Chapter 34 The Double Ambush
THE DOUBLE AMBUSH
FORD
I love doing yoga in the living room instead of the porch.
Said no one ever.
But like I could go out there now. I don’t need the temptation of seeing Skylar. Or the fucking embarrassment of her seeing me like this.
In a goddamn child’s pose.
Since it’s practically the only yoga pose I can do right now with my broken, pathetic, flimsy-ass ribs.
Fine, they’re not broken. But…feels like they are.
I stretch out my arms in front of me on the yellow mat in the living room while Zamboni circles me, nudges my hair, then slides next to me, slinking into a proper downward dog with utter ease. “Are you trying to make me jealous? Because it’s working.”
She wags her tail, still happy to see me, even though I’m not sure I deserve nice things.
I am sure of this—my vaunted discipline is long gone. I don’t even fight the impulse to look for Skylar. I turn to peer out the sliding glass doors. Not that I can see her from inside. I just wish I could, even though I don’t want her to see me as I move into cat-cow.
Four days after injuring my ribs, and I’m feeling better. The pain’s no longer persistent. The ice is doing its job. Time is working its magic.
But kale smoothies don’t taste as good as they used to.
After I finish the weakest of weak yoga sessions, I plod past the kitchen, glancing at the remains of my smoothie, only half-drunk, in a to-go cup that had nowhere to go.
Even with fresh-picked kale from the farmers’ market that I had delivered, my morning pick-me-up still tasted like disappointment—my disappointment in myself.
The pile of dishes in the sink is teeteringly high. Huh. I wonder how many more plates till it crumbles? Maybe it’ll topple onto the unwashed blender.
Later. I’ll deal with it later.
I pop in my earbuds and hunt for my newest audiobook—the one on focus that Hannah sent me. I’ve been trying to get through it for more than a week now. I should be able to get through it. I have nothing but time as I recuperate from a stupid, self-inflicted injury.
This is all my dumbass fault, but as I find myself wandering aimlessly up the stairs and through my bedroom, I have no clue what the narrator just said about ways to improve your attention in the present moment.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as I stare at the second-floor deck.
And the hot tub.
And the temptation.
I’ve never been good at resisting my neighbor. Not sure I can stop now with my self-control having vacated the premises. Like some master puppeteer is controlling me, I turn on the tub, and minutes later I don’t even bother stripping off my yoga shorts. I step into the hot tub with them on.
I won’t watch her. Seeing her will only make me want what I can’t have.
The woman I fell in love with.
The woman I need to stop thinking about.
I try again to focus on the moment—the warm water, the bubbles surrounding me, the soothing sound of the jets. But the hot tub doesn’t ease the lingering sting in my ribs, or the ache in my heart.
And, evidently, I possess zero focus. Because before I know it, thirty minutes have passed and I’ve spent the whole time staring forlornly at my neighbor’s kitchen windows, desperate for a glimpse of her.
But there hasn’t been one. I don’t deserve it anyway. I close my eyes, and somehow, I fall asleep in the hot tub.
I wake up groggy, in tepid water, to the sound of laughter.
I peek over the edge and freeze up. Skylar’s on the porch, her red hair pulled into a messy bun, dancing with the dog and her podcast friends.
Pretty sure I saw them arrive yesterday, too, in Trevyn’s car.
Not that I’ve been staring out the windows like a pathetic creeper.
Watching everything going on. Hoping for a glimpse.
I grit my teeth, jealousy thrashing inside me that I’m not the reason she’s having a dance party. Then guilt strides in next. I shouldn’t be butt-hurt that she’s having fun. Two days in a row. I should be happy for her.
But as the song ends and she heads inside, my heart plummets like the stock market on a bad news day.
Here I am, sitting in a lukewarm vat in my shorts, stealing a glimpse of my neighbor—who I broke up with.
I might have pulled the trigger, but she’s the one moving on. I need to move on too. I made my choice—to focus on my career. Now I need to do just that.
My phone buzzes with a message, and I grab the device. What if it’s her? My pulse sprints for the first time in days, then slows when I read it.
Mom: Did you know that the flowers on your front porch need water? The plants too.
What? How would she know? I start to reply when another message lands. This one is from my sister.
Hannah: Did you know that brothers who get book recommendations from sisters and then do dumb things don’t deserve recommendations from sisters?
Hold on. What the hell is happening with this ambush from the women? My fingers fly as I try to reply to…well, both of them.
Mom: Did you know that Zamboni is happy to see me?
I pop out of the tub so fast. Of course Mom would fly down to give me a piece of her mind. I change into sweats and a T-shirt, then rush down the stairs, checking to see if I’ve missed any other messages from her.
As I scroll through our thread, I arrive at the bottom of the steps, where my traitorous dog is waiting hopefully by the door, tail wagging.
As I open the door, I metaphorically duck, sure she’ll be lobbing mom-bombs with her bare hands the second she sees me.
“Ford, I can’t believe you made me come down here. I’m nearly done packing up my good china,” she says with an annoyed huff.
“Why don’t you have someone pack it for you?” I ask, then instantly regret it. Of course she’s not going to let anyone touch her good china.
