She stood the second she saw me. “Oh, sweetheart.”
And then she had both arms around me.
I hugged her hard enough to lift her off the floor, relief hitting me hard now she was physically here in Milan and not just a voice through a phone line.
She laughed against my shoulder. “Well, you’re definitely still my son. Nobody else hugs me like they’re trying to rearrange my spine.”
I didn’t let go of her immediately.
I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d been carrying since Dad’shospital scare until that moment. Mom must’ve felt it too because when I finally pulled back, she swallowed.
“He’s okay,” she said in a low voice before I even had time to ask. “Still stubborn. Still arguing with nurses.”
Relief washed over me. “Oh, thank God.” I knew she wouldn’t have lied to me, and Dad had sounded great over the phone, but seeing her face as she said the words hammered it home.
“And he’s still insisting he’s going to be in that arena Friday night whether anyone approves it or not.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She rolled her eyes. “Apparently, surviving a cardiac event has only made him more dramatic.”
A laugh escaped me, shaky but real.
I joined her on the couch, the window overlooking the street while hotel guests drifted around us, speaking half a dozen languages.
Mom reached for my hand. “You look tired.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hate to break it to you, but so do you. And as for me…Olympics? Duh.”
Her eyes flashed. “Jet lag may be kickingmyass right now, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kick yours if you sass me like that again.”
I chuckled. “How is it you can always make me feel like I’m still ten years old?”
Mom grinned. “It’s a gift. And of course you’re tired. I imagine Mark Winton has had you on the ice non-stop.” Her eyes narrowed in that perceptive maternal way I usually hated because she didn’t miss a thing. “But it’s more than that.”
I looked away toward the street outside. “I’m fine.”
“That answer has literally never convinced me once in your entire life.”
I snorted.
She squeezed my hand. “Dean.”
The concern in her voice hit harder after the week we’d had.
“I’m okay,” I assured her. “Just… a lot happening at once.”
She bit her lip. “Your father scared you.”
The bluntness of it knocked the air out of me for a second.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
Mom nodded as though she’d expected that answer. “He scared me too.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment after that.
Then because I needed the conversation to move somewhere less emotionally catastrophic before I accidentally cried in the middle of an Italian hotel lobby, I grasped at the first distraction available.
