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 arehiswords.
Every time he loses at poker. Every time he drains his bank account at the casino. Every time he shows up asking formoney 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.
Sitting on the porch swing. Wearing that floral cancer scarf she used to tie around her head when the chemo took her hair—blue with little yellow flowers, the cheerful pattern a starkcontrast to what it represented. Wrapped in the old afghan she crocheted herself before she got too weak to hold the needles. It’s summer in the memory, but she’s bundled up because she was always cold those last few months. Always shivering. Always small.
Watching me.
I’m maybe twelve. Skinny. All elbows and knees and too-big hands I hadn’t grown into yet. Shooting tennis balls into the net I’d set up in the backyard. Practicing my aim. My form. My control.
Over and over and over.
Because if I could just get good enough?—
And she’s singing. Some old hymn I don’t remember the name of. It carries across the yard like a promise.
If I get good enough, if I make it to the NHL, I can pay for better treatment. Better doctors. I can fix this.
I close my eyes.
