I don’t have the energy to argue with someone who’s clearly spiraling but won’t admit it.
Instead, I move around the training room in silence, reorganizing supplies that don’t actually need organizing because it’s better than looking at him and feeling this mixture of anger and empathy twist in my gut.
The truth is, this whole thing is fucking with me too.
Griffin comes in here every day, cracking jokes, talking about school, being his golden retriever self which is charming and easy to like.
He’s one of those people who makes you want to match their energy because it’s so damn earnest. And the whole time, I’m sitting on this secret like a landmine, pretending everything is fine while knowing he’s being played like a goddamn fool.
I open my mouth to keep going because seriously, Hughie’s excuse is flimsier than a dollar store bandage and I’m not done being mad about it. But the door opens behind me, and I immediately shut my mouth because of course it’s Griffin fucking Thatcher.
He walks in and doesn’t even glance my way. He’s too honed in on Griffin who is still slumped on a training table holding ice to his face.
“Hey,” Griffin says, voice a little rough, eyes scanning Hughie’s face. “You alright, man?”
Hughie stiffens like he didn’t expect anyone to care, which is ridiculous because it’s Griffin. I don’t know why they stopped hanging out forever ago but I do know that Griffin is a good guy and would care that his teammate is hurt.
“I already told you in the sauna. I’m fine,” Hugh says automatically.
I raise a brow but keep stalking. The idea of Griffin, sweaty and naked, in a sauna is enough to have my gut warming which is something I absolutely do not need.
“Yeah? You sure?” Griffin asks again.
“Yeah,” Hughie repeats, but this time it’s softer, and I know him well enough to hear the shift in tone. It’s the kind of yeah that says no but please don’t ask again.
Then Griffin, in this casual but also clearly nervous kind of way, rubs the back of his neck and says, “You wanna grab a bite or something? I was thinking about hitting that diner by the rink. Just figured we haven’t in a while.”
And I swear to god, Hughie stares at him like he just offered him a marriage proposal instead of a turkey club. There’s a full beat of silence where neither of them says anything and I stand there like a third wheel in the world’s slowest emotional standoff.
But then Hughie recovers, clears his throat, and goes, “Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
Which, great. Amazing. Love that for them.
Except no, I don’t, because Hughie is still sitting on this ticking time bomb of betrayal and I’m standing here trying to telepathically communicate TELL HIM with my eyeballs.
Hughie doesn’t even look at me. He just grabs his hoodie, says, “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble as disappointed crushes me.
And then Griffin turns to me with this lazy, crooked smile that’s so goddamn attractive it makes my insides feel like soda fizz.
“Later, Jacob,” he says with this adorable awkward wave.
I manage a nod that probably looks more like a malfunction than a response, because all I can think about is how fucking pretty his eyes are when he smiles, and how much I hate that I just noticed that again.
And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the training room, staring at the door.
So yeah. This crush? Definitely not going away. Fuck.
I’m laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling like I can come up with a solution to a problem that isn’t really mine. I don’t even know why I care other than knowing the truth makes me feel guilty. Oh and it’s clearly causing issues for Hugh.
All I want to do is come up with a way to fix it that won’t cause the entire team to implode and of course, that’s the perfect moment for my phone to ring.
I glance at the screen and immediately feel that sinking, stomach-hollowing dread.
Mom.
I consider not answering for all of two seconds but my need to hear my mothers voice is too strong and I end up answering.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to sound normal and not like I’m about to throw my phone out the window.
“Sweetheart! Oh good, I’m so glad you answered!” she chirps in that voice that is too loud and sugary.
I sit up and brace myself. “Um, yeah…uh, how are you?”
“Good! Great actually! Phil and I are heading to Italy!” she squeals, like she’s a teenager going to spring break with her sugar daddy.
Phil.
Fucking Phil.
The latest boyfriend in her rotating roster of emotionally vacant businessmen who wear Rolexes and talk about Teslas like they built them themselves.