She gives me a dismissive wave of her hand. “Let’s pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
“Fair enough,” I say as she sweeps in and shuts the door. I scratch my head. “Also, how did I make you come down here? I didn’t see any messages from you saying you wanted to talk. Or warning me that you were coming.”
Not that she’d ask for permission, but still, this is out of the blue, even for her.
With a pfft, she whisks past me. “I didn’t bother to send one. Sometimes an ambush is what you need.”
I arch a brow. “What’s going on?”
She strides over to the couch, sits down, and arranges herself neatly with crossed legs, setting her red purse on the coffee table. “How are your ribs? Do you need anything?”
I blink, taken aback. I figured she’d come to reprimand me.
“They’re okay.” I flash back to three minutes ago when I ran down the stairs—they actually didn’t hurt at all.
“But you’ve been texting and calling about my injury.
We’ve talked a few times. You didn’t need to come down here to check on my ribs. ”
“That’s true. I didn’t. But I did come down anyway. Do you need anything? Ice? Ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “I saw the doctor two days ago. She said they’re actually healing.”
“Did you drive?”
“I took a Lyft.” I’m still thrown off by her questions and the fact that they’re so…normal. She’s not tearing me apart. But there’s time for her to launch a mom attack.
“That’s good. But it’s also sad. You could’ve asked Skylar to drive you.”
“Mom—” I start, but I haven’t even told her. I join her and slump down on the couch, the weight of all my mistakes dragging me down. The next words scrape my throat. “We split up.”
She simply nods and says, “I know, dear.”
I sit up straighter. “How do you know?”
“I had a meeting with her earlier today.”
“She mentioned it?” That doesn’t sound like Skylar. She’s good at keeping our secrets.
You don’t have any secrets with her anymore, you dumbass.
“Of course not. I was able to figure it out.”
“How?” I ask tentatively. But then again—this is my mother. She figures everything out. Her mind-reading powers are next level. I shudder at the thought.
“It was obvious,” she says. “She was trying hard to be upbeat. And she’s not someone who has to try hard.
She’s naturally cheerful. I asked if everything was okay and she said it was great—just great, absolutely great, totally great.
She said the same when I asked how you were doing.
The three ‘greats’ made it clear. Then she had to end the meeting. ”
Mom gives a sad smile, and it’s like a vise to my heart knowing I did that to Skylar.
I made her…fake it. Was she faking the dancing a little while ago?
Or is she just trying to fake it till she makes it through the breakup?
I feel worse, knowing this. I say nothing, because I’m not really sure what to say except—I’m a selfish dick.
“So why did you break up with her?” she asks calmly. I was not expecting calm. Not after the “Did you know?” barrage of texts.
I draw a deep breath, hunting for the guts to tell her the truth, when she says, “Because you’re afraid.”
Thank fuck. She gets it. Relief floods me. I scrub a hand down the back of my neck, admitting it as I say, “Yeah. Can’t let the team down, you know? I really don’t want to do that.”
“Ford,” she says, gentle and caring, so I keep going, unspooling everything inside me.
“That’s the thing—I worked so hard to get where I am.
To stay where I am. To fight for everything.
I made a mistake the other night in the game, when Long Neck John was trying to strip the puck from me.
I didn’t focus, and that’s how this whole stupid hit happened.
” I gesture to my midsection. I debate telling her the full truth, but then—I’ve come this far.
I let the rest out. “And honestly, I was kind of distracted with Skylar. She was there and she was all I could think about…”
Mom squeezes my shoulder sympathetically, then ruffles my hair. “You’ve always expected the best from yourself.”
“Exactly. You understand, right? I couldn’t let the team down.
I couldn’t take a chance on continuing to be distracted this season.
There were reporters who speculated I should’ve retired last season, when I was thirty-five.
Thirty-six years old in the NHL…just like when I was twenty-four and people said I wouldn’t last. But I did last. I’m still here, and this is going to be my best year. I have to do it with no distractions.”
I’m winding myself up. My ribs ache a little with each word, but I need to say this through the pain. “I’m so glad somebody gets it.”
She ruffles my hair again, nodding like she truly sees me this time. It’s a relief—finally talking to someone besides my dog. It feels like something in me is loosening. The tension, maybe.
She sighs. “But sweetheart. That’s not what I meant.”
My brow knits. “What did you mean, then?”
“What I meant is—you’re afraid of getting your heart broken.
You’re afraid of being replaced. And you’re terrified of truly opening up to another person, like you did with Brittany,” she says, leveling me with a sharp but thoughtful stare.
“Because what if they leave you? That’s what distracted you.
That’s what scared the living hell out of you. ”
My mouth opens, but then I snap it shut. I should tell her she’s wrong. But the thing is—she’s not.
She’s completely right, and I didn’t even see the truth that was right in front of my eyes.
No, man. You did. You were just afraid.
After I draw a soldiering breath, I turn to her and shrug, helpless.
“Did you know I have no idea how to fix things?” I look down. Then I force myself to say the hardest part, “Or if I even can.”