Chapter 10
Ten
Brody
My back is killing me.
Not the good kind of hurt—the post-game, worked-hard, earned-it kind. The bad kind. The “sleeping on a couch designed for looks not comfort for three straight nights” kind.
The brown leather monstrosity in my father’s living room was probably trendy in 1997.
But now it’s lumpy, sagging in the middle, and makes ominous creaking sounds every time I change position.
Which is often. Because I haven’t slept more than three hours straight since the night we brought my dad home from the hospital.
The night with Chloe.
Which I’m not thinking about.
I’m standing at the stove in my childhood kitchen, making scrambled eggs at nine a.m. on a Thursday because that’s my life now—playing nurse-slash-chef to my father, who can’t lift his arm above his shoulder without wincing.
I always forget how small this kitchen is. Outdated. Old cabinets that should have had a fresh coat of paint years ago. Linoleum floors patterned with what’s supposed to look like hardwood but absolutely does not. An ancient refrigerator that hums from the corner like it’s planning a revolt.
Everything in this house is frozen in time.
Including me, apparently. I’m a child, still trying to keep everything calm and happy.
My father isn’t handling his sudden withdrawal from alcohol too well. Not since I went through the house and poured all his bourbon, whiskey, and even a half pint of Macallan down the drain.
The eggs are cooking too fast. I turn down the heat. Scrape them around the pan with a spatula that’s missing half its rubber edge.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Again.
It’s been buzzing all week. Texts from Chloe that I’ve been answering with increasing brevity.
Chloe
How’s your dad?
Brody
Better. Thanks.
Chloe
How are you holding up?
Brody
Fine. Busy with the team.
Chloe
See you Saturday?
Brody
Yeah.
One-word answers. The conversational equivalent of a brick wall. Because if I write more than that, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
Like Please come over.
Or worse. I need you.
My defensive game has gone back to being garbage too. So all around, things are just…great.
The toast pops up. Burnt on one side, pale on the other. Naturally. I scrape the black parts into the sink. Plate everything. Pour coffee that’s been sitting in the pot for forty minutes and is now thick enough to be a biohazard.
“That smells good,” my dad says from the doorway.
I turn.
He’s dressed—barely. Gray sweatpants with a hole in the knee. Ratty Minnesota Blue Ox T-shirt that should have been thrown out years ago. Arm still in the sling, hanging at an awkward angle. Hair uncombed. Face unshaven. Looking like he aged five years in the past week.
Looking like me, probably.
He lowers himself carefully into a chair at the small Formica kitchen table.
The same table where my mother sat before she got too sick to come downstairs, when she’d wrap herself in blankets and sip ginger tea and try to pretend she wasn’t dying.
The same table where my father and I have sat a thousand times, not talking, just existing in the same space because that’s what you do when you don’t know what else to do.
I set the plate in front of him.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“No problem.”
I make my own plate. Sit across from him.
We eat in silence.
Just the scrape of forks on plates and the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock that’s been stuck at 3:47 for as long as I can remember but still makes ticking sounds.
This house is full of things that don’t quite work but refuse to quit.
Feels appropriate.
My dad sets down his fork. “I think it’s time for things to get back to normal.
” His voice is rough. Tired. The voice of a man who’s been apologizing his whole life and is exhausted by it.
“I’m glad you’ve been here. But I know you’ve got your own life.
The team. Your girlfriend. You don’t need to be babysitting me. ”
“I’m not babysitting you.”
“Feels like it.”
“You broke your collarbone. You need help. I’m helping.” But my back twinges. A reminder that the couch and I are not friends.
“I’m okay, Brody. Really.”
Except he’s not. And I’m done letting it go.
“I think you need help,” I say. The words come out harder than I intended. “Real help. Treatment. And not just for the drinking.”
He twists his glass. Won’t look at me.
“I’ve tried it.” His voice is flat. Defeated. “AA. Rehab. Therapy.” He waves his good hand vaguely. “Doesn’t take.”
“Dad—”
“No, Brody. I can’t—I…” He pauses, staring at his plate with a completely defeated look, refusing to meet my eye. “I can’t even get past Step Three.”
“Step Three…?”
“Accepting that there’s a higher power in my life and surrendering to it.” He lifts his gaze, his face etched with hurt. “I used to believe in something like that…your mother—” His voice cracks. “She believed. And look what happened.”
