Mom shook her head. “The inner areas of the blood vessels are at risk. It took time to figure out why I was so fatigued, unable to sleep. You saw me; I was unaware of the world.”
She paused, and I remembered those days, the heaviness of not doing enough for her. I should have known. I should have?—
“I thought it was grief, too, darling,” she continued. “And I’m sure that was part of it, but this is something much more serious and less fixable.”
My lower lip wobbled as tears spilled down my cheeks. “There’s nothing the doctors can do?”
Mom shook her head. “Nothing that can reverse or remedy it. And there’s no way to improve my day-to-day life.” She handed me a cloth napkin. “I’m seventy-four, and this is one of those times when the treatment would be worse than the disease.” She swallowed, her gray eyes soft and warm as they remained firm on my face. “I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, and there’s no way I’d let you wait on me, nurse me. Give up your career, your life.”
“Of course I will,” I exclaimed, pushing back so quickly that the chair flopped over. “I’ll quit right now?—”
“You’ll do no such thing, Zaila Alice Monroe. You’ll continue to work at that job you love.” Mom offered a mischievous glance. “And maybe bring home the man who’s caught your attention.”
I shuddered, not liking that my mom had used my full name. But that issue was about a million steps from the fundamental problem. “You’re going to d-die,” I breathed.
“Oh, my darling girl. We all die. I’ll just have to do it sooner than I wanted to.” She squeezed my hand. “Sooner than either of us is ready for.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want her gone, too. Then I’d be an orphan once more. My palms turned sweaty with the realization that without my mama, I’d again feel alone in this big, scary, painful world.
Chapter 15
Zaila
The roar from Wildcatters Arena during that Tuesday evening’s preseason game echoed even through the glass of the press box, but I could tell this wasn’t celebration. Tension rippled through the space like its own entity.
I leaned forward, fingers flying over my laptop, even as my gaze stayed locked on the ice. Jeff had the puck again, streaking down the left side like he was the only man on the team. He refused to pass to Stolly, who was open. Instead, he took the shot, and…missed.
Again.
Groans rumbled through the stands. The Jumbotron cut to Cormac on the bench. The team captain’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning a hole into Jeff’s helmet.
I felt that same frustration. This wasn’t the junior championship or even the college-level Frozen Four. This was the national professional hockey league. The season hadn’t even started yet, and Jeff was failing.
I clicked open my dashboard. Fan sentiment continued to trend negative, with the #TradeJeffNow climbing. My stomach sank.
Tim nudged my elbow, his face a mask of resigned disappointment. “He’s going to blow it. God, and to think we could have had Brokowski.”
That was the other rookie the Wildcatters had looked at instead of Jeff. He’d been picked up by the team just before Houston’s turn in the draft, so that wasn’t an accurate statement. But nonetheless, everyone was talking about Brokowski’s fantastic preseason and how seamlessly the young player had clicked with his teammates. That had to be part of why Jeff kept pushing—he and Brokowski had competed for everything for the last fifteen years. Jeff Cross had something to prove, but each time he got on the ice and tried, he failed.
Returning my eyes to the ice, I watched Jeff ignore another wide-open teammate, go for a wraparound, and get flattened by the other team’s defenseman.
Turnover.
I sighed, my shoulders tucking as if I’d been the one to sign him.
Two minutes later, the puck hit the back of the Wildcatters’ net, and we chalked up an overtime loss. Cormac snapped his stick against the boards. Tonight and tomorrow would be long, as no one was happy with this loss, even if it was preseason. There was no way around it: Jeff was throwing off the whole team.
I typed in Tough loss. Tougher lessons.
Then I deleted it, because something told me Jeff had learned nothing. And based on Cormac Bouchard’s fury, the Wildcatters’ locker room was about to light up. I hoped no one filmed the confrontation and posted it online. I really needed a good night’s sleep.
“The rookie is all yours,” Jay informed me as he walked by. “I’m done babysitting egos.”
“What? No…” I began, but Jay was gone. That butthole wanted me to clean up the mess when he was the one in charge of the department? Talk about ego.
“He can’t do that,” Tim said.
“He’s my boss, so he can.” I shrugged.
