I wanted to believe the shrug, but this was an emotional whiplash days before the biggest game of his career. Sean was tucking the pain somewhere deep and showing up for me while his own world was fraying at the edges.
My chest tightened. I tapped into the muscle memory I’d used with my mom for years. But this time, it wasn’t avoidance, I was giving him space. I’d ask more tomorrow.
He shifted, then asked again, “So, what had happened?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s my Mom. She sees my life—independent, in love, self-respected—and it burns her.”
Sean frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“I’m rewriting her dream script, out loud, with you.” I paused. “Watching me jet around for work, happy, fulfilled, is killing her. All she sees is the life she didn’t get. That window closed, but I reopened it just by existing.”
Her words echoed:You think you’re special?
I blinked them away.
“So it’s not ‘don’t get hurt’, it’s ‘how dare you succeed where I failed?’” Sean asked slowly.
I nodded, throat too tight to answer.
“She wants you to have a miserable life too. Or at least one she can label as miserable.”
His brows froze mid-section.
Yes, Sean. Your handbook on “Girlfriend Meltdowns” just got two new chapters:The Problematic Girlfriend and Passive-Aggressive Sabotage Mother.
“But to be jealous of me. Me. My own mother…” My voice cracked.
Sean reached for my hand and squeezed.
“Parents are supposed to be proud, go the extra mile for their kid. Now that picture with your ex, it feels like her doing...”
“Cutie.” He pulled me against his chest and held me there. “I know that kind of hurt. It’s brutal. Maybe let’s not try to solve the unknowns tonight.”
I listened to his heartbeat, steady and calming. He wasn’t only talking about my mom, he meant his dad too. He was hurting, but he made space for me, stayed open for me. The strength he carried from his own scars made the choice feel simple. I chose him without hesitation.
Chapter twenty-seven
Sean
Mel curled against my chest, warm and soft, her flowery scent wrapped around me. My stomach growled. She chuckled, and the sound vibrated through me. I eased off the couch and headed into the kitchen, suddenly aware I hadn’t eaten since lunch. My appetite and peace had both been knocked sideways by a press conference with too many side effects.
I warmed up leftover grilled chicken and roasted potatoes; the smell of rosemary and garlic filled the kitchen. But that didn’t erase the question at the press conference that had been a punchto the gut. My dad, in rehab, went public. He’d signed an NDA. No one from the facility could have spoken.
I called him after leaving the arena, pacing in the parking lot.
“Yeah, I said something,” he’d admitted it easily. “Your team made it to the Cup, and I’m damn proud.”
“Dad, did you think about what that might do to me?” I’d said through gritted teeth.
“What consequences? I’m proud my offspring turned out better than me. The only consequence is that people know I did one thing right.”
I’d nearly lost it.
There was no reasoning with him. Not about this, and not about most things. That’s why we didn’t have a relationship—he was self-absorbed. He’d take something good, twist it until it cut, and call it love. That blind to the damage. I was a closed-up boundary-built guy, and now his mess was out there, bleeding into the middle of the Cup run I was gunning for.
The microwave beeped. I plated the food, grabbed two lemon tarts from the fridge, and set them on the island.
“Dinner’s ready,” I called softly.