I met him once. Just once. He gave me a handshake like I was a waiter who spilled soup in his lap and then spent the entire dinner explaining cryptocurrency to me like I was brain-dead.
That was two months ago. I haven’t seen her since.
She’s been too busy traveling, attending fundraisers, going on wine tastings, and whatever the hell else her glittery new life requires. Definitely no room for her only son in that calendar.
“That’s nice, Mom,” I huff.
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches and turns the air weird. I already know what's coming.
“Yes, so that brings me to my next point,” she says, voice suddenly shifting into that light, careful tone she uses when she knows she’s about to disappoint me.
Fucking wonderful.
“What’s going on?” I ask, already pre-cringing.
“Well, we won’t be back for Christmas,” she says, like she’s telling me the grocery store ran out of my favorite snack, not that she’s ditching her own kid for the goddamn holidays. “So I figured you might want to plan to spend the holidays with Grant and Hugh.”
And just like that, my chest tightens. Because even though I expected her to do this, like she always does, it still fucking burns.
She says it like it’s thoughtful or like she’s doing me a favor.
Like I’m not twenty-one and still secretly hoping that just once, I’ll actually matter more than some guy with a yacht and a vacation schedule.
I swallow the lump in my throat and attempt to ignore the whole chunk of disappointment settling in my chest.
“No, yeah. That’s fine,” I say, chipper as fuck. At least, in my head it sounds chipper but I’m sure I sound fucking empty inside. “Spending the holidays with Grant and Hugh sounds great. You know I love them.”
And I do.
That part’s true. But it’s not the same really.
Because as much as I adore Hughie and his dad, and trust me, I do, they’ve been more of a family to me than my actual family, it still hurts that my own mom didn’t even consider including me in her plans.
Didn’t even try to work around my schedule or, god forbid, invite me on her holiday trip.
She just told me like I’m an afterthought.
“Oh good!” she says, relieved now that I’ve made this easier for her. “You’ll have so much fun. You guys always do.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well, sweetie, we’ve got to go We’ve got an early flight and I still need to pack,” she says in a rush, already halfway off the phone. “Give Hughie my love!”
I wait.
The call ends with that soul-sucking, echoing click, and I just stare at the screen like maybe if I hold it long enough, she’ll call back. Like maybe she’ll remember she forgot to say I love you or I miss you or you matter, Jacob, and it’ll ring and everything will feel less cold.
But, of course, nothing happens.
The screen dims and my grip loosens. And my phone drops from my hand to the bed like my chest just dropped out from under me.
I let my head fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling like it’s got answers written on it.
And I know, okay? I know this isn’t new. I know this has happened before. There are always missed birthdays, canceled holidays, that time she forgot to show up to my high school graduation because her salon appointment ran longer than she intended.
I know better than to be surprised.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It sure as shit doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like someone shoved their hand into my chest and twisted.
There’s this dull, aching throb beneath my ribs. It’s this deep, gnawing sense of being left behind, of being less than, of knowing she’s sipping overpriced wine with some loser who hates me while I lay here trying not to cry like a kid who doesn’t get why his mom won’t come home.
It feels fucking pathetic.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes hard enough that stars burst behind my lids. I try to take slow, careful breaths through my nose.
In. Out. In. Out.
I figure it’s a good way to trick my body into thinking that everything is normal. That I am completely okay. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I. Am. Fine.
But I’m not.
And the worst part? I feel stupid for even feeling this way.
Because I’m grown. I have a future, friends who love me, a fucking med school acceptance letter sitting on my desk.
But none of that makes this suck less.
None of that fills the gap left by a mom who never really wanted to be one.
And yeah, I swore I stopped crying over her when I was sixteen. Swore I’d never let her make me feel like this again.
But right now?
Right now, that sixteen-year-old version of me feels a little too close to the surface.
And fuck, it still fucking hurts.