My chest tightens. That feeling like someone’s pressing on my sternum with both hands. Like the air in this kitchen is too thick to breathe properly.
“I would have lost everything if it weren’t for you.
” He finally looks up. His eyes are bloodshot.
Red-rimmed. The eyes of a man who hasn’t slept well in years.
“You paid for this house. Got me out of debt—I don’t know how many times.
Cleaned up every mess I made.” His voice breaks again. “You are the best thing I ever did.”
My throat is tight. Burning. I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want the weight of being the one good thing in his life.
I’ve heard it before, frankly. Sometimes it feels like part of the game. Still, every time, a slapshot to the chest.
“It’s fine,” I say. I start clearing plates even though we’re not done eating.
“It’s not. Brody, I know it’s getting to you. You’re not playing well—”
“I’m just in a slump.” I start washing the dishes, the water scalding. “My luck will turn around. You’ll see. Always does.”
Wait.
No.
That’s not—
I freeze.
Hands in the soapy water. Staring at the window above the sink. At the smudged glass that needs cleaning. At the view of the backyard with its overgrown grass and the rusted hockey net I used to practice on.
Those are his words.
Every time he loses at poker. Every time he drains his bank account at the casino. Every time he shows up asking for money to cover gambling debts with that sheepish, embarrassed expression that makes my chest hurt.
I’m just in a slump. My luck will turn around. You’ll see. Always does.
And I just said them.
Like I actually believe that’s how life works. Like if I just keep trying, keep controlling, keep performing, keep pretending, everything will magically fix itself.
“Brody?” My dad’s voice is gentle. Worried. “You okay?”
No.
I’m not okay.
Because I can’t control my father’s addiction. Can’t bring back my mother. Can’t fix the defensive slump that’s threatening my contract renewal. Can’t make Ashley Morrison and her lawyer disappear. Can’t stop myself from falling for a woman I’m supposed to be using for image repair.
Can’t control any of it.
And pretending I can is just—
It’s gambling.
Same as my father.
Different stakes, same lie.
But I can’t seem to stop trying anyway.
I turn off the water. Grip the edge of the sink hard enough that my knuckles go white against the stainless steel.
Stare out the window.
And I see her.
My mother.
Just a memory. The kind that shows up when you’re exhausted and overwhelmed.
But for a second, she’s there.
Sitting on the porch swing. Wearing that floral cancer scarf she used to tie around her head when the chemo took her hair—blue with little yellow flowers, the cheerful pattern a stark contrast to what it represented.
Wrapped in the old afghan she crocheted herself before she got too weak to hold the needles.
It’s summer in the memory, but she’s bundled up because she was always cold those last few months. Always shivering. Always small.
Watching me.
I’m maybe twelve. Skinny. All elbows and knees and too-big hands I hadn’t grown into yet. Shooting tennis balls into the net I’d set up in the backyard. Practicing my aim. My form. My control.
Over and over and over.
Because if I could just get good enough—
And she’s singing. Some old hymn I don’t remember the name of. It carries across the yard like a promise.
If I get good enough, if I make it to the NHL, I can pay for better treatment. Better doctors. I can fix this.
I close my eyes.
The phone buzzes again.
This time I look.
Chloe
Everything okay? You’ve been quiet this week.
I stare at the message.
She doesn’t deserve this. She walked into my life, my mess, and…
No. I pick up the phone.
Brody
Yep. Fine. I’ll see you at the couples shower.
And now my back isn’t the only thing that hurts.
CHLOE
This has to go well.
I’m standing in Maya’s kitchen—which is basically the kitchen equivalent of a luxury car commercial, all white marble and glass-front cabinets and appliances that probably cost more than my entire apartment—arranging cupcakes on a three-tiered stand and trying very hard not to spin out. Mentally speaking.
It’s not working.
The couples shower starts in forty-five minutes, and I’ve been here since noon setting up, directing catering to the kitchen, staging the bar down the hall (accessible, but not a focal point), setting out favors and supplies for the plethora of wedding-themed games between rounds of gifts (of which there is bound to be a disgusting amount).
I hurt just thinking about the number of gifts I can look forward to hauling back to the guest room throughout the night.