Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“He’ll be okay,” I tell her quietly, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Slowly, her eyes find mine, as if she’d forgotten that I’ve been standing here for the last three hours. “I know. I just wish I could take the pain away.”
I sigh, wishing the same. I’d take the kid’s pain myself if there were a way to do it. But there’s not, there never is. “My mom has sat vigil by my bed more times than she’d like to remember. When I was a kid, she even tried to get me to play something less physical, like golf.” I laugh at the memory. “Dad told her that if I wasn’t attacking the ice full throttle, I’d probably get kicked out of school for fighting. He was right.”
“You were aggressive? Even as a kid?”
“I wasn’t aggressive, then or now. I was active.” That’s putting it mildly. I was a wild child that constantly climbed, ran, and roughhoused, and according to Mom, gave her the first gray hairs of her life. “Plus all my friends played hockey. Some of them still do, though not professionally. Now, it’s my job. One I love, but I don’t go around getting violent off the ice.” I’m admittedly a bit offended. I know the hockey stereotype, especially for defensemen, that we’re all big lunks of brainless muscle looking for any opportunity to beat the shit out of someone. But that’s not how I play and definitely not how I live.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Briar waves her hand by way of explanation, and I decide to give her a break. She’s a mama bear whose cub is injured. The doctor is lucky Briar didn’t bite his hand when he pressed on Harley’s ankle. I nod, accepting the apology, and she sighs. Her eyes locked on her sleeping son’s face, she says, “Harley used to like watching hockey with Tyler, but he was so young that he never asked to play. I was thankful for that. Then, a few years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, he got angry . . . at Tyler, at me, at everyone. He was only six, but he was so mad.”
She swallows thickly, like she can still feel her son’s pain. Not the ankle, but his heartbreak. “We talked, and basically, it boiled down to him realizing that other boys in his class had fathers who showed up for Donuts with Daddy, practices and games, and even just for dinner. It was the first time he saw that our family was different. His best friend played hockey and I talked to the coach, who said a sport can be good for kids. Not only for the usual ‘learn discipline’ and ‘wear them out’ stuff, but to express their emotions in different ways. Healthy ways. So he started playing and he loves it so much.”
“I’m glad you didn’t talk to your dad then,” I note, and Briar scoffs in agreement. There’s no way she’d get a healthy outlook on hockey from him.
“True. But I was convinced, so I let Harley play. I’m glad I did.” Her eyes lift to mine, something in their depths I can’t quite pinpoint.
“And you?”
She runs a finger over Harley’s hand, tracing his tiny fingers. “I’m glad he loves it.”
“But?” I prompt, hearing it even if she didn’t say it.
After checking that Harley’s still asleep, and keeping her voice low, she says, “But honestly, it pisses me off that Tyler does this whole ‘chip off the old block’ thing when it has nothing to do with him. He never comes to practices, rarely makes appearances at games, and doesn’t even listen to Harley talk about his team. He wants Harley to sit quietly while he watches the game. It’s not even together, Harley is just there. And it’s not fair that Harley’s doing this big thing to make a connection with Tyler, and he doesn’t care. Every time Harley skates out there, I feel . . . bitter. And not just because of Tyler, but . . . growing up as Robert Boothe’s daughter wasn’t easy.” She releases a deep breath as though it might be the first time she’s ever said those words. Maybe the first time she’s acknowledged that feeling.
I move closer, crouching down beside her and moving my hand to her knee. “Feel better?” I ask gently.
She turns glittery eyes to me, our noses nearly touching. I want to take her in my arms and soothe all her pain away. I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay. I want to kiss the fuck out of her and make her forget everything else, especially that her son is injured. But I don’t. As much as I want to, she needs the friend I keep telling her I can be. So I don’t move, not closer nor farther away. I stay exactly as I am, waiting for her answer.