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.
