“That sounds perfect,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Connor squeezes me harder. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve got you.”
And just like that, the worst day of my life feels just a tiny bit less heavy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HARRISON
I’m in a shit mood.
Not a cranky mood.
Not a bad-day mood.
AnI-might-break-my-stick-over-someone’s-headmood.
Which is why the universe clearly hates me, because right now I’m sitting at a long table in the conference room with my teammates—Oliver, Bodhi, August, Ledger, Barrett, and Griffin—signing hundreds of mini sticks and pucks for the kids’ final youth league day.
I choke the marker too tightly and drag a line across the table instead of the puck I was aiming for.
“Jesus Christ,” Oliver says, leaning over to inspect it. “You planning to vandalize the furniture too, or is that just a fun bonus for today?”
“Shut up,” I grunt.
Every few seconds, one of the sharpies squeaks against the plastic because I’m pressing too damn hard.
“You know, if you keep gripping that marker like that,” he adds, “it’s gonna file a lawsuit.”
I don’t look up. “Then it can get in line.”
Bodhi leans his chair back, balancing on two legs like an idiot. “Anyone else feel like they’re sitting next to a ticking bomb? No? Just me?”
August mutters, “Not just you, bro.” He gently pushes another stack of mini sticks my way. “Here, uh, maybe focus on these. Low risk. Harder to snap.”
I take one from the pile, snap it in half, and toss it to the floor just because I can. August merely scoffs and shakes his head without another word. Griffin signs a puck, tosses it into the “finished” bin, and clears his throat from across the table.
“So. You gonna tell us what’s going on? Or should we start placing bets?”
Barrett points his marker at him. “Dude. This is not a betting situation.”
Ledger looks between all of us. “Are we sure? Because last time Harrison looked like this, it was after he found out the team shop put his jersey on a clearance rack.”
“I WAS COMING OFF AN INJURY,” I bark.
Every head snaps up.
Oliver lifts his hands in surrender. “Noted. No jokes about clearance jerseys. Or injuries. Or, uh…anything.”
For half a minute, the only noise is the sound of markers clicking against merch.
I try not to think about anything but I’m doing a shit job of it, unsurprisingly. I try not to see Harper’s face when she finally told me the truth about Connor but that doesn’t work either.
I try not to hear her voice. “I didn’t want you to throw your dreams away all because we made a mistake.”
A fucking mistake.
She walked away.
