You better.I pat his chest, smiling up at him.I’ve just taken a step away, intending to head for the house, when Sidney pulls me back for one more long kiss.Before I move away again, he places the takeout bag in my hand.
Have a good night, baby,he calls to me as I stagger, lust-drunk, to my front door.I wave one last time before entering the house.I lean back against the door, a huge smile across my face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EDDIE
There are bad days.And then there areteenage boybad days.
And one can’t forgetteenage boy hockey bad days—a special, volcanic category of emotional meltdown that no parenting book can prepare you for.
Today belongs in that category.
I know something is off the moment Joey trudges toward the car after his game, shoulders slumped, lips pressed flat in a way that makes him look like he’s nine again instead of fourteen.
As usual, after a game, I let him take his time with his team and wait for him in the car.I have no idea what could have happened from the end of the game to the locker room chat, but something serious must have gone down if he’s acting like this.
He opens the rear passenger door, tosses his hockey bag inside with a violence that isn’t like him, and climbs into the front without saying a word.My eyes are wide with confusion and disbelief as I watch him grab and slam the seat belt into its slot.
Hey, bud,I say gently, buckling my seat belt too.You okay?
He doesn’t answer.
He just stares out the window, jaw clenched, breathing unevenly in that quiet, restrained way he does now when he’s trying not to fall apart.I wait until we pull out of the parking lot to probe a little deeper.Did something happen after the game?No answer.Want to talk about it?
Another full thirty seconds pass.Silence.
Okay, great.He’s not going to tell me.I knew since his team had lost the game that he’d be in a funk, but this is something different.His silence and the scrunched face he’s trying to hide from me speak volumes.I know better than to keep asking him what’s wrong.He’ll tell me when he’s ready.So I’m thoroughly surprised when he mutters a response a couple of minutes later, his voice shaky.
It’s my fault.
What is?
The loss.I missed the empty net.It was wide open.Wide open!And I missed it with five seconds left.Everyone saw.His voice cracks.They were all celebrating, Mom.TheythoughtI was going to score.Coach did too.And I missed.I ruined everything.
He says the last part in a barely there whisper.
My chest tightens.Hey.No.You didn’t ruin anything.It’s just one play.
He shakes his head violently.You don’t get it.
Then help me get it,I say softly.
He blows out a shaky breath.The guys…they were mad.Like, actually mad.They said I should’ve passed to Liam instead.That he would’ve scored.And maybe they’re right.Maybe I should quit.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.How the hell did we jump from a missed goal to wanting to quit?You don’t mean that.
I do!he bursts out, voice breaking.What’s the point of playing if I’m just going to mess up everything for everyone?Now we have to win the next two games if we even have a chance at making it to the finals.It’s not like I’m ever going to be good enough to play professionally anyway.
Oh God.The helplessness hits me so fast it makes me dizzy.Teenage heartbreak is louder, heavier, sharper than child-sized disappointment.It slices differently because they’re old enough to understand things they can’t yet control.
I reach over, squeezing his shoulder.Joey, one missed shot is not a failure.One bad game does not define you.
A tear escapes, rolling down his cheek.He scrubs at it angrily.I let everyone down.
You didn’t let me down.
He shrugs me off.You’re my mom.You have to say that.
